Friday, April 27, 2012

Left To Lie

Prophetess by Alphose Muche

I threw for you the most splendid sunrise,
but didn't wake you when the morning came.
I arranged for you a dance of fireflies,
then lied, kept you inside, said there was rain.
And so, my gifts, my gifts, are left to lie.

I spread out a blanket on the hillside,
then didn't tell you how to meet me there.
Now, I sit alone here by the fireside
pretending I don't have an empty chair.
My gifts, all my gifts, are left to lie.

For Fireblossom Friday

Wednesday, April 25, 2012


Drowning is unexpectedly exquisite.
The shimmy struggle splash of water
spangling rainbows in the sun.
The ferment of carbon dioxide
boiling beneath shelved and shuddering ribs.
Hands crumpling like abstract origami
as dragon scale eyes slip shut.
A last cacophony of feet 
thudding against glass;
then, a coda of silence so pure it aches.
It is ethereal.

But, then, I only watch.

using the Sunday Whirl words

Tuesday, April 24, 2012


"Some say
that asparagus is an aphrodisiac,"
you tell me.
"Yeah, well, some would say
that prickly pear and pig balls on a slaughterhouse skewer
are an aphrodisiac if they thought it would get them laid,"
I reply.

You laugh like a burglar in a blackout,
and I
think of your wife.

Does she sit at home and sift
through her memories
with fingers that tremble
searching for some happy "before?"
Does she look at you
with accusing mascara smudge eyes
and lurch away from your touch
as if from the scaly shadow
of wherever you were last night?

God, I hope so.

I hope so because I fear that the membrane
the separates we two women
is far thinner than I wish.
I hope so because I'm afraid
that if I looked hard enough
I would see her;

another copper haired woman
with whom you laugh
like a burglar in a blackout.

Created with Shawna's Melting words for 
Open Link Night at dVerse.

Monday, April 23, 2012


If it is only a Poem,
then I am Blameless,
no matter the racing of my heart.

I can name this aching Admiration
and be no better or worse
than others who read your verse
and sigh the same.

This flush that stains my cheeks
speaks only to Envy
of your gift so rich and wicked

that it shames my paltry skill
for necessary Fictions.

For Open Link Monday at Real Toads

Sunday, April 22, 2012

Duty's List

So many things to do today!
Duty comes bearing her long list.
I sToMp my feet and clench my fists . . .
then, I pencil you in for 8.

An Envelope Quatrain on Duty
for Real Toads and dVerse.

Saturday, April 21, 2012


Content yourself with small, simple things
like the heart throat way the sparrow sings,
the fresh, flawless light of early spring,
and the stretch of earth to sun it brings.

And once you find yourself content,
don't worry what the sparrow meant,
or if her song could be improved
if this or that were just removed.

Friday, April 20, 2012

There Will Be Explosions

"Where's my super suit?"
hollers my super man.
It's testosterone time
at the movies again.
All I got
to say to that
is God bless Robert Downey, Jr.

Note:  That first line is from The Incredibles and is often (believe it or not) yelled in my house apropos of nothing.

Additional Random Bitchy Note:  Damn you, Blogger!  Quit screwing with stuff!

For Mary's movie prompt at Real Toads

Thursday, April 19, 2012


Warmth bleeds from the skin
of the day.  The storm has come
home early from work.

Wednesday, April 18, 2012


We gather -
this family of women -
gather at the kitchen table
to drink sweet tea
and talk
about the finer points of pulling through.

And, as I search
each love worn face
it occurs to me

this learning to be
a lady
is the work of a lifetime.

For the Wednesday Challenge at Real Toads

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Getting Lucky

I've never understood
why they call it getting lucky.
Too many times
the sun through the blinds
has shown won-the-lottery lust to be
stale as last night's beer.

Rolling over this morning,
I find myself face to face
with the unluckiest number
(needs three friends to score an eight),
and I wonder if it's too late
to vacate
this crazy space
in my head
that keeps ignoring the odds
and buying a ticket.

For Open Link Night at dVerse

Sunday, April 15, 2012

The Underground

To me, the underground is where
children and old ladies cower
while the brave and foolish stand and stare
at nature's brawn and brutal power.
But, I have seen your subway trains
graffitied on my TV screen
and thought it not the least bit strange
that it's said the city's hard and mean.
For I see no glamour in the crush
of bodies pressed on every side.
I've no desire to shove and rush,
to scratch for space and be pushed aside.
Let me breathe in the middle of nowhere, instead,
and spare me the underground till I'm dead.

