Sunday, January 14, 2018

Getting Old

My bad witch
is fat
and contented.
She picks her teeth
with my good
witches bones.
Gray springs free
from my braid, but I've made

peace with the griefs
that I own.
I'm a Buddha that bakes and drives carpool.
I'm a shrew with hands full of hell.
The ways of the world can't shock me anymore,
but I still astonish myself.

For Poetry Pantry at Poets United

Tuesday, January 9, 2018

A Poem

for my mother's slow wasting
for pain blooming black
for girls full of ugly and spewing

for the nights I don't sleep
and the days I don't dream
and the mean honesty between

for something like silence
silence like something
vacant, vacant and aching

for my fears held close and dear
close and dear
as lovers

Previously published in Bop Dead City

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Sunday, January 7, 2018


If the dandelions don't lie,
it's going to be a dry summer.
I let them cluster together
and talk about the weather
whatever the neighbors think.
We all drink the red dirt and grow
drought on our tongues.
We all build our fences and spit wishes
when the wind comes.

Originally published in The Cape Rock

Submitted to Poetry Pantry at Poets United

Wednesday, January 3, 2018

The Door

The door    speaks
in creaks
and sighs
a warped wooden soldier
eyes ever forward
locked tight

          out, I whisper
          where the grain hints
          an ear.
          I pound his lapels
          till I fear
          he may fall
          upon me

                         but, see!  The whole doorway
                         from my fists!
                         Still the damn door hold fast
                         if I wish
                         to enter I must break
                         myself small
                         so's to slip
                         past the dead

For Midweek Motif~Doorway(s) at Poets United

Tuesday, December 19, 2017


There is gaiety
'mongst the laity
for the season is a spinnin'.

The priest can't hold
his pride or peace
amid such wanton sinnin'.

"Shame, shame,"
he thunders, "flames
shall burn you all to cinder!"

"Promise?" cried a bawdy wench.
"I'll need the heat
come winter."

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Friday, December 15, 2017


all my
smells like

a burning car
a burning cross

on my

peace, a language

Thursday, November 30, 2017

Being Born

I don't remember being born,
my mother's face, or my father,
barely old enough to shave.
I don't remember being lifted
into sterile space -
my toes without nails,
my tenderest openings undone.

None of us is truly finished.
The cut umbilical cord
slowly regrows itself
like a lizard's tail,
and what lizard's tale has ever
had a happy ending?
None of us

remembers being born,
the child faces of our mothers,
or our fathers, barely old enough
to shave.

linked to Open Link Night at dVerse