Wednesday, May 30, 2012


When weeds were still flowers
and time was more white than gray,
you could let your feet dangle in the water
without fear of teeth beneath.
All was saccharine and sweet.
Then came Progress
and the Genetically Modified Orgasm.

No one is quite sure how it happened.
Some claim that it was discovered
by a lone female scientist
after years of solitary research.
Others blame frack fumes or the French.
Regardless of from which loose loins it sprang,
the GMO threw the world into shuddering, writhing chaos.

Religious leaders condemned it as an abomination
and issued warnings against Fruitless Fornication for Fun.

Liberals applauded it as Climax We Can Believe In
and promised access for everyone . . . you know, someday.

Conservatives held firm
and continued to dismiss all talk
of any female orgasm as mere myth.

And, so, the Genetically Modified Orgasm might have languished
forgotten in some lab somewhere forever
had it not been for the bravery of women.
Just as they had for thousands of years,
women took their orgasms into their own hands.
For the vote, these savage suffragettes might settle
for starvation and signs,
but for the Genetically Modified Orgasm
they traded their femininity for foxholes
and went to war . . .

where they still are . . .

under the banner of the Snake & Apple.

Kind of a Steampunk thing (sort of?) for Kerry's prompt at Real Toads

Monday, May 28, 2012

This House

This house is dying from the inside out.
Don't let the glimmering corpselight fool you.
Funeral flowers bloom close and thick
and suffocate the crumbling brick.

Cancers writhe within its womb.
Rafters rot, but fail to fall.
This house is dying from the inside out.
A tomb with alabaster walls.

for Open Link Monday at Real Toads.

Sunday, May 27, 2012

Saturday, May 26, 2012

The Seer

If I were hewn from sterner stuff
and not so tightly strung,
I wouldn't tie myself in knots
for fear I'll come undone.

A mortar round, a sniffling sound
sink order's ship the same.
And, worries, random, real, and remote,
I wear them like a braid.

So with a pounding pain at the nape of my neck,
I seek the seer's shrine
and climb her creaking, listing stairs
to learn the extent of what's mine.

The seer tarried in the topmost loft
like a fear left to ripen and rot.
She handed me a mirror.
"Child, this is all the control that you've got."

Using Shawna's Thursday Words to vent a little stress for Fireblossom Friday

Friday, May 25, 2012

Two Doves

Two doves sit on the fence
like whispers from God.
I watch them from the window.

Soon my daughter and I
will stand hip to hip,
but I don't know if my mother
will live to take next spring's crocuses
from her granddaughter's hand.

Just a breath away
from colors and clatter
is a massive, empty stillness
where grief blooms in my marrow
like an unwanted flower.

Perhaps, I'll have a secret garden in my bones.

Two doves sit on the fence
like whispers from God.
I watch them from the window.

A stream of consciousness wordle for dVerse and The Sunday Whirl.

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

Imago / Couples Dialogue

She removes her tortoise shell glasses
with the rose colored lens
and begins

Imago, my Imago!
Knitted from pheromones
and knobbed kneed memories,
birthed from a blueprint half unfolded
and wet with shadows,
you were to be the surgical stitch
for the endemic wounds of my vulnerable childhood.
Yet, you have proven to be merely a dry hump mimic
of my Electra complex.

He, mirroring: A dry hump.

We sit in this room
and burn incense to cover the stench
as we excrete every variation
of the tale of The Wandering Proboscis and the Random Honeydew
as if the ending will morph with the next retelling.

He, summarizing: Wandering Proboscis and Random Honeydew.

We pin ourselves beneath sodium lights
until not even a wing can flutter,
tunnel deeper,
dragging our inverted funnels into the day
as if photonic therapy can cure
neuroses and assholery.

He, validation: That makes sense because efficacy has not been documented.

All of the dialogue in the world
is just pencil scratches on a pine box.
You can't bring true sight to an eyespot.
A predator with good hair and a Jaguar
is still a predator.

He (beginning to bristle), empathy:  I imagine that you feel, uh, feel . . .

I feel like I want the goddamn transcription to reflect that I am done.  My daddy was a bastard.  You are a bastard.  Men are bastards.  I'm going to take up witchcraft, become a lesbian, and learn to crochet.

Note:  When I saw that "Imago" was one of Shawna's words, the therapist in me couldn't resist.  Imago therapy is based on the belief that we marry a composite of our parent(s) to heal the wounds of childhood.  It is practiced through structured couples dialogue.  I don't think much of it.

For Open Link Night at dVerse

Monday, May 21, 2012


Lovin' a Gemini -
it sure do be nice.
Gettin' love from a Gemini -
ya get the beans and the rice.
But when a Gemini tires of you -
and they do -
ya get your fool heart broken twice.

For a Gemini themed Open Link Monday at Real Toads

Saturday, May 19, 2012


me sleep
so that I
can dream and stop
worrying thin each memory of you.

A tetractys for Real Toads

Friday, May 18, 2012


In the stillness,                                                                                                                          In barest light.

I will seek you,                                                                                                                          I am waiting.

and I will listen                                                                                                                         Hear me whisper

for your voice                                                                                                                            sweet everythings.

Two points of view for Real Toads

Wednesday, May 16, 2012


me you  us we
me   you  us we
me     you  us we
me      you  us we

Today's challenge at Real Toads was to take a line from a poem (or poet) that you don't particularly care for and write in the same style or theme.  Or, something like that.  Anyway, I don't get purely abstract concrete poems, so I decided to try one.  Here's a link to a bit of the real thing.  Hope this comes close to fitting the prompt.

