Ah, Bubo!!! Great to see you here, saw you on WritersCafe.

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Veeeeeery interesting!

Very interesting indeed. But what will nurse say, Bubo? Will she laugh do you think?

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Bubo,
I cant say why as I dont understand it, excet that is a great poem but your poem called Transgender Museum touches me so. It could be the Mom in me the protector of children. Im not sure but I really like that poem. Happy holidays to you!

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Hi Bubo, I remember an owel with your name! I like your poems they flow very well and you have a great talent or a wonderful muse!

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I’m not going to roar at seagulls
Scavenging left over pickings
As they flap
Slap
Unsettling silence in the air,
Don’t really see me
When careless eyes stare.
Is there an Oliver
In all of us
Asking for more
Palms out flat
Weight of the world on our backs?

Smooth all my worry lines
Smooth my laughter lines
Lift my breasts so they sit just right,
Mold my world
While my toes curl
And Prozac hour arrives
As we develop our swallowing reflex
Guzzling a gallon of God’s water
To wash away the pain
Flood your cosmetic pores
But can’t quite numb the brain,
As I whisper in the mirror
“I don’t think so”
Today, leave me alone.

- This poem would be the star piece at any recital. The words just rolled off my tongue as I read it.
You will go far, Bubo!

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I pull you into the future
You pull me beyond
I am the adult
I should be strong,
But I’m lying between a sandwich
Of right and wrong
My loss, my son,
Stretching my configurations
Staunch and stem
To a society that will bend
Allow us to blend
In a museum of transgenders.

Judge not my child
For she came from God
And I,
I her mother
Shall be the road she is standing on
As I journey into her eyes,
Cradle the tears
Bind the ties,
I shall be the society
That shall accept
As we follow the path down
Grappling to stay in control,
But losing a foothold
On her precious soul.

- A mother's love is a blessing. You write absolutely sublime poetry, Bubo. I won't pretend I understand it all - some of it is way above my head: as all great poetry should be.
Brilliant.

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Call me damaged, call me strange
I am not this woman you claim,
Stripped
But for you
Perhaps I could spread my legs
Take out those dead
In your imagination
You’re ever possessiveness that you are blinded
By me,
Think of me
Still
While she waits for the exorcism of your hate.

Good ole catholic boy
Judge
Judge me, judge my heart
Splintering glass across years of suffocation
Darkness

Until light of lies will shine past
Alone you will stand, calling yourself a man
Amongst debris and disease,
That you call your life.

- WOW! CLASSIC STUFF, BUBO!
You're following in the footsteps of Seamus Heaney - only a brave poet would dare to do that. Fantastic!

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