Archive for January 2014

Cut – Friday Flash 55

January 31, 2014



You justified coldness
as kind, and so, looked through me,
your body all back.

I remembered that, tonight,
identifying crow tracks
in the snow, not
the forked tread of crows’ feet–
the spread pleats
of wings,
slits in the white crust,
the featherweight push
of take-off.

How can we be
so cruel
in love?


Here’s a draft poem–I don’t really have it right–but it IS 55 words, so please go tell the G-Man

The picture–if you can make it out–are the indentation of crows’ wings in the snow–you can see marks of feet to the side (not the true tracks of the feet though–but where it pushed off).  If the pic doesn’t come out in your browser, please click on it, as it is kind of cool. 


January 29, 2014


Tongue trawls lines
mouth centering
life saver
with cored
limns sweetness
and not; loves
what it sounds like.

Twitter poem written on iPhone for Mama Zen on with real toads.

Late January

January 27, 2014

Late January

The word “longing”
opens a sky
of evening, summers,
the stream at our feet so dark
there is no ripple can be seen
but the opals ringing
the stones you skip,
and when you touch me, afterwards,
you’re warm as the sun, earlier,
your smile catching light
no longer there,
and I can’t even think of the harm
that we ward away
or the pain that will come,
no matter.

Back at work, computer acting up, writing on iPhone! Here’s a draft poem! Hope all well.

Good News, Bad News

January 25, 2014

Good News/Bad News

Good News/Bad News

And then there was the man–look!–
who fell out of an aero plane.  That was the bad news.
But, phew! he fell onto a haystack–
the good news:  that apparently his back
was not broken
through the intervention of
dried grass.
But hey! there was
a needle in that stack–bad news.  Except, wait–
he turned out to have a camel
in his pocket, which fit exactly through the eye
of that needle–good news–
for that took him straight to, do-not-pass-go to,
the kingdom of heaven, not
so much because he was a rich man
but because the haystack hadn’t worked that well after all–
not against a fall
from the sky.

This is the reworking of an old rather silly poem that is actually in my book Going on Somewhere.  I am posting it for Mary’s post “on the other hand” on dVerse Poets Pub.   Check out dVerse.  Check out my books!  

The Way the Mind Sometimes Works in a Cold Climate, Januaries

January 25, 2014


The Way the Mind Sometimes Works in a Cold Climate, Januaries

It snows aslant
in small fast flakes
and of a sudden
you are gone
as if you’d not left years ago
and I weep
as if I’d not wept ever
as if that bucket
were not already full.


First, I want to thank all the commenters over the last few days  for your exceedingly kind wishes and encouragement.  I am feeling considerably better.

I tend always to have a rather gloomy side, I’m afraid, mixed with the jolly–hence the name of the blog – which some mistake for Manic Daily, not noticing that extra d in the middle–and one aspect of the flu has been to accentuate the gloomy.  

Yes, it’s also a very gloomy photograph.  I ventured outside (ssshhh!  don’t tell my husband) to take some direct pics of the snow, but they didn’t convey what I wanted, so took this one from a rather dark hallway, because it seemed dramatic.  (And the windows were relatively clean.)  All rights reserved.   


My Father (bedtime story poem)

January 23, 2014


My Father

My father knelt beside my bed; his round head
reflecting the bedside lamp with the look
of lighting within.  “And the genie,” he said,
“came out of a big blue jar.”  Not from a book
were the stories he told me at night.
Always of genies who were big-blue-jarred
and did fairly little, only the slight
magic of minor wishes, often ill-starred.
Though the stories were just a warm up to
the bedtime prayer.  “Our Father,” that would start,
then straight out head for “hallowed”, “trespass” too,
unknown words, to me a spell he knew by heart,
invoking, croakingly, a wished-for will
bigger than jars blue genies might fill.


This is a very old poem, a sonnet, that I am reposting (with some slight re-working) for the wonderful Brian Miller’s prompt “bedtime stories” at dVerse Poets Pub.  I am not at my best so may be slow returning comments, but will get back to people eventually, thanks!   (Yes, I know Pat the Bunny doesn’t really go with it!) 

I have gone back and edited the last line of this poem since first posting. I still don’t feel it’s quite right!  Agh! 

Flu (In the Coop)

January 23, 2014

Flu (In the Coop)

Who jammed that Bic
in my right ear?
What magpie mistakes my eye
for its best marble?

Rib cage so brittle that
Mortality barely rattles, then
marauds, gnawing joints
with equal-opportunity slaver–

I tell myself, batting him back,
how different I’ll be
when he’s pacified;
my mind, even as chest cough-quakes, says
“yeah, sure.”


