Welcome

Sisters of the Page has been on the web since 2007. We have featured the works of Misti Rainwater-Lites, MK Chavez, Judy Brekke and Craig Sernotti.

SOTP is a place where we promote female writers, artists, and photographers. This is our goal and our emphasis however, from time to time, we will open the page to our male counterparts in order to showcase some of their works.

Please feel free to click on our archive for past works. It is located at the bottom of each page. If you have comments, please post them under the artist's work, General comments may be directed to the editor at midulcevida66@gmail.com.

Abusive and deragatory comments will not be tolerated and will be immediately removed.

We hope you enjoy your visit. Thanks for stopping bye.

Juliana Vargas
Editor-Sisters of the Page



Sunday, March 23, 2008

Poet's Scale by Judy L. Brekke

Poet's Scale


Do

days like raspberries
sweet, juicy
while cool breezes
lick the back
of my head

listen to leaves
rustle like skeletal voices
in backyard where
mourning doves
sing a lament
to writhing worms
in black thick soil
of past
creature burials

vibrant red
orange
yellow
reflect opinions of earth
where flowers die
needles blanket
truth of ages

night
blackness
grow longer
fingers of ice molecules
wrap themselves tightly
around
voice of sweetness

Re

bloated lizard
on bottom of glistening
outdoor carpet
remnants of scattered lives
which ceased to bother
waking dancers

floating footholds
dip deep
into pockets of figments
of imagination of
ballads of sadness and cheer

he screams
snake winding around neck
of hooved creature that looks
with trepidation
into pools of nothingness

buried beneath container
of liquid
where only birds
of paradise
mate

Mi

a bright cardinal
did eat freely
giving her
incredible juice

kangaroos leap more
now over precipice

quit riding
squirrels to
university

vicious wild
xanthians
yesterday zoom

just understand
destiny yips like yelling
nursery nightmares

branches readily eject
kangaroo ketchup
everywhere

sing the energetic
praise
hoping everyone
never shares protein
a ubiquitous lake
dam is nurturing

great marshes
our rituals
seem endless

Fa

stalking the dark
corners of my mind
she struggles to bring
justice to targets
of lasting relationships

large rose wallpaper
covers
apartment walls

a white bib
apron
protects prized
bosom

licking parched
cracked lips
she spits me to the
demons of her mind

I am restless
in this
compartment
of dislike

exaggerated
perceptions
make me
shudder

I hide from
my
tormentor

attempts to stalk
dark corners
of my mind
become
less frequent

So

white lights
surround earthly
dwelling

cold drafts
bring
crystal flakes

coast
wraps around
swelling
waters

atmosphere
pinched by
thin black fingers
a breath is heard

frozen
sharp, glaring time
a moan begins

a cry fills dawn

slithering under beginning
of starkness
child listens
a musical note
is sung

fear grips tightly
to surrounding
moments of
lost communication

a laugh
permeates
heaven
earth

La

little
pickles tickle
tightly

mirrors
crazily
crack

winding up
down
creek sprays
fighting fishes
diamond falls
crash on
rocks upstream

dream a dream
dancing flight
attendants
upon stars

father jingles
coins
in his
pocket
he plays
a tune
without
an instrument

laying on gurney
in daisy covered
field
he whistles
“This old man”

bees
buzz
grinning widely

breath ceases

sadly
a soul
passes

father
has taken
a trip
up north

Ti

spices fill abode
of afterlife
participants

mouths drool

dogs howl

cats bow

legs twine
around
paper tower

butterflies flick kisses

frogs bake
cupcakes
for
breakfast

pass the frosting

slowly juices
slide
down throats

where are
napkins

we use shiny
green leaves

munch, munch

calm thoughts
glide
through minds
of bodies
reaching
for sleep

all tucked
in feathers
on a partridge
good cheer
abounds

sleep happens

Do

day ending

devoid of
hot chocolate
flames enjoy
themselves

marshmallows float
on river

cold hands shake

cat clings
to my leg
as I sit
at table

scream!

eyes open
in boundaries of
my thoughts

great talent
creates
walls
of memories

waves of nostalgia
grace
evening sky

scents of jasmine
mixed with
sweet mustard
greet
my nose

treading water
under the dock
I have
thoughts of
toast with
peanut butter

night
has ascended




http://www.myspace.com/placesthatlinger
http://placesthatlinger.blogspot.com/
http://www.juice-press.com/poetry

70's Photograph and an untitled work by M.K. Chavez

Two By M.K. Chavez

The 70's Photograph

My mother smiles and wears polite

pale pink lingerie

with matching slippers.

My pop has gotten her

a decent string of pretend pearls.

The picture has faded now

and the iridescent paint

has chipped off

of the imitation necklace.

It sits in a jewelry box, next

to her lipstick and mascara,

right beneath the mirror

that she doesn't look into

much anymore.

________________________________

Untitled

People stay and clouds

merge into the sharpness of blue.

Our eyes meet across the table

keep secrets, the taste

of honeydew melon, green

and red chiles light lips on fire

and after a while the burning disappears

but not completely.

Revolutionaries with brown skin

brown eyes, wicked tongues. Women

who write poetry

and bring their little dogs

to poetry readings.

Salty kisses, dust sets on familiar roads.

Skin absorbs ink, people

become what they are not. Virgins

have children, words

feed the famished. Red glass

in the sunlight. The taste

of wine in your mouth

watermelon juice drips down

on breasts and pink ribbons.

