Tuesday, March 24, 2015

Love Looks Like

Hand printed pages
by the sunset I missed
fossils and fur
and driving -
always driving
to get where you're going.

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Sunday, March 22, 2015

Spring Sketch

Heart locket leaves;
a silver chain breeze
that flutters and flirts

with the hem of my shirt;
bare feet in the dirt; every cloud
is a coin in my pocket.

A sketch poem for Play It Again at Real Toads.

Tuesday, March 17, 2015


We had the sun in a skillet
those well-fed summers.
Green beans, tomatoes,
and okra head high.
Wide mouth Ball jars brim full of berries.
Cucumber vines.

I'd run through the millet
(mown and baled by the summer),
and my muscles moved long
and loose on my bones.
Trading the garden for Wildhorse Bridge
to get myself alone..

Years trying to fill it -
the hole left by those summers
of sweat and squash bugs
and long rows to hoe.
My eyes were fireflies then; now, I'm a question
that I've outgrown.

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Sunday, March 15, 2015


There's a fault line by Meers,
and I blame the burgers.
Longhorn lean,
but big as a dinner plate
and weighty enough to shift tectonics,
this is no hold it in one hand Sonic special.
This is an unbutton the top button,
gastronomical event.
Finish one?
I can't.
But I'm willing to richter on and keep trying.
You know, for the advancement of science.

A small tribute to the legendary Meers burger for Karin's prompt at Real Toads.

Friday, March 13, 2015

Rough Draft

The first (word) is the hardest.
Closing the fraction between you.
Nose to the left?  To the right?
Write what you know,
know if you write
it feels less like flying and more
am I doing this right?
like a stumbling rush
of fumbling forward till
pen to paper
lips touch.

For Izy's prompt at Real Toads

Tuesday, March 10, 2015


I Poe.
I Po-et.
I Edgar Allan Po-et.
I Edgar Allan Po-etess.
Now ain't I just a tell tale mess?

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Sunday, March 8, 2015


Your net is spun of sitar strings
To hold the griefs of gods
                             --- Wole Soyinka

The grief of god seems small.
I've buried my mama and several fine dogs.
It was an apple, after all.
Just a sweet in the teeth of a curious child.
Now sparrows fly and fall
watched, but not caught.  The grief of god
seems small.

For Grace's prompt at Real Toads