Sorry for yet another flu poem.  And my husband says it’s too gloomy, that I really will be different when I recover.  Whatever.  Here’s 55 of the most plaintive for the G-man


January 21, 2014


Why do you roost on my head, Hen?
Lower your big bottom like a bell,
smother my face in vacuum and feathered clapper,
stand up, shake crud, strut in place
in my right eye, scratching
at the waste of retina, peck
my molars–

I can’t see your dumb bright blink,
your red wobble,
here in the darkness, without
a mirror,
even as you shift position, rock
bulk, and I curl up tight
and cold, everything cracking.


Not feeling up to scratch.  May link to dVerse Poets Pub OLN.  May just crawl into a hole instead.  

PS – posted pic from iPhone and I think it is sometimes very large, so if you want to see it, just click on it.  k.

A Tree That Doesn’t Grow in Brooklyn

January 20, 2014


A Tree That Doesn’t Grow In Brooklyn

She got back and the tree was gone, even the square of yellow dirt in which the tree had struggled was gone, and their neighbor’s belly gloated over his lawn chair just out front, no more leaves slick as shit for those Sp–cs and N—s to sue him for anything they could, he said, and she screamed at him, and marched down the street still torn-up, asking every guy in a hard hat till two pointed towards a storefront other side of Metropolitan where the City had set up some temporary office for the fix, and she marched into its yellow paint and blueprints, right across from the pizzeria where the guy was missing half his right thumb and part of a forefinger too, and they’d had a tree, there–there–pointing on the map at the little square break in the row of connected squares, and he said, yes, but the owner told them that they didn’t want it, and she said, but he wasn’t the owner, and he said, oh, and something about a letter, and she brought up jackhammering, a vein in her temple throbbing she was sure, and he talked about where she could send the letter, and how the tree had been dead already, really, the bark ringed, and she thought of their neighbor getting out of his lawn chair for once, squatting down with a knife, or maybe paying some kid to do it, you know, one of the ones who was sure to sue him if he slipped, and the guy shrugged and she stepped out of the office, the narrow green door with the diamond peep holes so heavy it almost slammed her, and how could they, when it was on the map, how could they just uproot it from
the ground–

and the office had been air conditioned more heavily than she realized because coming out onto Graham was like being flattened .what with the summer exhaust of car, truck, bus, the oven drafts of air conditioner, the fan of pizza parlor particulating tomato–

and she kept thinking of the difference of a tree–she could take the neon and the freon, she could stand below the river whole subways long, she could look down the vista at the red tower of that hospital you were supposed to stay away from at all cost, and up the vista at the rumpled pant’s legs aimless on various street corners,

and now she did look down the vista and spindly specters were planted every several yards, their burlap still showing like the shoes of the homeless, but not like the homeless, because this was beauty come calling, like the knobby legs of fawns daring the combed cement, like a gift of grapes from the sky, like scattered molecules of breeze–

all but on their own little block–

and as the sun beat down on the too white new cement and the too black tar, she felt any chance of shade ever evaporating, much less blossom, the stoppering of breath–of the inhalation, that is, not the yammering–


Here’s a belated, but still very much of a draft, piece for dVerse Poets Pub prompt on trees posted by the very prolific and creative Bjorn Rudberg. 

Traveling with No Companion But the Person Next to Me

January 18, 2014


Traveling with No Companion But the Person Next to Me

There you are again, your sandwich sprawling red onions–
and I am starved (also a little
repulsed), knowing there will be nothing but “nut mix” mainly wheat mixed
with salt–and you will order water or cranberry juice
and I will feel unable next to you to order a red wine, though so low
even at cruising altitude, that I swore to try that for once, something, anything–
but the thing is
the coat from which you unpocketed your sandwich is nearly identical to an aunt’s
who could never let us spend money
in her presence, much less order wine–and why do you follow me
onto all planes, Aunt Ginny, and you,
Mom, packing the Depression even into my

Yes, I know you’d never eat so many
red onions and you’d never allow
all that mayo, still, there are the bunched sleeves, wrists,
foil unpeeling to crust–nothing I can

You watch your seatback, chewing, while I press everything
to turn off the men
on mine;  how they seem to chortle
above their self-satisfied stubble–but
nothing works–and what makes it worse
is that the only authenticity I can find in the nubbled plastic
at my fore, the scotch-guarded upholstery
at my aft,
even looking for the closest
exit, which just might be
behind, wafts
from those red onions–which are not mine, not mine–
draped in too much

The stewardess’s fringed lashes
warn me to be careful, now,
it’s hot–though the tea bag’s not even in the milky water yet, and
how will it ever brew like that–I hurry
to unwrap it– how will it ever
get strong?


I am a couple of steps behind the game, but here is a draftish poem for Heretomost’s  promptt on With Real Toads to write about a special person on a recurring journey to a special place.  My place is an airplane.