Archive for August 2013

After You’ve Been Suddenly Sick

August 23, 2013


After You’ve Been Suddenly Sick

This morning’s moon’s a miracle
like the stone rolled away
from the tomb,
like a stone rolled
to the crest of a hill so high
that my own private Sisyphus sighs,
exhaling opalescent wonder.
Light reflected from who knows when
shines brighter
than the freshest egg blue
and when I say to you,
“come see, if you feel well enough,”
you are beside me,
lithe, shining, and warm, as always, when wrested
from a deep sleep, a miracle,
and the stone
that can sometimes be my heart
catches that light from above
and from my side, and grows smooth
around its edges, like the word


Here’s a poem posted very belatedly for Izzy Gruye’s prompt on With Real Toads to write a poem about the moon that doesn’t mention normal sky words. (I’m not sure I’ve actually done it here.)

I am also linking this to dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night

Dream Dream Resolution (Friday Flash 55)

August 22, 2013


Dream Dream Resolution

Nights on end, he ran beside a horse around a walled
city–Carcassonne–until, through therapy, he willed himself
to mount the horse,
alighting not on its back
but in its nostril, where whorl-curled,
he rode readily
through dark gates.

He never dreamed that scene again,
though often spoke of it
with great longing.


I’m back! (Sort of.) And it feels good! Just getting through a terribly busy time but could not resist either the call of Brian Miller (Happy Birthday Brian!) of dVerse Poets Pub or the the inimitable G-Man, each of whom asks us to tell a story in 55 words. (Let them know I’ve tried.)

Going With the Grain

August 9, 2013


He wrote that she was “his one and only” and she wrote back “me too,” then added that she’d eaten millet that night.

She knew even as she typed the double lls that it was odd. Because what she was thinking of was his skin.

It was spiced with cinnamon, she wrote, and clove, not mentioning that she had a recipe once that added carrot.

But what she was thinking of was his flesh, ochred by blanket, the grain of thighs, and how when only a sheet was at issue the shadows of pelvis turned violet as eve-filled sky.

And she had eaten millet that evening, by chance, but what had actually come to mind was a time, years before, when the world angled cellophane, windows leered unattainable purpose, drowning fish glistened on outside ice, and love had gone as grey as the sidewalk, and as stained, and she had stepped through her disconnect into a shop whose green linoleum was spotted orange and there in a dull bag- a dull stack of bags–for their contours didn’t have the brittle brightness of squared wrap – the print read “millets”–and she had laughed for a change, even bought a bag for him, a different him, who may have laughed too, seeing it.

There is something torturous about being a thing that needs an other to be itself, that has no true singular; there is simply no sense in “a millet,” pelleted longing–

So when this he, her he, proffered love across a sky even deeper than violet, she could only say “me too,” and write him of millet like a fool.

Even though he couldn’t possibly understand, not speaking millet, so maybe it was herself she wrote to, telling that girl in the shop that there really was life after life, a savor to cleave to.

“Miss you,” she added, for him.

Here’s a sort of a prose poem about millet, which I don’t cook nearly enough. I’ve been terribly busy and there have been all kinds of great prompts in the online poetry world that I haven’t had the focus to address. Sorry to those who did those great prompts. I have enjoyed reading of them! Take care.

PS I have been honored to be included in the wonderful new dVerse Poets Anthology edited by Frank Watson. It is a lovely book, with poets from all over, and visual works too (including one of my drawings!) Thank you, Frank. Check it out here.

Pps = I keep mucking around with the last line since posting.  Agh.  k. 

Little Dog Learns about Yeats

August 2, 2013

Little Dog Learns About Yeats

Little Dog, who lay by her feet
on a winter’s eve, never claimed to know
from poetry, but he did know what he liked, and the one
about clay and waffles made
was for sure his favorite. Nothing
could be better than waffles.

Of course, there was also the one about the silver trout on the floor–
when he first heard that one, he hung about the kitchen door
all day, but no trout showed up–
and when she next read it, he realized
that there was something very fishy
about that trout—

Just now she was intoning–that’s how he could tell
it was poetry–about the second come-in and this one seemed really odd,
because if either trout or waffles were at issue he’d come in
first call–

Only–he listened –if there was some rough beast slouching about,
he might just stay away–he really didn’t have much truck
with rough beasts–only–

and now, he shifted the paw that was getting nearly grilled
by the crinkling fireplace–if the air filled–no, if the air were merely tinged–
with the scent of her fear, why, the world would hear him there
in an instant and it would not be poetry that he’d snarl either
(except for maybe that bit about the blood-dimmed tide)–

He licked his paw as he imagined it, curls
ruffling with pride, and how,
after he’d saved her,
they would arise and go, her hugging him and scratching
behind the ear, to the kitchen where his water bowl
would be lapping in the excitement of it all,
and where too there would be clay and waffles made–

And she could have all the clay she wanted, he thought warmly,
as she intoned on.


The above was written for Fireblossom’s prompt on With Real Toads to write a poem nesting a poem within its story.  I’ve been too beset by other work to write much but thinking of how my dog Pearl feels about poetry I couldn’t resist this.  Pearl is a girl dog and the book she is reading above is mine — “Going on Somewhere”–Pearl is nothing if not loyal.

The poems cited are The Lake Isle of Innisfree, The Song of the Wandering Aengus, and The Second Coming.

Pearl is getting old (18) and blind so she needs now to be read to.  Here is a more recent picture.