Tuesday, March 31, 2015


I yell to be heard
over the running water
by the child just outside
the shower door.
I have taken myself hostage,
and I'm not coming out
without promises

of a hot cup of coffee,
an hour of silence,
a sharpened pencil,
and one pure thought.

She dutifully inscribes my demands
on the mirror in the steam.
She dots her i's with hearts.

This negotiation's over
before it even starts.

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Monday, March 30, 2015

Your Umbrella

Old Bank Street, Manchester, UK by R.A.D. Stainforth

I want to dance
your dry, sane circle
and get wet
get wet
get wet

I don't belong
in your dry, sane circle
you've never
let me

I'm a hayseed
daughter of the fields
I'm a half-breed
no matter how high my heels
I don't need
to be your white man's burden anymore

Dry isn't what the rain is for.

For The Mag

Tuesday, March 24, 2015

Love Looks Like

Hand printed pages
by the sunset I missed
fossils and fur
and driving -
always driving
to get where you're going.

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Sunday, March 22, 2015

Spring Sketch

Heart locket leaves;
a silver chain breeze
that flutters and flirts

with the hem of my shirt;
bare feet in the dirt; every cloud
is a coin in my pocket.

A sketch poem for Play It Again at Real Toads.

Tuesday, March 17, 2015


We had the sun in a skillet
those well-fed summers.
Green beans, tomatoes,
and okra head high.
Wide mouth Ball jars brim full of berries.
Cucumber vines.

I'd run through the millet
(mown and baled by the summer),
and my muscles moved long
and loose on my bones.
Trading the garden for Wildhorse Bridge
to get myself alone..

Years trying to fill it -
the hole left by those summers
of sweat and squash bugs
and long rows to hoe.
My eyes were fireflies then; now, I'm a question
that I've outgrown.

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Sunday, March 15, 2015


There's a fault line by Meers,
and I blame the burgers.
Longhorn lean,
but big as a dinner plate
and weighty enough to shift tectonics,
this is no hold it in one hand Sonic special.
This is an unbutton the top button,
gastronomical event.
Finish one?
I can't.
But I'm willing to richter on and keep trying.
You know, for the advancement of science.

A small tribute to the legendary Meers burger for Karin's prompt at Real Toads.

Friday, March 13, 2015

Rough Draft

The first (word) is the hardest.
Closing the fraction between you.
Nose to the left?  To the right?
Write what you know,
know if you write
it feels less like flying and more
am I doing this right?
like a stumbling rush
of fumbling forward till
pen to paper
lips touch.

For Izy's prompt at Real Toads

Tuesday, March 10, 2015


I Poe.
I Po-et.
I Edgar Allan Po-et.
I Edgar Allan Po-etess.
Now ain't I just a tell tale mess?

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Sunday, March 8, 2015


Your net is spun of sitar strings
To hold the griefs of gods
                             --- Wole Soyinka

The grief of god seems small.
I've buried my mama and several fine dogs.
It was an apple, after all.
Just a sweet in the teeth of a curious child.
Now sparrows fly and fall
watched, but not caught.  The grief of god
seems small.

For Grace's prompt at Real Toads

Friday, March 6, 2015

Seven Scents Of Rain

Toril "Wanna Play" 12 x 24

She came soft as the seven scents of rain.
Quiet as the bloom and birth of the hills.
I know she may not pass this way again,

but I'll belly down in the long grass til
I hear her breath, her careful red dirt steps
quiet as the bloom and birth of the hills.

I sleep under the stars and outside my head
open to the wind and bare to the black.
I can hear her breath, her careful red dirt steps;

then the trip, the scream, the snap of the trap
ripping and chewing and leaving her bones
open to the wind and bare to the black.

But I'll not be taking a fox tail home.
She turned to her teeth to tear herself free
ripping and chewing and leaving her bones

to taunt me.

Then she was gone like the seven scents of rain.
Fur in her teeth having torn herself free.
I know she will not pass this way again.

A very (very, very) rough draft for Margaret's prompt at Real Toads.

Guess what?  Last year, one of my poems was included in the anthology Oklahoma Poems . . . and Their Poets.  Today, I learned that the anthology is a finalist for the 2015 Oklahoma Book Award for poetry.  Since my small involvement with the book is one of the ongoing thrills of my life, I just had to share!

Tuesday, March 3, 2015


Sometimes, I fantasize about amnesia.
I see myself waking pretty
in a white gown world washed clean
and new; my cerebellum ironed smooth.
Born again without the bruises.
Just a small scar for conversation.

For The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads