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Welcome
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 everyone 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 by.
Juliana Vargas
Editor-Sisters of the Page
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Poet's Scale by Judy L. Brekke
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
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
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