Friday, November 29, 2013

How Ya Doin' Mama

How ya doin',
Mama, how ya doin'?
You look a little Monday morning blue.
That rictus sex-toy mouth - OOO
dead giveaway.
You get her coat;
I get her shoes.

Gonna strip you like the cars
out on the corner.
Gonna stash you in the burned out
liquor store.
How ya doin',
Mama, how ya doin'?
At least you won't be itching anymore.

A bit of something for Marian's prompt at Real Toads.

Wednesday, November 27, 2013


The length of a day
caught and cradled in your hands
and put away.

Laugh lines playing
loose and wicked at your eyes
and mouth when you smile.

Are they inches or miles,
these interstitial spaces?
Inches or wild, gray miles?

For Kerry's prompt at Real Toads

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

If Poetry

If poetry were science,
you'd be hunger under glass;
pinned, preserved, the protoplast
of a kiss begging replication.
With care and dedication,
I'd compound burn with burning
and melt the very yearning
of my bones for experimentation.
And once the study of permutations
had proven duplication flawed,
we'd take each other as gods,
and I'd sift sonnets from equations.
If poetry were science,
giving form to infatuation.

For the Open Links at Real Toads and dVerse.

Saturday, November 23, 2013

Skin And Bone

The locusts came, and I bore witness.
Floods and flame weren't far behind.
The bankers blessed the mud and ashes
and planted a cross shaped For Sale sign.

Gave us three days to roll.
Roll like stones.

The river was red, and I bore witness.
Rent was high all over town.
We were poor relations of poor relations
uprooted from the only ground

we'd ever known.
Where we belonged.

After forty years, I'm bearin' witness.
Pharaohs don't set no one free.
God sends the plagues wherever he sees fit.
But the locusts only feed

on the likes of you and me.
Skin and bone.

For Susie's prompt at Real Toads.  Still a little rough, I think.

Tuesday, November 19, 2013

Back To Bed

Can't we just go back to bed
and forget the things you say I said
when I was nearly lost to sleep?
Perhaps, I was just counting sheep.
But, no, I see there's coffee on.
And, lights!  We'll be up till dawn
so you can question, curse, and scream
as if I am in charge of dreams.
Please!  Let's just go back to bed.
I won't say it again . . . whatever I said.

For Open Link Night at dVerse

Saturday, November 16, 2013


A half-finished book
under a half-naked tree.
Bark and spine against my spine.
Notes fluttering loose as leaves.
"How do I love thee?  Let me . . ."*

*Elizabeth Barrett Browning

A tanka for the Mini-Challenge at Real Toads

Friday, November 15, 2013

Repost - Bride Flower

In the third year without wildflowers,
I circle swept a space
in the graceless dirt
and fell
before the hollow hives of the bees.

My confessions called nothing
and nothing.
And, my penance,
it produced nothing.

A stroke of my hand
broke open the dry, brittle hive
like two halves of a heart,
and I held them high -
invocations falling ripe
from my lips.

But, my pleas were heard
by nothing.
And, my prayers were answered
by nothing.

So, I parted my petal thighs
and returned a piece of the hive
to the honey-

and I became swarm
warm, winged,
and alive . . .

I became the sting and the bride flower . . .

I became a Queen
humming pregnant
with hive

and nothing.

Revisiting a favorite for Fireblossom Friday at Real Toads

Tuesday, November 12, 2013


Keep the drill and dignity of your years,
but allow me this flawed instant -
humming with its hollow gain and grace.
Let me navigate

by stars and stride
and a vision of your face.
And, if I miss that place
that buckles your knees,

let me try again.

A Sunday Whirl wordle for Open Link Night at dVerse

Monday, November 11, 2013


Fur and purr
and rough, pink tongue.
Fluffy tailed kitty
napping in the sun.

Paws with claws
and teeth that shine.
Unraveling the moon
like a ball of twine.

For Open Link Monday at Real Toads

Sunday, November 10, 2013

Dinner And Drowning

Art by Mike Worrall

rises till the finer things float.
I'm dressed for dinner and drowning.
Rises like bile in my overfed throat.
I'm dressed for funerals and flight.

thrash in rain wrecked chiffon,
and heels staccato the landing -
lending pulse to the water's hypoxic hum.
I'm dressed for my last breath tonight.

For Grace's challenge at Real Toads.  Also submitted to Poet's United.

Friday, November 8, 2013

Nothing Like Anne

Kelli is hot.
Kelli is shadee.
Kelli is nothing like Anne.

She traveled throughout the South,
a delight and a joy to be around,
and one of the main reasons
Cousin Ernie's music was so smooth.

But even her mistress's sinister way with tight ropes
couldn't keep Kelli away
from the beautiful Big Horn Mountains;
now, she's a familiar face

and doing great.
She's nothing like Anne.

A googlism (these are hilarious!) for Form for All at dVerse.

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

Sides Of The River

On this side of the river,
I stand on frozen ground.
On the other side of the river,
I hear a woman drowned last night.
She fell through the ice
reaching for the stars.

On this side of the river,
I can hear the murmurs start.
No one tries to cross that river
without a broken mind or heart.
But, she had neither.
I was going to meet her
with the moon in a Mason jar.

But the moon slipped like snowflakes through my fingers,
and I never got that far.

For Ed's Get Listed at Real Toads

Tuesday, November 5, 2013

Ghost Flower

Ghost flower grow in shade and shadow,
harbored by the roots of a sycamore tree.
Ghost flower here, then gone tomorrow
like the boys
who picked flowers
for me.

For Open Link Night at dVerse

Saturday, November 2, 2013

In Reply

A letter couldn't have pleased
me more!  You must be doing well.
No strains upon your health,
nerves, or peace of mind to report.
No tales about the boss from hell,
that bitch, Miranda,
(she ever find a {sucker} roommate?),

or the frat boys down the hall.
And best of all (yes, I'm selfish),
your love for me remains
strong and unchanged (despite how long
it's been since we could even kiss).
No letter could please
more than this.  Is that why you don't write?

This is pretty rough, and I'm not sure if my point is getting across.  Let me know!
Written for Kerry's prompt at Real Toads.

Friday, November 1, 2013

Us Chickens

This close to sunset
the farm goes quiet.
Fox is full from his feeding.
Farmer's gone to his wife.
We got the nest feathered.
Got some scratch on the ground.
Ain't nobody here but us chickens.
There ain't nobody else around.

It's just us chickens.
We laying long and slow.
There ain't nobody here but us chickens.
We alone till that cock crow.

This was written for Margaret's prompt at Real Toads and inspired by an extremely peaceful visual poem called "Tucking in the Chickens" by Maria Wulf.  How my mind got from there to here is a complete mystery to me.