Saturday, December 31, 2011

Welcoming The New Year

You slip up on me
stealthy as south wind.
Got a handful of promises
that glitter and shine.

But, behind your back
you're holding a sack
of fuckin' growth opportunities.

Since I cain't keep you out,
you might as well come in,
but don't go droppin' no balls
or singin' Auld Lang Syne.

Cause behind your back
I know you got a sack
of fuckin' growth opportunities.

Celebrating the New Year with dVerse!

Friday, December 30, 2011

All But One

The old sow went mad
in the midst of her labor
and began eating her young.
It was the winter I turned eleven.

For days, the air had been thick
with flu and flurries.
Fever had baked my brain and bones
in such hallucinatory heat
that I mistook my grandmother's cries
for dregs of dreams.
Still, I pulled on my boots
and waded out into the snow.

The sow that I had raised from a piglet
lay on her side in a sheltered corner of the lot.
Her newly concave sides shuddered with every breath.
Snot and mud crusted her snout.
The sad remains of her litter bloodied the churned snow.

She had ripped them to shreds.
All but one.

Thursday, December 29, 2011


A bell can toll.  A bell can ring.
A bell's a most peculiar thing.

Swinging stately from mourn to morn;
a bell for the dying, a bell for the born.

A couple of couplets for dVerse

Wednesday, December 28, 2011

Safety Glass

Catching a glimpse
through a window
I've no need to walk by,
I'm stopped -
fingers to the frame,
breath against the pane -
until the glass fogs,
and I am saved from myself.

For the Wednesday Challenge at Real Toads

Monday, December 26, 2011

Another Line

I've yet to regret
a single word I've written you
although I suffer sickness
from dining on my heart.

Bloody lips
against the silver.
Half-closed eyes
as I surrender
another line.

And, I've yet to forget
a single word you've written me.
I often suffer sickness
from pining for your art.

My ready lips
tremble tender
and slightly part
as I remember
another line.

another line.

For Open Link Monday at Real Toads
Linking to dVerse, as well

Saturday, December 24, 2011


I've made a home
of the sticks and stones
that were thrown at me.
Stitched a sampler of the insults;
it hangs above my bed.
I've choked down homemade venom
with olives and vermouth.
I've been a good girl, Santa.
That's the truth.

I've pretended ecstasy out of kindness.
I've pretended kindness
when ecstasy would rub it in.
I haven't said a tenth of the things I've thought
that were hateful and rude.
I've been a good girl, Santa.
That's the truth.

Five Minutes of Ecstasy for Real Toads and dVerse

Friday, December 23, 2011


The heat of my skin
melts your snowflake kisses
as fast as they fall
from your storm cloud lips.

Of such temporary lace
not a trace
will be left
by morning.

For the "contrast" prompt at dVerse

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Even You, Goth Girl

Lolamouse challenged me to write something to my younger self.  Okay, but she's not gonna listen!

Even You, Goth Girl

(breaking the news to my younger self)

Nowww . . .

Your hair's its natural color,
and your piercings are all gone.
No need to line your eyes;
you're sporting crow's feet.

And, when someone calls you "mama"
they're not trying to turn you on.
They're just whining
cause they want something to eat.

Can you believe you got so square?
Can you believe you just don't care
about being cool anymore?

I know you planned a wilder life,
a pretty corpse by twenty-five.
But, you just kept on living,
and the living kept getting real.
Forty's come and forty's gone,
and you have everything
you never wanted
when you wanted everything.

Can you believe you got so square?
Can you believe you just don't care
about being cool anymore?

Written for the Personal Challenge at Real Toads
Also, submitted to Open Link Night at dVerse

Monday, December 19, 2011

My Family Circus

Eight year old Baby Puppy is taking over today so her mother can make fudge.

Zen is like a charm.
Charm is a drop of water.
Zen is love.

---- by Baby Puppy

Submitted to Open Link Monday at Real Toads

Thursday, December 15, 2011


Plunge your hands into the blistering blizzard.
Dig your fingers blue, then black.
Claw at the ice
till your skin blooms roses.
You'll never get my cold heart back.

Pound your fists on the frozen ground.
Rest your head against the stone.
Touch my name,
etched deep and smooth.
My cold heart rests with my burning bones.

55 Words for my G-Man!

Wednesday, December 14, 2011


Between us, we have

a little girl,
a big mortgage,
and a single, perfect memory

of the sand castle we built
before we found ourselves
buried in it.

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

Status Update Blues

I saw your Facebook status.
Says you're a complicated man.
Well, I'm a simple woman.
The kind that gives a damn.

So, if you want to get your updates
in my inbox once again,
better change your status back
to what it was back when

we were tweetin'
and pokin' all night long.
Yeah, gotta change your status back, boy
or my profile is long gone.

You ain't that complicated.

A bit of silliness for Open Link Night at dVerse

Friday, December 9, 2011


You tell lies like a knife between the ribs.
Scandalize the town, 
I hear it from my friends.
You'd come around,
I'd turn the other cheek
and turn the covers down.
Like a fever in my brain,
I thought I'd make you change cause

you had a line
that crept right up on me.
Took my heart's desire
and laid it at my feet.
You seemed so fine
till I got in your skin
you were rotten inside.
You bled me dry.
Still I kept trying, and

in the name of love,
I forgave you.
With both eyes shut,
I damn near sainted you.
But, you were too cold,
and even a fool finds the end of the road.
You were a killing vice.
You supplied me.
I didn't want to kick the need then

I finally got a clue
that you're in love with you.
I can't believe it took me this long.
Now, I know what you're about,
and I've lost count
of all your second chances
so, baby, I'm gone.

A "departure" poem for Fireblossom Friday at Real Toads

Thursday, December 8, 2011

The Quiz

I took a quiz
in a book.
The results indicate
that I am not in touch with my feelings.

I'm not sure how I feel about that.

Okay, I admit that when the school counselor said,
"We think she has ADHD,"
I nodded, all calm and polite,
just as if my manicure wasn't maiming my palms so badly
that I would walk around with unacknowledged guilt stigmata
for a week.

And, sure, the last time I got a call that Mom was in the ER
I immediately fired up the old pipe of dreams
and started asking her doctor
if this drug or that drug might be right for her.

No, I didn't cry when Old Yeller died.

Still, I think I'm pretty in touch with my feelings.
I mean, I have to be.
How else am I going to push them away?