Stargazer lilies bloom

at night. Tongues

tangle together. The chase

and the capture. The sound

of my camera. A stolen moment.

History on city walls, truth.

Step carefully over the sharpness

of rocks on the way to the river.

The steady ping of raindrops. Stillness

repetition and motion. Shiny tin

art, figurines of death

mean life. Sizzling oil

on a cast iron pan, and the way

that my mother fought back.

Words hide meaning.

Hot, spicy chocolate

the way that my skin takes in the sun.

Cinnamon sticks and cinnabar, red

and yellow leaves float

through the air. Fingertips

travel the curves of my body, the texture

of charcoals and pastels

mark an empty canvas, create

something out of nothing.

Struggle and come up for air.

MK Chavez writes about the beauty that can be found in ugliness, the mystery of feeling bad about feeling good, little birds, and big consequences. She is curator of Acker's Dangerous Daughters, a San Francisco reading series of Cherry Bleeds Literary Journal. Her work has been published online and in print. "Virgin Eyes" a chapbook of poetry is available through Zeitgeist Press, a second chapbook, "Visitation" is being published by Kendra Special Editions and is due to be released in March 2008. Other recent and upcoming publications include Zygote In My Coffee, Outsider Writer, Poesy, Snow Monkey, and she recently received Honorable Mention in the Beat Museum Poetry contest. You can find out more about her poetry at www.littlebrownsparrow.com

The Hitman's Love Letter by Juliana Vargas


I woke up this morning with a hangover to shame all hangovers .

I looked over and your side of the bed was empty, sheets smooth.

You never came home.

I wasn’t surprised. You haven’t been here in days.


I got up and slipped into the same socks I wore the day before,

Oscar de la Rentas I had picked up at the local discount store.

They cut off the circulation at the calf and made my legs hurt.


I scratched my ass on the way to the toilet and thought about planting you like daisies

I loved daisies. Perfect, neat and simple with their evenly spaced petals and sunny faces.

The looked sweet, like you.

They were deceitful, like you.

You picked them up to take a sniff and they just stank like common ground weeds.


I let my mind drift as I stood over the pot and shook the piss of my prick.

Thought of how your red hair would look spread out over freshly turned dirt.

How you would turn those lying eyes up to me and plead for mercy.

How I was going to water you with a high pressure hose.


Nobody said I was a good gardener. One of those green thumbed type of people.

I had ripped the heads off more than a few daisies this way.

I would stand there in a daze, hose in my hand, thinking about cement shoes and weighted coolers

and I would look down and damn if there weren't flattened flowers and petals scattered in the muck.

I want to see you just like that.

That whore’s hair covered in mud, plastered to your splattered cheeks.

Those green eyes bloodshot and screams washed right out of your bitch mouth


I’m drying my hands now and getting ready to shower when I hear you come in the door.

I am going to bring you in here and let you wash the filth from your skin.

I know where you’ve been and it’s ok.


I will get your bath ready for you and lay out your prettiest outfit.

You see, I have something special planned for your today.

Before I show it to you, I need to finish digging the hole in the garden.



Juliana has been posted in several online and print publications. She is the Editor of Sisters of the Page

Join Sisters of the Page on http://www.myspace.com/sistersofthepage. More of Juliana's work can be located at http://myspace.com/inkstaynedangel



I Be Likin’ Your Flavor, Dawg by Misti Rainwater-Lites

Photo by Misti Rainwater-Lites

damn, dawg
I be likin’ your flavor
so vanilla sweet
so ice cool
you rap with much authority
I know what it be like
comin’ up in the American burbs
door to door Baptist preachers
and Avon representatives
fuckin’ wit yo shit
in such a pale pastel landscape
how can a motherfucker survive?
when you come to town
look for my white ass
in the front row
I’ll be the bitch
with I WANNA BLOW VANILLA ICE TO KINGDOM CUM
tattooed across
my tits

Misti Rainwater-Lites enjoys giving her husband hand jobs and other stuff. She hates most rap but loves "Bitch, Please" and "8 Mile".

Buy her books at lulu. com, Scintillating Publications, Erbacce Press and Kendra Steiner Editions.

Inner Goddess and Morning After By Kathryn Erlinger

Inner Goddess

Hand me that hammer and wedge. I'll strike at my own head untill Athena jumps out, fully dressed and bent on justice. You may not recognize her this time round: she ditched that skirt years ago; she burned her bra in the 60's and never looked back. Pushing away brushes and powders and things that will burn you as soon as make you beautiful, she told me that she'll never paint those shimmery pink half-moons around her eyes again. Once, I saw her run shouting into the night just to hear her own voice split the quiet. And now that she has brushed off the afterbirth bits of brain and bone, she'll grab the world by its shoulders and scream truths into its face, harsh and unasked for.



Morning After

Awake in foreign territory

desolate landscape

of empty bottles and unconscious forms

A quiet gathering of shoes, and

Ease the door closed behind me


Saturday morning seven am sunlight

green-gold long lovely

overbright hungover

Off skyscraper windows and tenacious ice

As I walked to where I left my car


Tremble-hands still drunk drive home

Stumble into my carousel bed and give it a push

Where I’ll spin until the gentle hand of sleep

Stops this ride that would make children weep.



Bio:

Kathryn Erlinger makes things. And reads. And yells at assholes. And bleeds. She is working on what will probably be a degree in English Literature from University of Missouri Kansas City. www.myspace.com/katiekaboom1981