Sunday, March 31, 2013

Gardening For Beginners

Plant your poison daffodils
between Aries and the moon
where they have room to bloom
bright blades of beckon.

But, tulips only thrive
where nothing else can stay alive -
the dark corner of the mind
where wrongs are reckoned.

For Poetry Pantry 

Thursday, March 28, 2013

Today's Announcements


Are you dying to know all the details about the book . . .


Our poetry book

Available on Amazon

I just published with Fireblossom and Hedgewitch?  Check out our interview at Real Toads!

Need a Dear Daphne fix?  Get it here!

And, have a fabulous day, darlings!

Wednesday, March 27, 2013

Parts

There's a blossom on the pear tree
for every body underneath.
The worms are fat as full moons;
they took all but the teeth.
But, if I should hear the click and clack
of calcium and bone,
I'll just bless your tell-tale parts . . .

and read more Poe.

For Words Count at Real Toads

Monday, March 25, 2013

The Tree

He was a country squire, that old, stately oak.
Each time a breeze stirred his brown, brittle leaves
I was certain that he spoke.  I listened close,
for his words were well disguised by the weeping
of wound and worry, the grind of sand and time.
Yesterday, the old tree came down as I watched
from across the street.  And, I raised my jar high
to his voice in my mind - Farewell.  Blessed be.

The Sunday Whirl words for Open Link Monday at Real Toads

Sunday, March 24, 2013

As Good As

Each day is a sway between grift and grindstone.
Each day is a strange one-legged waltz, and they say
a woman's only as good as the worst man
that she lets steal her Sundays and her somedays.
Sit, and I'll offer you sweet tea and wisdom.
Or, go, and I'll show you a smile and the door.
A woman is only as good as the shine
on her floor.  I've scrubbed all my footprints away.

Friday, March 22, 2013

Cracks

I don't step on cracks.
Go ahead and laugh.
Point,
call me a fool -

my mother's back
is unbroken.

Showin' some crack for Fireblossom Friday at Real Toads

Sunday, March 17, 2013

Bells Of Ireland

Green
are the bells
of Ireland

in a tender and true lassie's hand.

Long dead
are my bells
of Ireland.

I'll not see them blooming again.

For Poetics at dVerse.  Also submitted to Poetry Pantry.

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

Meidung / The Shunning

One day in March,
in the far north of the meadow,
I let him sketch me.
And, for a cluster of spare, sweet hours,
I felt seen.

He spoke
as he adapted my pose
to each shift of the sun.
I think he spoke of sapling shadows
or, perhaps, of the tawny afternoon light;
honestly, I heard nothing
but my own shallow breath
and the zigzig scratch and scritch
of his pencils -
here, ivy green,
there, scarlet bergamot -
against the snowberry white sheet
of paper across his knees.
That is, until he whispered,
"You have the most beautiful indigo eyes."
I kissed him, then.

I kept the sketch tucked tight
inside my pillow.
At night,
I unfolded it and folded it again
until the paper was worn soft as sleep.
But, vanity is a rose with thorns.

One day, a stout-stemmed elder
appeared at our screen door.
Twisted between her fat, unforgiving fingers,
was my precious sketch.
I was found out.
Now, I would repent,
or I would leave.

Naturally, I left.

To be sure, vanity is a sin.
As is lust, I suppose.
But, to deny my God-given indigo eyes?

That would be blasphemy.

For Get Listed at Real Toads

***

It's here!


Hedge, Fireblossom, and I are in print and on Amazon!

Tuesday, March 12, 2013

Sprees Macready

Sprees Macready
was a fearsome dame.
She could sling dirty water and call it champagne.
And, no outsider had the guts to complain
to Sprees Macready.

She had a body built for paint on a bomber's nose
and no use for a man
in civilian clothes.
You had to be at least Reserves for an intimate dose
of Sprees Macready.

One day she boarded up the windows of the USO.
Said life on the home front
was dragging too slow.
"Over there" was the action; she had to go
away, and, you know . . .

that part of history
ain't been written yet.
But, my bet's
on Sprees Macready.

The Sunday Whirl words for Open Link Night at dVerse

Hedgewitch, Fireblossom, and I have a book available for Kindle!  Beat the rush and check it out!

Monday, March 11, 2013

Fiddle

Pennies penned in mason jars
shine like captured copper stars.
Home brewed dandelion tea
is bitter, but it's free.
Daylight saved
so night can burn
up on the hill,
and not a word needs
spoken.

We all know we're broken.
Let's grab our fiddles and play.

For Open Link Monday at Real Toads

Saturday, March 9, 2013

Freaks

I'm the girl
in the movie
that grabs the flashlight
and leaves the ax.
The girl always twisting
in the wind.

In a sticky situation,
I'm every spider's fly.
My feet find where the pony pooped,
but I can never find the knight.

I wear a glowing "kick me" sign
serving grapes and cheese and wine
to the charismatic kids -

but I smile
knowing Mothra is
circling overhead

and that the freaks
shall inherit
the Earth.

A Mad Libs poem for Poetics at dVerse.  Baby Puppy gave me the following words to work with: Mothra, pony, twisting, fly, pooped, sticky, glowing, charismatic, grape, cheese.  

Thursday, March 7, 2013

Crossed Off

A list of the lost,
kindness, and a clipboard.
Names to cross off.
Dollars to account for.

Kindness and a clipboard.
Meth rot and a gun.
Dollars to account for.
Nowhere to place the son.

Meth rot and a gun.
A list of all the lost.
Nowhere to place the son.
Another name crossed off.

Fiction in 55 for my G-Man!

Tuesday, March 5, 2013

After The Bake Sale

When the bake sale is over
and the witches all burned,
the haunting, hateful silence returns.

She's just as here as she was yesterday.
With all the same fears that she had yesterday.
She couldn't bake them or burn them away.

She'll try
again
tomorrow.

For Open Link Night at dVerse

Sunday, March 3, 2013

Soundbite

Sorry
is a soundbite
she swallows

in the space
between an open hand
and a fist.

Micropoetry for Poetry Pantry and Poetics at dVerse

Friday, March 1, 2013

Neither Yours Nor Mine

My skin is no longer slave to my bones
since I hollowed out the heart that held you.
Tattoos bloom from my ankles to my eyes.

My fists clench and my knuckles bleed ALONE -
stigmata scarlet letters from veins blue
as a locust night; text sticky as thighs

left wet, weak, and trembling with MINE script stroked
from shin to sex like a lover's suck bruise.
My lips are deep glossed and spit slick with lies.

My heart beats braille.  My teeth are grinding stones
tearing my truthful, traitor tongue in two
to be swallowed, swallowed, swallowed inside.

I am no longer yours, but I'm not mine
in body or soul, in heart or in mind.

Kind of a rough draft Trireme Sonnet for Form for All at dVerse