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

The Ailurophile

At birth,
I mewled at the breast
like a kitten
and dug into engorged skin
with barely sheathed claws.
Milk drops caught in my whiskers.

When I was still but a child,
an austere assemblage
voted and vowed
to bob my tail,
but I fought,
got away,
and could not be caught.
I left my sisters,

my mother,
and my father
to lives of bucolic boredom,
while I grew
and into my heat.

Then, you.

You had big hands
and a good heart.
A well-trained dog
and a neatly trimmed lawn.
You captured me,
cured me,
caged me,
saved me.
You took my claws
and my heat.
You gave me treats
and nonsense love words
and a home.

Now, I brood at windows and grow fat.
I purr and slink circles around your legs.
I sleep in your bed beside you at night
and barely even twitch
when I'm dreaming

of taking your eyes.

A (meow) mix of Shawna's Melting Words for Open Link Night at dVerse

Monday, May 14, 2012


I burned my mask and
planted the ashes to grow
myself a new face.

You called me crazy
until I bloomed: nightshade teeth,
honeysuckle eyes.

For Haiku Heights and
Open Link Monday at Real Toads

Friday, May 11, 2012

To Be Continued

I'm the hero of this little lore.
I've never been a damsel.

In chapter one,
I climbed from the pit
like ivy climbs a wall.
Every sinew straining,
hands full of thistle,
I cleared the edge
just as the first tongues of lava
licked the soles of my boots.
I survived for a time by
living in a lean-to on the beach,
eating eucalyptus leaves,
and drinking coconut milk.

In chapter four,
I found myself tied
to the trunk of a mulberry tree.
But I am liquid willow,
and with feline grace
I freed myself
before my fingers grew numb and useless.
Then, I blew through town like a tumbleweed
in a bad western.

Finally, in chapter nine,
I came face to face
with evil's spawn.
The imp stank of rye
and rot,
and I rammed my elbow
into regions best unmentioned
until I could flee
into the arms of the alto wind.

And, here I am.

I know sienna from burnt umber.
I know onyx from opal.
I have never bruised the peach
or bent the tulip's stem.
I wear miracles
like jade prayer beads on a string.

I am the hero of this little lore.
I have never been a damsel.

With Shawna's Bonus Words

Wednesday, May 9, 2012


Image by R.A.D. Stainforth

I can brave the waves,
if I must, and swim enough
to keep from drowning.
It's still waters that sink me.
I have never learned to float.

A Magpie Tale tanka for Real Toads

Tuesday, May 8, 2012


Giving birth rips you wide
from womb
to wound long scarred
but still tender inside.

Barely is the babe in arms
before mother's milk
from fear of coming harms.

But, is it the future
or past terrors
that cloud the present eye?

Time and distance
with her first howling breath,
and old hurts fresh,

but cutting deeper.
The poorly kept
a nervous keeper.

For Open Link Night at dVerse

Monday, May 7, 2012

The Notes Your Shrink Is Taking

Pt. appears anxious, reports poor sleep and disturbing dreams.

Some nocturnal activity with amnesia for events.

When asked to more closely examine dream content, pt. begins sporadic tongue click (repetitive behavior: note: non-self injurious: note: emotional conditioning / active amygdala response to memory).

With obvious reluctance, pt. reveals recurring dream of riding naked on a mastodon up a volcano to steal a cherry from a giant rook bearing an uncanny resemblance to his mother.


Pick up milk.

For Shawna's Monday Melting

Sunday, May 6, 2012

Silence Be Golden

Please promise me that you will never tell
about that kiss that day down by the well,
the way cool water passed between sweet lips,
or how I yielded to soft fingertips.
Don't whisper of how swiftly virtue fell
with commonsense and camisole as well
to lie forgotten as spring parted me
with words and wondrous tongue so wickedly.
Yes, promise me that you will never tell
about what passed that day down by the well.
For if you do, I shall be forced to claim
to be sinned against . . . and name your name.
So, see silence be golden after all
and never speak a word of what you saw.

Linking to Open Link Monday at Real Toads

Saturday, May 5, 2012


I lie
upon the thorns
and pray the wounds be shallow.
These nights
upon the thorns
have bled me hollow.

See me there?

My gown
is a shroud
turned over to the scholars.
They debate
the nature of the weight
and the miracles that follow

me everywhere.

I lie
on feather down,
but there's no sleeping.
I lie
and wonder how
to be if I'm not bleeding.

Will you still see me there?

Wednesday, May 2, 2012

Mother Road

U.S. National Archives

Waitin' for a sign
on the side of the road.
Ain't broke down,
just don't know which way to go.
Been here all day.
I'll be here all night.
On the side of the road.
Waitin' for a sign.

Waitin' for a word.
An answer to a prayer.
Gathered in his name,
he says he'll be there.
Your mama may listen,
and the devil may care.
The Lord's done left for Barstow
and ain't answerin' prayers.

For Kerry's Road prompt at Real Toads.

Baby Puppy and I were interviewed over at Poet's United.  Check it out!

Tuesday, May 1, 2012

Goddess Suburbia

My hair is the only hint
that there's a goddess
beneath this ball cap;
not quite gone to crone,
despite the silver strands.

Sheltered in my hollows
is a ripeness
born of doing
and a pearl -
rough wrought -
the blooming
of seven years of sand.

For Open Link Night at dVerse

Also, Baby Puppy and I were interviewed by the most fabulous Sherry Blue Sky over at Poet's United.  Go see!