For the Emotion prompt at dVerse

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

On Reading That Poem

It was like being kissed.
Not the fumbling first kiss
of paragraphs and prose,
but a kiss so lyrical against my lips
that my skin sang in answer.

It was like being touched
by line
by line
until my breath came fast and rough.

It was like being loved.
Every phrase.
Every word.
It was like being loved.

Revealing how the gift of poetry arrived in my world for the prompt at Real Toads.

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

The Wreath


Between the hours of two and four,
the wreath on the door
hangs like a noose,
and I walk the carpets threadbare
as if that can bring you home.

Between the hours of four and five,
the pine needles dry and die
and turn loose
leaving finely fading branches
bare as an old lover's bones.

Between the hours of five and six,
I come undone
and break to sticks
the hateful thing,
then weep
for the hours left to be alone.

For the Open Link at dVerse

Monday, December 5, 2011


Other daughters' mothers die.
Other women's husbands lie
and cheat
for thirteen years.
But, I don't fear
I'm like the others.

Other mothers' children hurt.
Other mothers' children learn
too soon
that life is pain.
That doesn't keep me awake
like the others.

Others live in other places.
Other names, other faces.
Not me, not mine.
I'm safe if I stay blind
and never find
I'm like the others.

A Magpie Tale
Submitted to Open Link Monday at Real Toads

Sunday, December 4, 2011

The Knees

tortured until it
yields and kneels, births a delicate
faith far too
tremulous to withstand the cold,
concrete commonsense of knees
that ache.

A Cameo for Real Toads.

Saturday, December 3, 2011


The gods seem unworthy
of worship.
A miracle is Jesus
on toast.
Comics are rarely
that funny.
I can't say which bothers
me most.

For Poetics at dVerse

Friday, December 2, 2011


I've nowhere left to sail this ship,
but I cannot make for shore.
I am anchored
by my fear
that no one mans the lighthouse.

Thursday, December 1, 2011

Bread Crumbs

I left a trail of bread crumbs
to help me find my way back to you.
The birds ate all of my bread crumbs
so I sat and pondered what to do.
I guess I can only blame what happened next
on that I wasn't thinking too clear.
Following the bird shit led me here.

55 Words for my G-Man!

Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Beautiful World

When the sun came up this morning,
it was shining just for me.
I stood staring out the window
at the golden people on my golden street.

It's so pretty.
It's so fine.
It's so lovely.
I try not to mind.

Outside my door
everybody's waiting
just to tell me to have a nice day.
I keep smiling until it's painful
wishing I could wish them away.

It's so pretty.
It's so fine.
It's so lovely.
I try not to mind.

Everybody loves me.
I'm just a golden girl.
Everybody loves me.
I'm the only darkness in my beautiful world.
In my world,
every shadow's mine.

Every day is milk and honey,
and every step is a parade.
At night before sleep comes like a phantom,
I lie awake and count the friend's I've made.

It's so pretty.
It's so fine.
It's so lovely.
I try not to mind.

Everybody loves me.
I'm just a golden girl.
Everybody loves me.
I'm the only darkness in my beautiful world.
In my world,
every shadow's mine.

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

That Story

I'm that story that you heard.

The one about the girl
who went too far . . .
and got herself hurt.
If you drop in the local Kwik-Mart,
I'm sure you'll get the details from the clerk.
Yes, every juicy word
about that story that you heard.

I'm that story that he tells

to the guys on the second shift.  He grins
and says he gave me hell.
"It's too bad you boys weren't there;
man, you could have had a turn as well."
That's the story that he tells.

I'm that story that you know.

Every one night stand you didn't want,
but were too drunk to say no.
Every "if you hadn't led him on"
that just won't let you go.
I'm that story that you know.

That story that you know.

For Open Link Night at dVerse

Monday, November 28, 2011

The Cloth

Having spent a good portion
of the previous night dreaming
of riding the dark wave of your hips,
our breath mingling,
our voices joining in a rising crescendo -
"oh God, oh GOD, OH GOD"
until we splintered 
like the couch beneath us,

I could not help but blush
when you placed the wafer
on my tongue.

Sunday, November 27, 2011

Chain Gang / Woman In Black

I used to run the girls on Harpers.
Owned the stroll for a mile both ways.
Nobody lit a match 'less I said "smoke."
Every mother's child knew my name.
Wild as a deacon's daughter.
Ill-tempered as a stepped on snake.
Mama prayed for me on Sundays,
prayed that I'd get saved.

Well, there ain't no temptation on this chain gang.
Right now, I'm livin' right.
And, I ain't gonna sin no more
till I'm on the other side.

I shot a man in Reno*
he didn't have the grace to die.
Take my advice, you gotta shoot 'em twice
so they can't testify.

And, there ain't no temptation on this chain gang.
Right now, I'm living right.
No, I ain't gonna sin no more
till I get outside.

*Johnny Cash, of course.

Saturday, November 26, 2011

Take Me Home

A glimpse of my thigh
above my stocking
meant for your eyes
and yours alone.

Grab your coat.
Say your goodbyes.
Take me home.

A brush of my hand
that I let linger
soft as a sigh,
but aching to go.

Grab your coat.
Say your goodbyes.
Take me home.

Friday, November 25, 2011


I don't have to be a saint
to be worth saving.
I don't have to pray for rain;
it comes all on its own.
I have your words tucked away.
I pull them out,
smooth the page,
they soothe me.
When day gives way to night,
I have enough to know
I'll be all right.

A gratitude poem in 55 for G-Man, dVerse, AND Real Toads.  Aren't I productive?

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

The Woman I've Become

My flesh has a softer give,
and my ribs are shadowed lush.
These bones are deeper buried;
the carried years' telltale touch.

These hips have cradled children,
breasts fed them, arms held them tight.
My hands have tucked the covers,
pleased lovers through countless nights.

Skin that never felt right when I was young
fits better on the woman I've become.

For the "I Have No Idea What To Call This" challenge at Real Toads

Monday, November 21, 2011


By refinery fire light,
we burn our witches.
At halftime,
we crown the homecoming queen.
Hollowed by the poison of this place,
every smile shows flesh caught between the teeth.

Roots reach for your return like rotten fingers
should you choose to chance the edge of town.
By refinery fire light,
we burn our witches.
It's the last light you'll see
as we drag you down.

For Open Link Night at Real Toads
and dVerse, too (cause I'm lazy).

