Sunday, March 19, 2017


Nurses wear white.
Hookers wear red.
Nuns wear black,
and the dead
                            wear nothing at all.

Assuming the moon is right.

The thief wears a suit
and a fine silk tie.
The judge wears a blindfold,
but uncovers an eye
                             he drawls -

make sure the noose is tight,

the branch is strong and high,

our tracks are covered, the blood is dry,

and the money's green.

For the Poetry Pantry at Poets United.

Saturday, March 18, 2017

My Stretch Of Sky

My stretch of sky
is clouds

dead dying


removed from the land

from removal
we've been settled

let's feather at first light and fly
like arrows backward

into the bones
of old black fires

of life
and good death

when the night
still shattered

stars for kindling

and stories
were worth the burning.

For Brendan's prompt at Real Toads

Thursday, March 16, 2017


Your teeth are my teeth.
When you scent the night I follow

to a hunker low in the high grass -
God     twitch/still     a rabbit.

For Fireblossom Friday at Real Toads

Tuesday, March 14, 2017

The Seamstresses

Each star's a stitch mending night
for the sky to wear to meet morning.

Morning's a stitch pulled tight,
ending night and making day.

My star  stitch, stitch, stitch
I wonder which stitch will scar

what I dream tonight.
I wonder who the seamstresses are.

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Monday, March 13, 2017

Smoked Glass

Driver's side -
smoked glass.
Passenger side -
smoked glass.
But the windshield -
dumbass -

is see through
so I can see you
in my rearview picking your nose!


A personal pet peeve for Poetry Pantry at Poets United

Friday, March 10, 2017

Invisible Things

Unwrapped stars
taste of chocolate,
but only once
per wish.

The moon crescents
into a kite -
I'm a stick girl
sodded to earth.

Michelangelo painted
a womb, a brain,
a man
navelled to nothing.

My tongue's out to taste
every apple crisp
temptation in this garden
that's not.

For Real Toads

Sunday, March 5, 2017

Peony Town

Peony peony
peony blue
blue as a girl left
by someone untrue

untrue to his whispers
whispers do get around
about girls who bloom fast
in a peony town

For Poetry Pantry at Poets United