, ,


Mom can you see it
in the wrinkles of the tent
straight up
I try to focus my sleepy eyes
but see nothing but beige
and drift back into buried memories

for thirty minutes I would sit
staring at the used brick fireplace
two inches of cotton batting
separating my numb butt
and the wooden couch

they were there as always
the pink chip that looked like an old lady’s face
a rusty grasshopper with folded wings
the cloud like mortar smear that should have
but didn’t resemble anything

I preferred that to standing nose to the wall
even though the times were shorter there
you could not make pictures out of flat paint
in a statue pose even in my peripheral
avocado, avocado, avocado

he snuggles into my shoulder bringing me back
and I pull him tight against my body
cold air rushes into my now shared sleeping bag
you’re the best mom in the whole wide world
and then I see it

as big as three bricks
a perfect heart


That Woman




I want to be that woman
that loud talker, piss and vinegar woman
the one who feels what I feel
but she doesn’t care what you think about it
she’s not afraid to speak her mind
wouldn’t dream of dumbing herself down
just so you could understand
she doesn’t make apologies for her beliefs
doesn’t hide when the poll takers come around
she doesn’t give a lick for the popular opinion
the status quo or the moral majority
she believes in her heart what she believes
her soul tells her yes or no, right or left
and she doesn’t feel the need to explain it

I want to be that woman
she wears her body like she finds no fault in it
she doesn’t hike up her boobs
doesn’t suck in her gut
bind her hips, purse her lips, no
she struts the pounds that are ten, even twenty beyond
the recommended average for her age and height
she throws a hip into the “well nows” and the “I nevers”
she loves her body like it is some divine gift
like it’s some holy temple given to her to play with
live in and adorn while engaging in this physical game
I want to be that woman
who is so comfortable in her skin
that she doesn’t consider you
when she covers it
only the chill in the wind

I want to run free, dance wild and yell
as if I don’t care who’s watching, listening
or reporting to my ex
I want to be the woman who gets lost
in the rhythm of life
really lost like children get lost
like the “challenged” folk get lost
lost in that happy place
that only the truly in touch can touch
I want to sway there, want to play there
I want to be the woman who dances like
everyone is watching but doesn’t care

I want to stop wondering what she thinks
and he thinks
and those strangers I’ll never even meet
and the imagined people who I visualized
and the real ones that are never satisfied
and these who are documented and classified
as not approving of me

I want to be that woman who no longer gives a fuck
but sucks the life from this existence
like it’s the only meal she’ll ever eat
and dance this dance
like it’s the only drum circle that will every beat
and embrace her sisters
as if they are reflections of her own celebration of this incarnation

I want to be

Linking this up to dVerse OLN.




sometimes I sit
fingers poised, hovering
afraid to fall inadequate upon these keys
you may think my muse has left me
may think I scratch at a dry creek bed
searching for a drop of an idea
something to turn this glowing blankness
into something glorious
praying to turn this pulsing cursor of expectation
into a limp and breathless marker
satiated with the explosion of grandeur
you may think I am drying up
dehydrated and uninspired

but you would have it wrong
not thirsting
but drowning
eyes to the heavens fearing the onslaught
evident in the heavy skies
clouds pregnant with the thoughts shrugged
ideas shaken
images blinked and batted free
like the early drops from an eminent hurricane
mindfully tossed from shoulders and lashes
while the tossing is still possible

the storm is that of ideas gathering in the heavens
a thousand images forming full and fragrant
stories too ripe not to be told
mind pictures leaking in rainbow ribbons
trying to lure the unaware
escaped words gather on awning scallops
hanging heavy with double entendre

and I sit with shaking fingers
not for fear I can not write
but because I should
because I know I am that opening
the sky is looking for

It’s Open Link Night at dVerse ~ Poet’s Pub. Pull up a stool and sit a spell.

Gone Fishing


, ,


you cannot be hurt
just because the bait is set
you cannot be hurt
by sucking the scent of it into your nostrils
even tasting the fresh flesh
cannot hurt you
even after the hook is lodged in your cheek
you can be released and live again
it is only when you succumb
to the gutting
when you see your own entrails splayed
shimmering upon the dry grey dock
life slowly ebbing, slipping between planks
that you can be hurt
but only if you attach your heart to your guts
and you needn’t
so many walk these docks with no insides at all



, , ,


you have totally wrecked me
the words that once flowed
where my blood should be
are gone and I cannot find them

the healing prose that used to clot
every wound do not come
I bleed like the mortals now
there is no power in my pen

you have taken my passion to write
twisted and bound it
I open my mouth but the words vanish
before my tongue can catch them

magical thoughts die in infancy
rich images fade like shower steam
rendered mute with anticipation
I no longer control my mind

everything goes back to you





my thoughts have left this room
darted deep into a land
where play is an everyday occurrence

her body lies limp and youthful
gauze gown spread across
the daisy buttoned grass

once lifeless with inattention
her lips now curl sweet
black lashes slowly unfurl

the famished goddess wakes
dines on fairy tales
and from lilies drinks deep

roused by the scent of one worthy
unrestrained she stirs
choose now or leave her lie

for her powers grow quickly
if left to lust upon – your
minds eye

Linking this up to dVerse for OLN.  Come play with us.

The Fool


, ,


la la la la
she skips
la la la la
in her mind
tossing petals
like the Sandman
tosses out sweet dreams
smiling like the fool
at the bottom of the well
sipping wine like the monk
with cherry cheeks
who follows the hood
for they are merry
as merry as a frolicking lamb
who tumbles in a field of
but the cups are empty
because the wine was drunk
and its days are numbered
for its flanks are fat
and none skips
when the song is over
because in the silence
knowledge wakes
and the only one left smiling
is the fool
at the bottom of the well
is the fool
at the bottom of the well

Kissed Like This


, , ,


I thought them lies, those silver screen kisses
strong leading men holding weak kneed starlets
but there with the sun as floodlight
and the parking lot as stage
I was made a believer in fairy tales

as still as a flower receiving a humming-bird
took in your tongue, tentatively tasting
exploring, tracing
biting, driving, diving, claiming
till rapid wing beats matched my pulse

a portal spun me to another place
where parched and wet danced dizzy
like cherry blossoms caught in an upwind
where your tongue tip teased
with tortured promise

held at the door to this mythical world
its entrance at your control
your body pressed questions into mine
drawn in deep then released
breathless left with this one

Do I wish I had never been kissed?