Friday, November 18, 2011


Mama made me suck soap till I spit suds,
till I sputtered and choked and swore that I'd
never!  never!  say such a word
as the word she heard me say that
day when I was chasing little Eddie
away from my collection of earthworms.

But, it seems I was born with a dirty
mouth.  Just as I've sworn to quit swearing, a
"Bullshit!  Fuck You!" slips out, and it
feels so fine to cross the line of
proper ladylike behavior that I
(sorry, Mama) savor every word.

For the "staccato" prompt at dVerse

Thursday, November 17, 2011


We don't have to end badly
just because that's all that I know.
You ain't gonna come at me
with whiskey roughened hands.
I ain't gonna screw your friends for show.

No sheriff knocking on our front door
looking for one of us.
Or, both of us.

We don't have to end badly
just because that's all that I've seen.
You ain't gonna leave me
with my cupboards bare.
I ain't gonna throw things and scream.

No jealous lovers banging on our door
looking for one of us.
The two of us

can just let go.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011


I take love
like white man's medicine:
If it works,
I'll credit a favorable moon.
If it hurts,
I'll have no one to blame but you.

Tuesday, November 15, 2011


I wrote a poem and had lines leftover.
Now, they're rattling around like a box full of bones.
Stretch me out.
Smooth me like parchment.
Banging my brain for a verse to call home.

But, the rhyme has been written,
and the tale's filled the page.
Ink me with henna.
Ink me with want.
So, leftover lines you'll just have to wait.

For Open Link Night at dVerse

My Piles

Brendan over at Oran's Well put out the challenge to share our books and poet caves.  I'm a little late to the party, but here's where all of my nonsense ferments.

Can't you just feel the Zen?  That's a chameleon cage on the left.  The computer in this shot is pretty much a dedicated gaming computer.
Four gecko tanks and a turtle tank.  Baby Puppy's computer is just to the right of the tanks.  If you ever post something deliciously naughty and I fail to comment, it's probably because my daughter is sitting next to me playing Skyrim.

My work area.  I use two monitors; I'm so used to working that way that using only one completely throws me.  I think you can see my Buddy Jesus and my peace frog (peace frog adorns my truck also).  This is where I do my typing, email, and blog reading.  But, if I'm actually writing something, I write longhand and pace.

Meditation Spidey.

 My book shots didn't all come out, but here's one to prove that I have, indeed, been to hell and back . . .

learned to cook, read my mandatory Tolkien and Adams, and studied Gonzo faithfully.

And, I do occasionally read something besides smut.  But, not too often.

So, are you gonna show me yours?

Monday, November 14, 2011


Winter, come.
Still my restless heart.
Slow my blood.

Let me sleep
wrapped in your solstice
of long night.

Let me rest
in lingering dreams.
Winter, come.

For Open Link Monday at Real Toads

Sunday, November 13, 2011

The Princess And The . . .

picture from

I took their stupid test.
On a pea, I could not rest
despite the many mattresses they piled.

But, there's no happily ever after
for the real crux of the matter
is a prince who pees the bed just like a child!

An "Un-Fairytale" for Real Toads

Saturday, November 12, 2011

Cooks In The Kitchen

Got too many cooks
up in this here kitchen.
And, you got your fingers
in too many pies.
Got too many mouths to feed,
but you're out pinchin' Penny.
Rubbin' your nickels.
Lord, you ain't worth a dime.

I'm tired of lickin your spoon.
Tired of creamin' your coffee.
Tired of stretchin' your dollar
and swallowin' your pride.
There's too many cooks
up in this here kitchen.
And, I ain't the kind of dish, honey,
that gets served on the side.

For the "Idioms" prompt at dVerse.

Friday, November 11, 2011


I can soak my tongue in sweet, sweet words
and find the tenderest parts of you.
Or, roll my tongue in salty truth
and learn to love the sting.

For you, anything.
For you, anything.

I can lie, genteel, like a lady,
or be the woman unafraid to scream.
I can burn through you hot as daylight,
or be the cool comfort darkness brings.

For you, anything.
For you, anything.

Anything at all.

Thursday, November 10, 2011


Sawdust dahlias in a paper bag.
Tied with a ribbon from your hair.
Held tight against your chest and carried.
I wonder where we're going.

This old bridge has seen its better days.
The river peeks between the rails.
At the mercy of a strong south wind,
a girl could fall

and mistake herself for flying.

55 words for my G-Man!

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

A Boy / A Girl / A Car

You were a boy
with a car,
and you loved me.
I was a girl
with places to go.

You had the keys
that you thought
would change me.
I didn't care for boys
who drove too slow.

You prayed for strength
to resist temptation.
I prayed for temptation
to come my way.

You were a boy
with a car,
and you loved me.
I was the girl
that let you drive away.

Tuesday, November 8, 2011


The lonely flesh I hide in,
cast it aside and my spirit flies.
Tiny thoughts and blind fears
so far away the world is mine.
As I resurrect the wonders
of ancient days that were never lost.
Drifting through the thunder
storms I create,
and I'm not

Because magic flows between my hands.
My return to the promised land
is just as it was meant to be.
I am everything I see.
Magic flows between my hands.
My return to the promised land
is just as it was meant to be
such is my serenity.

I made a wish on the death of winter.
I burned the book, couldn't turn the page.
Down on my knees; will the gods deliver?
You can't tell me nothing about this cage.
I've lived inside here,
laughed and cried here,
and walked it wall to wall.
With my face against the bars,
I blessed the moon and cursed the stars
until I realized after all
that the world is mine.

The world is mine.

A piece that I've reworked a bit for Open Link Night at dVerse.

Monday, November 7, 2011

Losing Hand

Death she knocking at the door,
and she ain't gonna wait no more.
So, fold that losing hand, boy,
and drink that whiskey down.

Wind she howling at the panes.
They rattling like a convict's chains.
So, fold your hands and pray, boy,
and drink that whiskey down.

Cause that's what you get
when your money runs too low.
And, that's what you get
when the horse you bet's too slow.
That's what you get
when her man takes the early train.
That's what you get, boy,
a bullet in your brain. 

Sunday, November 6, 2011


do a windy striptease,
and leaves
flutter gold to the ground
like glitter
from a showgirl's shoulders.

For the "Color" prompt at dVerse.

Saturday, November 5, 2011


I am
scrawled notes
on scraps of paper
shoved into binders
and stacked into piles
that tower,
threaten to topple and spill
my words
all over another
unsuspecting page.

Friday, November 4, 2011

Running Away

is way too harsh and cold.
Home is sweet and distant
when you're lost and all alone.
Had a tiger by the tail.
You know a tiger turns to bite.
Left with music without melody
to get you through the night.

Am I in you?
Do you see you in me?
To hell with today.
For a while,
I'm going to be free.

The things I do
are the actions of a fool.
Divorced from normality,
to me they ring so true.
Listen to my story.
Can you foresee a happy end?
Falling apart is a matter of time,
a question of where and when.

Where and when?

Thursday, November 3, 2011


It's a wonder wings
didn't sprout from your shoulders
and honey drip from your tongue
from all the things you said
while you were walking me home.
But then the last of the liquor was on our lips,
and daylight couldn't slip between our hips.
Turns out my angel was foxing my hen house all along.

55 Words for my G-Man!

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

Sweet By And By

Ain't you sweet as a sugar dumplin'
with your boots beneath the pew,
sittin' pretty as a picture with your wife?
When the choir sings "hallelujah!"
all the ladies look at you -
come hither looks deep in their Baptist eyes.

The first button that you got undone
you said I was the only one.
The second had us running off together.
By the time my garters hit the floor,
you swore you wouldn't be cattin' no more
and you and me was gonna last forever.

Now, ain't you sweet as a sugar dumplin'
kneelin' at the pew and
beggin' for forgiveness from your wife?
She's gonna make a fetchin' widow
when all us ladies get to you
and send you to that sweet by and by.

For Open Link Night at dVerse

Saturday, October 29, 2011

Season Of

I gather my ghosts
close and still closer when frost
laces the pumpkins.

But, what of the moon?
What of the turning that comes
with the dying light?

I gather my chains
tight and still tighter when leaves
pile into grave mounds.

What if what's buried
refuses to rest beneath
your fragile curses?

I gather my breath
deep and still deeper as the
veil between grows thin.

What if the ashes
of all that you've burned come back
together and dance?

For Haiku Heights and the "Call and Response" prompt at dVerse

Thursday, October 27, 2011


I pray like I floss my teeth.
and with considerable guilt.
It's as if God is the great dentist in the sky,
rubbing his gloved hands together in gleeful anticipation
of smugly judging me
for my plaque and gingivitis.
Open wi-iiide!

The voice is hot and loud in my ear.
Dirty fingers push and pull at my lips.
I whip my head from side to side,
tendons taut and screaming.
through teeth clenched so hard they crack
no . . . no . . .

No, I don't pray as much as I should.
Or floss often enough, for that matter.
Both leave a bad taste in my mouth.

A conflation poem for Meeting the Bar at dVerse

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

Continuing Education

Today, I learned . . .

that even while we make love,
some asshole is making war.

that the only "change you can believe in"
is nickels and dimes.

that social justice
is just a new reality program on MTV.

that no matter how much horseshit you shovel,
you never find a pony.

Tuesday, October 25, 2011


I'd curse the failing light
of autumn,
but dying hard
is the fate of a woman.
You can't shrug off the shroud
when the grave dirt's climbing up your knees.

So bury me high above my raising,
by my family tree,
just below my station.
Let the tangled roots embrace me,
take me home,
or set me free.

For Open Link Night at dVerse

Monday, October 24, 2011

Sunday, October 23, 2011

The Fool

You know, I wasn't always white haired and wise.
I had my time of giddy girlhood.
Even had a steady beau once,
though we had a falling out.

What's that?  Oh, I heard rumors
that he had wandering eyes and hands that followed.
Not that it matters now;
he never came home from Korea.

No, I really can't say if the rumors were true.
They seemed true enough at the time,
and I wasn't about to let a man make me look like a fool.
Never have, never will, in all my eighty years.

Heaven forbid, I look like a fool.

For "The Other" prompt at dVerse

Saturday, October 22, 2011

Messy Girl

You have antiseptic eyes,
untested hands,
and a heart that dare not falter.

I'm a messy, messy girl.

You have expectations high
polished till they shine and
shoved on the altar

of a messy, messy girl.

Dead incense snakes
circle dusty saints.
Wasted candles fall to laughing.

I clean up pretty well
but every tarot card can tell
tales of a rich man and his passing

fancy for a messy, messy girl.

Thursday, October 20, 2011

Pulse Points

Words on the page
are like lips on skin.
I bare my throat.
You bare your fangs.

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

Prosecution Exhibit C

It's the empty womb that torments.
The hollowness is a constant echo
that will not silence 
until it is filled.
Not with seed,
for nothing will grow again
in this diseased and barren space,
but with flesh, yes, flesh,
young, uncorrupted, and

Fragment of writing found in the home of accused serial killer / cannibal Arlene Townsend.

"When it came to the dark fuckery of the human heart, there seemed to be no limit."
--- Stephen King, Full Dark, No Stars

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Little Summer

It was little summer,
and I'd promised you I'd come.
So, I packed my bag
and left my pride
and took the last train out of Bedlam.

When you met me at the station,
I turned the other cheek,
but your scent
(richer than remembrance)
left me breathless on my feet.

There was a ride I don't remember.
A meal I didn't taste.
Careful conversation saying nothing.

Till I said,

"Walk me up the stairs.
Pretend that I'm your wife.
Swift and sure unhook my dress
like you do it every night.
Push aside the velvet.
Claim me with your kiss.
You've promised her forever;
all I have is this.
It's little summer,
and fall is closing in."

We made love in a strange bed.
We'll never have our own.
Then I packed up what was left of me
and took the train back home.

You returned to Autumn.
Some seasons never change.
Me, I reaped our season's planting;
Little Summer is her name.

For Open Link Night at dVerse

Monday, October 17, 2011

Sunday, October 16, 2011


For you,
I'd stand for my
fitting, be it veil, weeds
of black, or halo set slightly

A cinquain for the Sunday Challenge at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads

Saturday, October 15, 2011


Hey, Mama, whatcha doing?
Where do you want to be buried?

I'm just hanging out, watching the game.
Feeding tube?  Ventilator?

Is everything okay down there?
Living will?  DNR?

Let me know if you need anything.
Health care proxyPower of attorney?

Talk to you later, Mama.
We're gonna have to talk about this.

Love you.
But, it's too much like saying


For Taboo Topics at dVerse

Friday, October 14, 2011

As The Holidays Approach

When it comes to family gatherings,
one must have a limit.
Yes, blood is thicker than water,
but you can still drown in it.

At dverse, we're imitating our favorite poets.  Can you guess mine?

Thursday, October 13, 2011

Work Of Art

Pablo Picasso. Monolithic Nude.
Picasso. Monolithic Nude

I run my hands over my breasts, then turn to give the mirror my good side.  In a strong, clear voice (as per my therapist's instructions), I say to my reflection, "I am a work of art."

With a bawdy wink, my reflection replies, "A fucking Picasso, baby!"

Perhaps, self-esteem is not my real issue.

Fiction in 55 for my G-Man!

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

The King

The king whispers to me
things only I can hear.

when my medication runs out
when my medication runs out

The king blacks out faces
and tells me not to fear.

when my medication runs out
when my medication runs out

The king rides in my pocket
everywhere I go.

when my medication runs out
when my medication runs out

When the state shuts down the clinic,
the king is everything I know.

A Magpie Tale

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

The Botanist

Was it love
that thrust your hands
into my dirt
and sent your fingers searching
until they found
my tender roots?

Was it love
that had you lift me high
and carry me
like a prize
through my wild and tangled woods?

And, was it love
that made you give me
pride of place
in this manicured space
of choking tidiness?

If so, I don't think that I care for love.
It feels too much like dying.

For Open Link Night at dVerse

Monday, October 10, 2011

She Sleeps

Brittle bones.
Shallow breaths.
The crone sleeps
and starts to dreaming

of a fertile womb
and pliant skin
and nimble hands,
her time of bleeding.

Slick with sweat.
Breathing fast.
I'm jerked awake
by my own screaming.

In a ragged tomb
of wrinkled skin
and a strange heart's
fragile beating.

For Open Link Monday at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads

Sunday, October 9, 2011

Just In Case

I set the bush on fire
and watched it burn
right down to dirt,
but not a word

was spoken.

I watched the clouds suck smoke
and choke,
turn black and spit back
but not a drop

of rain ever fell.

I keep collecting boards and nails
and wearing walking shoes
just in case.

Saturday, October 8, 2011

Dead Letters

I planted acorns
on Houdini's grave, and a
tree escaped the ground.

Branches unfurling.
Leaves greening, golding, falling,
filling the air like

the ashes did the
day the Dead Letter Office
caught fire and burned down.

Did you see the smoke?
Or, was it one more note from
me you didn't read?

Friday, October 7, 2011


Every morning I start my day
wishing I could find a better way.
Then I dream my time away and stay up all night.
And when I watch the sun through the falling rain,
I feel the time has come for me to make a change.
Gotta get myself arranged, Lord knows I try.

And, my conscience cuts me like a knife.
Hear me cry spare me my life.
Peace it seems to come so slow.
I'm at war with me wherever I go.

I try so hard to understand,
but I'm up to my neck in shifting sands.
If I can't meet my demands, I guess the fault is mine.
Moving backward if I move at all.
I try to run; I've been taught to crawl.
I bare my back for the whip to fall; it proves I'm alive.

And, my conscience cuts me like a knife.
Hear me cry spare me my life.
Peace it seems to come so slow.
I'm at war with me wherever I go.

It takes too little to make me bleed,
too much to stop my pain.
It's funny even the simple things get complicated just the same.
I get real pleased with myself sometimes.
It lasts for a day or two.
But in the end I'm never good enough
no matter what I do.

And, my conscience cuts me like a knife.
Hear me cry spare me my life.
Peace it seems to come so slow.
I'm at war with me wherever I go.

This is an old piece that I reworked a bit for the "Name" prompt at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.  My first name is Irish in origin and means "warrior" or "warrior-woman."

If you're interested, here's a snippet of what the original sounded like.

Thursday, October 6, 2011

Scarlet Woman

Must I always play the devil in our dime store dramas?
The wicked vamp,
the wayward wench,
the wolf slavering and slobbering after innocence
through dark thickets
and yellow lit min-marts
long after decent people are asleep in bed?

Truly, I have no taste for tender hearts.

But, I do look damn good in scarlet.

Fiction in 55 for my G-Man!

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

The Help

I make excuses
and call them reasons.

I'm older and fatter.
We're busy.
You're tired.

The truth is much simpler.

No one really sees the help.

Tuesday, October 4, 2011


Nestled deep in the vines
is a flash of bright red -
the last fruit of the season.

My knees in the dirt, I reach
inhaling the earthy greenness
of lingering summer

cupped in my hand
is a tomato
so sun warmed and perfect
that I am tempted
to pierce the tender skin with my teeth
and let its juices wet my tongue.

Instead, I halve
its beauty with a knife,
then scoop the flesh and seeds
into a watery jar
to ferment and mold
like a family secret.

In a day or two,
I'll scrape and rinse,
collect the heavy sinkers from the bottom of the jar,
and carefully wrap them in netting to hang and dry

through the cold, dark months of another winter;
an unbroken line
to another spring.

For Open Link Night at dVerse

Monday, October 3, 2011

As If

Someday, I will live as if . . .

I believe in happy endings,

my kisses really mend scraped knees,

and my thighs are perfect.


And, someday . . .

winged elephants will fly out of my butt.

A Magpie Tale

Sunday, October 2, 2011

Let's Call It . . .

The cat puked up an odd-shaped hairball.
I slopped red wine on the living room rug.
The neighbor's dog is a half block of roadkill.
Fuck it.  Let's just call it art.

Unemployment is blood on the bar graph.
Bills are stacked in unsteady piles.
Pink slips fill the street like confetti.
Fuck it.  Let's just call it art.

Dark spots on the chest x-ray.
Canyons on the EKG.
Purpling bruises on a child.
Fuck it.  Let's just call it art.

It's all graffiti on the gravestone.
It's all billboards on the brain.
It's all Coke straight to the cortex.
Fuck it.  Let's just call it art.

For Poetics at dVerse

A Shout-Out:  Over at Word Garden, Shay's piece had this line:
"You smear brimstone on the hearth stone
And tell me its pop art."
Either it just wormed its way into my brain, or I steal from the best.  Probably both.

Saturday, October 1, 2011

As I Do

Cradle gently,
as I cradled you.

Speak softly,
as I spoke to you.

Love deeply,
as I loved you.

Learn from me,
as I learned from you.

