POETRY BY PATRICIA L. STOVER

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Patricia Stover is a lover of horror and all things cute and fluffy. When she isn’t writing, she spends her time at home in Oklahoma with her seven-year-old son, cat, two dogs and chickens. She can often be found on the banks of Lake Texoma with a fishing pole.

You can find her writings by visiting her website: www.patriciastover.wixsite.com/patriciastover or on her Facebook page. 

POETRY BY PATRICIA L. STOVER

WHERE THE DAFFODILS GROW

If I could pick a place to be,
look beyond the hills and through the trees.
First you must wade the high grass
and then you will see.
A grove full of daffodils, cattails and honeybees.

Bright yellow and white and up to your knees.
I’d dance in them
forever, alone and free.
So, if ever there was
a place I could go.
It would be in the grove,
where the daffodils grow.

MOMMA’S HANDS

My mother’s hands were never neat.
Her jagged nails were clipped short
And dirt crusted the torn cuticles.
They were weather worn
And wrinkled.
Scarred from hoeing peanuts
and picking cotton.
Filthy with Tomboy.
They weren’t soft,
Or painted,
Like the other Mom’s.
Merely decorated with
Thick callous
And sunspots.
Factory work,
Field work
And housework
Is all they know.
I hope my hands
Are as beautiful as hers
one day.

JUST LIKE A WILD THING

One day I’ll be free.
Free from the shackles of patriarchy.
I’ll burn this damn apron,
High heels and corset.
Cut my hair short so they’ll never forget.
And when the men come to take me away.
I’ll run free, like a wild thing,
Feral and stray.
Their ropes and lies
Will never catch me.
I’ll be surrounded with
Others who want free.
Bare faced, naked, and wild.
Every man will run,
Just like a child.
We’ll circle the fire,
Hold hands
And dance in the flames.
“Witches!”
They’ll scream,
Laying the blame.
And we’ll cackle and laugh
And show them no shame.
Because freedom is greater
Than all they could say.
We’ll dance together,
Red, white, yellow,
Black too.
Joined by sisterhood,
Love and all that is new.
“Burn the witches!”
One man will yell.
And they’ll grab their pitchforks
And chase us all down.
Shove a dish in our hand
And tape on our mouths.
Lock us in the kitchen,
So we’ll never break out.
“If we let them,”
I’ll say, “without a doubt.”
But if we hold strong
And believe in each other,
Grab our sisters,
Friends and mother.
And scream as loud as we can.
We’ll never be shackled
By any man.
We’ll live free,
And dance and sing.
Wild and feral,
Just like a wild thing.