Hastily Added Note:  In the first lines, the underground that I'm referring to is an underground storm shelter used during a tornado.

For the "subway" prompt at dVerse

Saturday, April 14, 2012

Last Look Through A Window

Photo by Susie Clevenger

Seashore sonnets and
sandcastles - gone with a wave
of a hand goodbye.

For the Photo Challenge at Real Toads

Friday, April 13, 2012

Birthing A Religion

I'm a slut for science
spreadeagled on the slab.
Processes and patents.
A Lady of the Lab.

When the serpent split the Adam,
it was the Eve of pain and lack.
Apple promises us the garden.
"Child, there's an app for that."

For the Science prompt at dVerse

Thursday, April 12, 2012

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Moving Mary

Moving Mary
from the bed to the toilet
was like moving an angora sweatered mountain.
At close to four hundred pounds,
she was slow as a creeping ice floe,
and each step
(she hated the jouncing of the power lift and wouldn't let me use it)
was a drawn out adagio of aches, pains, and complaints.
By the time I got her from Point A to Point B,
we were both exhausted and trembling with fatigue.
But, the back and forth was the easy part.

The hard part,
the part that always seemed to eviscerate my patience
and transmute me from a smiling caregiver
to a clenched up ball of iridium black rage,
was the infernal standing around and waiting
as Mary methodically rearranged every item within her reach,
then painstakingly instructed me as to how to arrange the rest.

"Move my marzipan fruit a little closer."
"The remote goes on the left."
"Can you scoot my pillow some?"

Jesus wept,
and now you know why.

Just as the thrum
of the boiling blood in my temples approached unbearable,
we would finish,
and with pats and smiles and mawkish tears of gratitude that didn't quite ring true,
she would thank me and finally let me go

(nerves shot,
hair a mess of frizz and sweat,
vertebrae in my back compressed
to bits of gneiss)

take the break that I had been scheduled to start twenty minutes before . . .
as Mary damned well knew.

Control is a funny thing, isn't it?

Shawna's Monday Melting words
strung together for Open Link Night at dVerse.

Monday, April 9, 2012

Forty Pounds Of Egg Salad Later . . .

"At last!  I have finally found something different to do with all of these damn leftover Easter eggs!

Sunday, April 8, 2012

Pretend Play

Photo by Tracey Grumbach

I play that I'm God
and wonder if God ever
plays at being me.

Does she walk my street,
get her feet stepped on, and take
her own name in vain?

Does she wash the car
knowing full well that shit falls
from a cloudless sky?

Or, does she just do
what I should have done and take
a well-deserved nap?

For Poetics at dVerse

Saturday, April 7, 2012

Friday, April 6, 2012


Buds on the blackjack
tell me spring is here to stay.
I carved my initials
and started on your name.
Bark bit blood from both my hands
when sweat slicked the knife away.
Round and round the blackjack,
saying what I have to say to you,
my love.

Letters full of lavender,
letters full of lies
delivered in the darkness
so I cannot read your eyes.
But, truth traced with a finger
gives itself away.
Round and round the blackjack,
there's nothing left for you to say,
my love.

Thursday, April 5, 2012


Waves of prairie grass
high as a horse's belly -
as long as it grows . . .

Life-giving water
deep beneath the fine, red dirt -
as long as it flows . . .

We honor the old,
and we birth our fine, strong young,
but peace is poison.

Mother Buffalo
has entered the mountain, and
we shall be starved white.

For Kerry's Challenge at Real Toads,
April Heights Haiku Challenge,
and . . . it's 55 words for my G-Man!

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

Pale Moon And Primrose

I shovel the stars
and clear my sky to black to
harbor your pale moon.

Winds arranged; clouds swept
aside and held back.  I know
you'll rise soon and bathe

me blind in your shine,
the lush liquid loam of your
light where primrose blooms

open themselves at
sunset, and I do too -
to harbor your moon.

For Open Link Night at dVerse 
and the April Heights Haiku Challenge

Monday, April 2, 2012

Sunday, April 1, 2012