Friday, September 30, 2011


Words blue enough to shock a sailor.
Words reverent enough to please a nun.
Words of protest, truth, and anger.
Words that leave your clothes undone.
Words innocent as a dreaming child.
Words to ease the pain of living.
Words to shock the cruelest conscience.
Words of taking and of giving.

I cannot trust my clumsy tongue
to say the words that must be said.
Until I can trust my clumsy tongue,
I'll trust them to my pen instead.

For Meeting the Bar at dVerse

Thursday, September 29, 2011

Side Of The Road

File:West Texas Pumpjack.JPG
image-public domain

Loose gravel and loose
morals got me in this ditch.
A warm beer and a

little leg might get
me out, but this is nowhere.
So, I kick back on

the tailgate, wish on
an early star, and let the
pumpjack rhythm get

under my skin and
simmer.  The beer I'll just keep
for my own sweet self.

For Haiku Heights

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Plan B

Charm school was a fail.
Let's hope that passing gas becomes
an Olympic sport.

For Haiku Heights

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

For The Winter

The wind has just enough bite
to send me to my closet
for my old, ratty cardigan.
The sky is black
with straggly v's.

The geese are flying south.
I want to go, too.

Somewhere cheap and warm,
where the tequila is complimentary
and the sand is as soft as the belly of a bird.

I won't speak the language,
so I'll tattoo invitations on my hips
and wear apologetic t-shirts
until I pick up a phrase or two
tending bar for the locals.

Reading eyes,
weathered hands,

and collecting stories
like tips in a jar.

For Open Link Night at dVerse

Monday, September 26, 2011

Raven's Rain

A phoenix drowned in
raven's rain.  Ashes dirty
the water.  Still, I

drink, breathe the soot soaked 
air, and wait to be split wide
by dark feathered wings.

Sunday, September 25, 2011


The wolf's at the door.
His howls fall like autumn leaves,
red raw as heartache.

His howls fall like leaves,
scratching at the dead wood sky,
splintering the stars.

Red raw as heartache.
Virgin moons between his teeth
The wolf's at the door.

For Haiku Heights and Poetics and dVerse.

Saturday, September 24, 2011

Friday, September 23, 2011


Some days, the only
thing that keeps me from drowning
is lack of water.

For Haiku Heights

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Snake Bite

I play a dirge
dark as a death wish,
and the snakes come.

Long and smooth
like my own venomous veins,
they are flasks with forked tongues
tipped to my lips

poison for poison.

No snake remains charmed for long
when the moon is out 
before the sun has had the grace to set.

No woman hacks a flute from bone
just to die
a sad story at the edge of the river.

There are apples to be gathered.

Tipped to my lips
exchanging poison for poison.

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Love Poem

Knowing how I waste my time,
you asked me for a love poem.
I should have told you then
that though I wield a poet's pen,
deep within me
beats the heart of a mathematician.

Love is a numbers game,
a process of constant addition and subtraction
to produce a Variable A (my bullshit)
that is roughly equal to Variable B (your bullshit)
to yield the ever elusive Variable C (long term peaceful cohabitation with occasional peel the paint off the walls sex).

Or, so it seems to me.

But, that won't sell movie tickets.

So, I pick up my pen
and try again.

Years from now, my love,
when infatuation is just a memory,
I will still laugh when you tell jokes I've already heard,
remember that you don't like tomato soup,
and sleep in sweatshirts just because you like it cold.
I'll never let on that I know that you're getting a bald spot.
I will never consider that we won't always be us.
And, I will never, ever let you face this unkind world alone.

For Open Link Night at dVerse.

Monday, September 19, 2011


Good morning, sun!
I raise my cup in silent greeting.
My ancient bones resist
a more energetic salutation.

Sunday, September 18, 2011


Take a liberty
or three with me, but don't be
here in the morning.

Steal second base, but
take it back to your place.  Don't
be here come the dawn.

For Haiku Heights

Saturday, September 17, 2011

Friday, September 16, 2011


Proud of her wind chimes,
she had no clue that they were
a chime a dozen.


For Haiku Heights

Thursday, September 15, 2011


Photo by Ainsley Allmark

I have patience with
you, my bride.  You wax, you wane;
I'll feed when you're full.

As you work your way
through the sky.  You wax, you wane;
I'll feed when you're full.

Pulling my blood like
a warm tide.  You wax, you wane;
I'll feed when you're full.

I'm patient, 
but I'll not be denied.

Submitted to Haiku Heights, Poetry Jam, and my G-Man's fiction in 55.  Hey, it's a hat trick!

Editorial Note:  Dear G-Man, I nearly drove myself stark raving insane to get that to 55 words.  Only for you, my friend.

Wednesday, September 14, 2011


'E licks 'er from 'er
tip to 'er tail, and with a
grin, 'e goes again!

My goofy response to the "Elixir" prompt at Haiku Heights.
Also submitted to Sensational Haiku Wednesday.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011


September light
filters through the eaves,
and the old barn gets religion.
We are angels
with hay in our hair.

Beneath us,
boards creak and moan
songs from the back of the hymnal.
Your name
is a prayer on my lips.

I have apples
picked from the low branches.
You have your hands
high up my skirt.

Sweet is the harvest this time of year.
Sweet and tender the harvest.

For Open Link Night at dVerse.

Monday, September 12, 2011

High Waters

"Expecting a flood?"
The boy tugs his too short jeans.
He's dry, but drowning

in loud, cruel laughter,
embarrassment, and the shame
of empty pockets.

For Haiku Heights

Sunday, September 11, 2011

Hero Count

In Afghanistan,
September 11th is
still making heroes.

While we're remembering, let's remember our "forgotten war," too.

For Haiku Heights and Poetics at dVerse.

Saturday, September 10, 2011


like an old, brown bottle.
My pretty papers loose
and peeling.
Crinkling at the edges,
glue giving way,
until I am finally left

Friday, September 9, 2011

Coffee Cup

A little thing like
the dust on your coffee cup
makes the yearn bleed fresh.

For Haiku Heights

Thursday, September 8, 2011

Simple Thing

The lady waits in silence
for the knight to come.
The one that she has chosen.
The one who does no wrong.
She knows that she's foolish.
She just doesn't care.
The lady waits in silence.
She knows he'll soon be there.

Like violence
like rain
like a sunrise
her love is a simple thing.

His fingers stroke her face
and trace the lines of care.
Lines of time and loneliness,
lines that he put there
"Someday I'll be worth it."
This a solemn vow.
"I'll be there beside you
when heaven's crashing down."

