Saturday, November 28, 2015

A Love Poem Is Waiting

A love poem is waiting
on the other side of the stars,
but I haven't the heart
to hurry
through night's humid hush.

Why must we rush?
Let's just stay
awhile in the porch swing's sway
and let silence have its way
with the two of us.

For Bjorn's prompt at Real Toads

Thursday, November 26, 2015

Dread And Fear

If nothing else, I've learned this year
the difference
between dread
and fear.

Fear is the "maybe"
and the "might"
that gives shape
and shadow to the night.

While dread is steady,
sure, and certain -
a beast
that is, itself, a burden.

Fear lends itself
to faith and prayer.
Dread is proof
God doesn't care.

Flood a fear with light;
it might not last.
If it does, it's dread;
fear come to pass.

This still needs a lot of work, but I just couldn't miss Fireblossom Turkeyday at Real Toads.

Tuesday, November 24, 2015


People are interesting,
but only at a distance.  Too close
and I can't see
the forest for the me.

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Monday, November 23, 2015


painting by Rubens Peale

I come as a stranger.
I come as a thief.
I come as a magpie
in search of a sweet

something to swallow
instead of my pride.
I come as a stranger;
will you let me inside?

For The Mag

Sunday, November 22, 2015

Needle And Thread

Push me pull me
like a needle and thread.

In and out of your life.
In and out of your bed.

Used to be fine fabric.
Now it's wearing thin.

Nights spun of whole cloth
don't mean nothin' when

I can't mend you.

So love me leave me
like you always do.

Chase the star shine
see where it gets you to.

Compass rose
let her spin and spin.

Where you go
doesn't matter when

I can't go with you.

A relationship poem (Kerry's Ingrid Jonker challenge) for Play It Again at Real Toads. Also submitted to Poetry Pantry.

Thursday, November 19, 2015

The Cat

When she died,
I had to arrange the funeral,
sort stuff,
and find a home for the cat,
the goddamn cat

that chewed through oxygen tubing
and slept like a cockleburr on her chest;
the mean-ass cat

that had nothing but claws and teeth
for anyone but her;
the wretched cat 

that I couldn't keep
and couldn't keep out of the shelter;
just a fucking cat,

but her cat.
And I mourn it like a second death.

For The Mag

Tuesday, November 17, 2015

Small And Fine

Small and fine
we grind the days.
The best, the worst of everything
all fodder for a deepening
love, true and persistent.

And when darkness brings its gentle weight
(creaking these old mattress springs),
mouth to mouth and thigh to thigh
small and fine
we grind the night.

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads