Tuesday, January 29, 2013


Charlotte Gainsbourg, AnOther

like a lady;
ya gotta get the needle
in the groove.
And, move.

A little scratch,
a little hissing -
just keeps things sounding true.
Like they do.

And, ladies
like the vinyl;
play a lady bad,
and she'll take yours from you.

Walk right out the door with all your Muddy Waters!  Your Stevie Ray, too. That's how I do.  Yeah, that's right.  I use 'em all for frisbees.  Coasters, maybe.  Get some Rick Cave in my cave . . .

A little Magpie for a little Open Link Night at dVerse

Monday, January 28, 2013

The Hour

Right and reason have rubbed me raw.
I'm tattered, scattered, and sore.
Scared and unsure -

when curved as my questions,
the bell of your hips
chimes the hour

for me to edge into the dawn-skirted night.
Claws of  the Scorpion are bright and open wide.
I stack the scale,
but it's mist and straw to a stone

so vast
it breaks the back
it calls home.

And the bell
of your hips
chimes the hour.

Note:  In Babylonian astronomy, the scales of the constellation Libra were known as the Claws of the Scorpion.

Sunday Whirl words for Open Link Monday at Real Toads

Sunday, January 27, 2013

The Wolf

What do you do with the wolf
when the coffee and crumpets are gone?
Do you cradle him
to your shriveled breasts
for suckle, sleep, and song?

Do you let him lick clouds from your belly
till sky quivers quiet to ground?
Or, do you just stand aside,
polite and wide-eyed,
and watch
as he blows the house down?

Submitted to Poetry Pantry

Saturday, January 26, 2013

The Middle

I'm how the middle makes a life.
Mediocrity's midwife.
Doula to the dearth that's left
beyond your row to hoe.

I'm the lowered expectations
befitting of your station
where the trains all run on time,
but have nowhere to go.

A First Line / Last Line poem (the first line comes from the last line of an old poem) for Susan's Mini-Challenge at Real Toads.

Tuesday, January 22, 2013

Community Property

I tried to divorce myself,
but it didn't work out.
Myself and I couldn't agree
on who would take what.

Neither of us wanted our house,
our dilapidated old body of a house.
It's falling down,
the maintenance costs are outrageous,
and even the homeless think it lacks curb appeal.
No takers.

Neither of us wanted custody of our two children,
Obsessive and Compulsive.
Both of us were all too willing to settle
for very limited visitation.

And, our little dog, Neurosis?
He was headed for the shelter,
poor thing.

But, myself and I ended up staying together.
For better or worse,
we are bound forever -
oh, not by love,
but by the shit we share
that we're not willing to own

For Open Link Night at dVerse

Monday, January 21, 2013

Under My Ray-Bans

I'm looking fine as filament,
all arted and tarted in pearls.
A lady of linens and lunch
in the open air.

But under my Ray-Bans and charge card,
I'm just sticky cells clinging to bones
that knock at my skin
"beware, beware, beware -

decay is your calling."

A Sunday Whirl for Open Link Monday at Real Toads

Sunday, January 20, 2013

Long Day For The Doctor

Sunshine gold
holds the kidnapped dark
star / light locked.
Frocked and besotted,
hot like an impetuous girl.
Pearls in clumsy hands
land lost in the frog mud.

But the witch doctor he don't stop.
Got restoration in his cast iron pot.
What voodoo needs, he'll gladly seed and bleed -

bringing night back to New Orleans.

A bit of Jasmine's Jetsam chain rhymed (I hope) for Hedge's mini-challenge at Real Toads.

Thursday, January 17, 2013


I flew a kite.
I flew a key.
Lightning split the sky
for me.
I boxed it up.
I took it home
so if I should ever be alone

I'd have lightning.

Behind white walls
and a deadbolt door,
I play with lightning
on the floor.
I clap thunder.
I cry rain
until floods come to wash away

all the things I've been fighting

and nothing's left but lightning.

Sunday, January 13, 2013


image by Kim Nelson

Looking for a bluer blue
I lost the sky,
and I lost you

and found instead the redder red
of a broken heart
that bleeds regret.

For the mini-challenge at Real Toads

Saturday, January 12, 2013


If I were less jaded,
I might have seen a love story
in the way the cardinal escorted his lady
through the storm
to the budding pear tree.

I might have smiled
at his gentle, sheltering hover,
or even laughed
at the futility of feathers
against the rain.

Instead, I remembered the warm weight
of your arm around my shoulders
as you huddled me under your jacket
when downpours came

and how I always
ended up
getting soaked
just the same.

Friday, January 11, 2013

Why Do You Ask?

I'm not mad.

Narcissism blues -
3rd verse.
Schizophrenic, too,
and worse.
Mirror fucking,
lead paint sucking,
huffing from a hybrid,
where's the goddamn gas?

Why do you ask?

I'm not mad.

For Fireblossom Friday at Real Toads

Thursday, January 10, 2013


There is breath
and breath
and breath
without words.

and breath
and salt
against my tongue.

and warming
inside my thigh.

Every breath
a petal
sweet / crushed
and pulled.

For Form for All at dVerse

Sunday, January 6, 2013

Servant's Heart

by M.C. Escher

I wish I had a servant's heart
to match these servant's hands;
a heart
more merry meet with fate.

A heart
that would nestle
serene within this vessel
and never beat against
its common state.

I have the calloused fingertips,
and silence sits well on my lips,
and yet, there's disturbance at my core.

I wish I had a servant's heart
to match my servant's hands;
instead I have a heart that thunders

For the Sunday Mini-Challenge at Real Toads.
Also submitted to Poetry Pantry.

Saturday, January 5, 2013

Thursday, January 3, 2013

Five Years Gone

Five years gone in a womb of waste.
Cord blood rancid, I'm starving slow.
Labor pains loot the minstrel's case
for anesthesia for my bones.

Till Caesar rent the ripe / rot place,
contracted small as I could go.
Five years gone in a womb of waste.
Cord blood rancid, I'm starving slow.

Today, I wear a stranger's face
that bears no mark of what I know
or what I've seen, and I don't go
where my caul is kept - sacred space.
Five years gone in a womb of waste.

Wednesday, January 2, 2013

Diary Of An Alpha Girl

I unspooled my silvery tongue
between the knees of nothing.
I found it wet as water,
and I had a twin to spare.

The diary of an alpha girl
is oddly dead of details.
There is swimming.
There is drowning.
And, Alpha Girl's still here.

Getting Listed for Real Toads.