Like violence
like rain
like a sunrise
his love is a simple thing.

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

The Kiss

Kiss me.  Liquefy
my bones until I puddle
like spilled honey.  Chase

my rolling sweetness
down and claim it with your teeth.
Breathe deep of my dark

sandalwood and smoke,
but don't choke on my embers.
Kiss me to my knees.

For Open Link Nigh at dVerse and Haiku Heights

Monday, September 5, 2011

Sunday, September 4, 2011

Saturday, September 3, 2011

The Bag

You returned my feelings
in a paper bag
along with my dirty laundry.
You kept my cds.

You are a puzzle.

If I go to you,
bang on your door
and demand their return,
will we find that we have one last dance between us,
one last barefoot blending of shadows,
as the bass thumps
and the neighbors complain?

Or, will I find you
pretending to like Taylor Swift
for someone else?

Friday, September 2, 2011

Thursday, September 1, 2011

The Novice

I am a young witch,
new to the arts,
but already skilled in spells and alchemy.
It is waning summer
and time to gather potion plenty.

Staff in hand,
I meander rutted paths
and gather

the feather of a bird
the dust from a coyote track
the blood of an aloe

and return to my cauldron
to mix, measure,
and murmur the wind
until I am called back
by my mother's exasperated voice.

She sees mud pies and mess.
But, in the long shadows,
I am making magic.

Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Not Much Of A Poem

For A.J.

All I can do for you now is write,
so I will.

At fourteen, you were already a smooth con.
Taller than me by several inches,
you liked to brush against my shoulders
every chance you got.
You lied as easy as breathing,
maybe easier.
Most days
(and you were in trouble most days),
all that stood between you and expulsion
was my big mouth and skinny white ass.

All I can do for you now is tell your story,
so I will.

It was a railroad school;
all you had to do is look a ways down the tracks
to see the train wrecks coming.
That's where they stick kids like you,
and they stick you with teachers like me;
first year teachers with good hearts,
but no experience with
junkies (like your dad)
whores (like your mom)
gangs (waiting for you outside the school house door)
abuse (all of your life)
poverty (the kind that only sees one way out).
I didn't have any books to give you
even if you could have read them.
I did my best,
but the whole system . . .
we were all just trying to get through each day
without getting eaten alive.

All I can do for you now is say I'm sorry,
so I will.

So, I was listening to the news yesterday,
and I heard that they found you dead in the middle of the street.
Seems you botched a home invasion, kiddo.
Damn you, you were only twenty-two years old.
Damn us all, you never had a prayer.
And, damn me for not knowing how to help you.

I'm sorry, baby.
I am so fucking sorry.

All of the above is true.  It's not much of a poem, but I needed to write it.  Thank you for reading it.

Submitted to dVerse.

Monday, August 29, 2011

The Funeral

I threw a funeral,
and nobody came
but the guys from the half-price barber next door
and the old Beaumont hooker they let sleep on their floor.

No service, no flowers,
no mourners in line.
I threw a funeral,
and the funeral was mine.

Sunday, August 28, 2011

The Milkweed Maid

The milkweed maid
measures time
by the beats of butterfly wings.
She has her own tales of fleeting beauty to tell.

Her losses gather
like petals
at the base of an aging flower.
She knows the pain of fading slow.

Her treasure
is the clean sweetness
of a plum.
The ache of ripeness untasted is familiar.

She is a remnant of a passing season.
Soon, winter will have its way.

Submitted to Poetry Pantry

Saturday, August 27, 2011

Peace By The Slice

When meditation failed,
I ordered pizza.
Unlike enlightenment,
it arrived in thirty minutes or less
(greasy as a Texas politician, but still hot,
so I double tipped),
and with half a bottle of passable wine and a paper plate
balanced atop the pizza box,
I made the pilgrimage to the living room
to reverently place my offering and myself
before my third eye.

A click brought me the world.

On CNN, an insurance agent struggles to remain upright in pounding surf
while he explains the delicious fine print
that will fuck policy holders
out of reimbursement for hurricane damage.

On channel 4, a voice over urges me
to ask my doctor if the latest antidepressant is right for me,
the screen filled with the image
of a woman weeping over her infant,
a heart monitor standing silent by the hospital crib.

On Channel 29, the Rams are playing,
and though the sound of swearing and shattering bones
drowns out the play by play,
I happily settle in for the evening
to enjoy a bit of circus with my bread.

There's only so much truth a girl can handle on a Thursday night.

For the Third Eye prompt at dVerse.

Thursday, August 25, 2011


You gave me your blessing
and a promise of fair weather.
I gave you head
in an empty bathroom stall.


May the saints preserve us
like little jars of pickles
stacked against the cellar wall.

I chased the end of summer
playing guitar for the folkies.
You got a steady job
selling Nikes at the mall.


I know you don't deserve this,
but I've met a pretty singer,
and I've promised her the fall.

We left with your blessing
and a warning about the weather
and a brand new pair of Nikes
I shoplifted from the mall.


I wish you could come with us,
and if you're ever down in Katy,
promise me you'll call.

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Dashed Hopes

Jimmy thought a threesome sounded just swell . . . until he realized that Jane and June only wanted him to pay for gas and stand look-out.

Tuesday, August 23, 2011


Somewhere between broken-hearted and bitter,
there's an empty plain
where a body can find a cold beer
and an uneasy peace.
It's as quiet as a sleepless night,
a place to rub salt in the wound of your choosing
and ponder hard men and the harder truths they come bearing.
Naturally, I think about you.

Some lies are meant to be told and told well.
Some truths should never be spoken aloud.
Even in confession, I whisper and mumble
you don't make me feel less alone
and try to snatch the words back,
but I can't,
and I'm tired of trying.

I just long to sink into this silent ground
and study my discontent until the edges blur.
Instead, I spread my expectations wide on a blanket
and let the sun leach their juices and steal their colors.
Then, I give them to the wind.
I have no use for them anymore.

For Open Link Night at dVerse.

Monday, August 22, 2011

Let It Go

Locked away in your darkened heart
you never see the light.
Heard too many hurting words
you don’t want to go outside.
The years go sliding by you
but you don’t feel the change.
Everyday is just the same
with you at center stage.

Staring eyes and pointing fingers
are all you see.
Baby, you’re not living,
you’re just living with a memory.

