Check out my "My South Speaks" poem as commissioned by Turner South:
Excerpt "My South's Boys"
In my South - men grew up in the creek,
skinning snakes, sunning leather in trees.
My southern man could fire a twenty-two
or tear a truck through red logging roads
even before he was two.
My southern man was raised on Brave’s baseball,
Church diners, and Saturday night, dirt races.
My southern man loves the outdoor salt life:
hunting, camping, climbing, or – even - whittling with a knife.
My southern man can rock a pair of waders.
He casts magic to zip in fresh fish
then fries them up in a cast iron skillet.
My southern man is never scared
of wolf spiders, bats, or even a bear.
Like a boy scout my southern man
is always prepared.
Fortune Tellers never look like you expect
them to. This one has hair sprayed blonde bangs,
purple eye shadow, and boulder-like amethyst
rings. The room smells of country rose.
Last time it was a middle-aged black woman,
natural with short hair and beige fingernails.
She wore feather earrings and whispered,
“Stop punishing yourself.” This is common.
Fortune tellers often urgently grab your wrist
as you descend steps to impart an ambiguous
shred of direction. Dad likes to have his cards
read, while I prefer palm readings. Life lines
and crease counting reminds me of cartography.
We avoid the ones with crystal balls and hoop
earrings. Wearing a purple turban is suspect
in our books. Fortunes change constantly.
Fortune Tellers are like weathermen.
It doesn’t always rain, but carrying
an umbrella never hurt anyone.
By Kimberly Simms
First appeared in Eclipse Literary Journal.
Selected Early Poems
May Anti-capitalist Riots, London
That's the McDonald's I did not smash
I did not throw a chair through glass
I did not crush the register with a rock
I did not fling the burgers to dogs
that's the cement I did not shatter
I did not plant flowers in the black dirt
I did not make mud statues against the wall
I did not create a guerrilla garden
that's the bank door I did not brick up
that's the graffiti I did not dab
that's the plastic mask I did not wear
that's the bridge I did not blockade
that's the window where I watched it happen
saw the carnival costumes, heard the chanting
that's the office where I was typing letters
that was the riot — I did not join
Tranquility, not even a draft, a stir
I bounce up the curved viewing dome
a slight current brushes my cheek.
I am stunned by the magnificent desolation
a thousand nameless shades of purple
the blackness falling on forever.
I want a tree to scrape my nail against
the waxy underside of a leaf. It is all man here
or dead — regolith dusty and inert over the rille.
I float but my mind is heavy with the empty
echo, noise hollow against hard surfaces
outside deep chasma, a desert with no sand.
We do not belong here.