Let it go.
Leave it behind you.
There’s been so much wasted time.
Let it go.
Don’t let it blind you.
Your accuser is in your mind.
Let it go.
No more reminders.
It doesn't matter what they did to you.
The face you see in the mirror
it’s not you.
So why don’t you let it go? 

The picture that they drew of you
you carry in your head.
And you believed, lived and breathed,
every word they said.
Much too proud to let them see you fall apart.
It's time to take that pride and reject
the part they gave to you. 

Let it go.
Leave it behind you.
There’s been so much wasted time.
Let it go.
Don’t let it blind you.
Your accuser is in your mind.
Let it go.
No more reminders.
Doesn’t matter what they did to you.
The face you see in the mirror
It’s not you.
So why don’t you let it go? 

Friday, August 19, 2011


I'm not the clay goddess that you've made.
I'm not the sacred bones that you have buried.
I'm not a tender shoot sprung from your earth.
I'm the woman that you married.

And, if your clay toys crumble,
and feral dogs find your bones,
if drought deprives the tender shoot,
you can still come home.

Fiction in 55 for my G-Man.

Wednesday, August 17, 2011


If I go to crazy and don't make it back,
bring her up to love Jesus.
Remember that she likes her milk warm and her peas frozen.
Let her make you laugh.

If she asks, tell her
that a blue sky bird may break a wing,
but that broken bird will still sing.
Tell her to listen
in the quiet of the morning.

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Red Moon

Red moon rising.
We're stringing fish guts through the corn.
Red moon rising.
Wonder what I could grow with yours.

Gonna raise me up a dusty man
with rain water in his eyes.
Hands as smooth as a preacher man's
moving up and down my thighs.

Red dirt blowing.
It's like Abel said to Cain -
when that red dirt's blowing,
ain't nothin' in those fields but pain.

Gonna raise me up a money man
with gold pieces in his eyes.
Hands that burn like the preacher man's
just to get between my thighs.

Red moon rising
hanging high in the dusty air.
That red dirt keeps on blowing,
but we can't go nowhere.

For Open Link Night at dVerse.

Monday, August 15, 2011


If I squint just right,
I swear
I can see your lies
just like graffiti.

If I stare too long,
I swear 
the words breathe
and slither like snakes.

If I tilt my head
and listen close
I can hear
the snakes start hissing.

"Not everything can be covered with a coat of paint."

Note to Shay:  And then, someone dies.

Friday, August 12, 2011


There have been others.
Conveniences, really.
But, no one has undone me
with a look
the way you do,
made me ache
with a smile,
the way you do,
enveloped me
the way you do
without even trying.

Thursday, August 11, 2011


The roses that you brought this morning
smelled like dog piss
and wilted well before noon.
That, and you tracked a mess
of strange dirt all over my kitchen floor.

My horoscope said that you was a waste
of my powerful carnal energies.

But, what can I say?
I love a nice pair of shoes.

Fiction in 55 for my G-Man!

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

The Other Woman Blues

Love is patient.
I've waited.
Love is kind.
Turned a blind eye.
But, I ain't your mama.
No, no.
You get that from your wife.
Have mercy.

You're always coming round
Yes, you do.
just after nightfall.
Ain't never seen you in the day.
Next time you come catting round
looking to get some
gonna find my porch light off.
Stroll on, now, boy!

Tuesday, August 9, 2011


Lace your fingers with mine
and walk with me.
It's just a little rain.
Let's match our footsteps
and nestle in each other's silence.
I have others for the words I say.
But, I have only you
for what I leave unsaid.
Lace your fingers with mine
and walk with me a while.

For Open Link Night at dVerse.

Monday, August 8, 2011


I was little more than a girl
when I started keeping company with death.
He didn't know me by name;
I was just a worker in his fields,
tending frail, palsied fruits
until the appointed times of each.

I never begrudged him his harvest.

I came to know his ways, though.
I could feel his footsteps along my spine,
catch the faintest drift of cinnamon and decay in the air,
and notice the exact moment when the birds
nesting in the north wing stairwell
hushed their song.

I know that he always takes in threes.

Six days ago, just after my first round,
he came for Mrs. Faulkner.
Hers was a quiet, pretty death.
Four days later, Mr. Layton clung to his final breath so fiercely
that I lost my usual indifference
and left work early to come home.

That's when I saw you with her.

Tell me, do you smell cinnamon?

Sunday, August 7, 2011

The Mind Of God

God takes her coffee black,
no sugar.

I didn't have to ask.
I can read God's mind.

God thinks tea parties
are for children and glassy-eyed dolls.
She'll make it rain
when she damn well pleases.

I didn't have to ask.
I can read God's mind.

God has a soft spot for widows and orphans.
She sends all attempts to "pray away the gay"
directly to voice mail.
She does not own a corporate jet.

I didn't have to ask.
I can read God's mind.

For the Giorgio de Chirico prompt at dVerse.  Automatic writing (free association) was very popular among Surrealists artists and poets.  This is where the painting took me.

Friday, August 5, 2011

The Hole

It's so quiet
I can hear the corn grow.
The wind chimes hang lifeless on the porch.
The local dogs have abandoned the moon.
Even this old house
has left off its litany of complaints
and fallen silent.

I miss the sound of your breathing.

Since you've been gone,
I've fasted,
but for chocolate and Corona.
I've charted new constellations.
I've whispered poorly composed laments
and non-specific prayers.

But nothing I do
slows the leak of my color
trailing after you

through the hole of your leaving.

Submitted to Poetry Jam.

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Store Bought Peach

You're like a store bought peach,
all promise on the outside,
but stone beneath the skin.

I hold you in my farm girl hands,
wise to the sweet weight of ripe
and unmoved by a flawless blush;
there is no give beneath my fingers.

Like a store bought peach,
you'll never soften till you rot.

For Open Link Night at dVerse.

Sunday, July 31, 2011


It was easy to smirk at dirty nails
and look down my nose at dusty feet,
until the wind laid down and died.

Now, I'm just as filthy and thirsty as the rest.

We all huddle in the unnatural stillness,
day after blistering day,
staring silently at the circle
of stationary steel
as if it is a god that has been displeased.
The reverend calls for prayer,
but there are none who speak
the tongue of the wind.

Nothing moves,
but the glint of the sun on silver blades.
Nothing stirs,
but the exhalations of brutal disappointment.
Nothing much is left of us
since the wind laid down and died.