Archive for October 2015

Not the Best Name For It, Maybe

October 31, 2015

 Not the Best Name For It, Maybe

My boohoo won’t
to a shirtfront press,
its ring-ding wringing of face
needing space
from pat flattening,
forced comfort.

Boohoo not the best name, maybe,
for what laments the same not being
the same–
you not being the you,
the true not being the true–
that voodoo of what we do
to one another.


A drafty 55 for With Real Toads, hosted by the wonderful Kerry O’Connor.   Sorry for the long hiatus.  Going through a terribly challenging period at my job.  Photo (not sure it fits but like it) is mine.  Milkweed fluff on a frosted leaf.

Something Coming (Late October or Anytime)

October 23, 2015


Something Coming (Late October or Anytime)

As the trees turn skeletal
the wind does call:

cover your limbs
with shear from bawl,

with the silken squeeze
of cocooned offal,

with hollow-cored fur
torn from its soul,

with leather stitched
by sharpest awl.

Wrap these too
around your skull

and still, I will snake through
your all,

find your flesh,
and, like leaf fall–

wither what I cannot

crack and chap
the bits I shawl.

The only way
you can forestall

my bite and blow,
my mar and pall,

is to squint right into
my bright maw,

is to smile into
my low and tall

is to let me too
be part of you.

For I can only just pass through
what gives me

Drafty poem linked very belatedly to Real Toads Tuesday Open Platform (meaning written mainly just for myself.) Influenced by my friend Hedgewitch’s great fall rhymes in Song of the Willow Wisp.  Photo is mine–all rights reserved. 

First Fail

October 18, 2015

(photo from AMNH by Christina Martin)

First Fail (Each Time)

If you extend the “i”,
which one tends to do under these circumstances,
you end up with “fall”,
which is what it feels like–
as if you were paraded naked, made
to feel shame,
and everything of you that came before, that seemed
to be good,
was a should-charade,
while everything about that spot you occupied
like a trophy on a high shelf–though it was a cheap trophy,
a dusty shelf–
was paradisal–and, oh,
though you are wiser now, the road not taken
has been taken,
and the road taken
has been taken,
everything you didn’t know you had
has been taken,
and, of course it’s stupid to feel this way, mistaken,
but you, somehow still young, are too stupid
to understand–as you run run run like a horse
who’s afraid that when a horse lies down
it will die–
that this failure, which has unmanned/unwomanned you,
has also made you

You never before knew
what that meant.

Another drafty sort of poem (meaning freshly written) for my prompt on With Real Toads on Falling Into Lines.  The photo is by Christina Martin, taken in the back wings of the American Museum of Natural History.


October 17, 2015

Note that this pic only suits the poem in the most metaphoric way.


It felt as if she’d put a fake eyelash
on her whole head, as if her whole head flirted
with the world, batting itself with the flippancy
of hair curled,
though it was just a fall of auburn hair (framing her face)
and not
from grace,
a purchased dangle of pageboy mod
that made my mother
a strange woman in my eyes, that is,
a woman–
a role that with the bald
totality of youth, I thought, reserved
for me–

In the same way that many
years later,
when I met her at an airport,
I saw a loop of dry toilet paper
dangling from the back waist
of her navy pants suit
and understood, in one fell swoop,
that she’d become
an old woman,

and that I would too,
(if lucky),
which silenced my flip
remark, as, masking
the movement, I caught the tissue, curling it
into a wad–

In those frames, time’s lash
snaps us to, eyes opening
in batted blinks–
Real enough, though–

My drafty offering for my own prompt on With Real Toads to write something stemming from the idea of fall.  The fall at issue is a hair piece of a type that was once quite popular, longer hair to be worn almost like a hat, with a hairband covering the place where the hair attached. (Unlike a wig, a fall was worn for a change of style primarily, not to hide any bald spot.) 

The pic (mine) doesn’t really go with the piece, but I just liked it.


Seen Not Heard

October 16, 2015


Seen Not Heard

Any strange voices who’d call her, she was quite sure,
would just dial Cherry 8
for she did not see herself
as a girl who heard voices,
even as she leaned the much-loved bio
against her plate (her fork in the road
an actual fork, her road, the re-read
even as she lived beneath their cover
in bed and bath,
felt a certain loyalty
to royalty (mispronunciation tending to imbue the Dauphin
with the sweetness of Flipper),
she knew that Joan’s was not
her path, her retinae too weighted
by suburban streets to glow
so gonzo–

Only knew that she craved a life
that moved in circle, shaped
a plot (narrative not
pit), tick audible,
where halos might be dialed down
to shackles, yet still keep
their shine,
where she would be
both onlooker
and star–mouthpiece and that dark bit
you held up to
your ear–
where others too
would surely be on the line–had to be, honestly,
to make the whole thing

it didn’t have to be Joan–
printed words coiling connection
to Jo March too, and sickly Beth,
Abe Lincoln, Scarlett, Juliette,
Madame Curie,
even Beethoven (who looked so sad in the pictures,


Very very very drafty poem for Shay’s prompt on rotary phones on Real Toads

In a Sudden Depression (Roadside)

October 14, 2015


In a Sudden Depression (Roadside)

In a sudden depression,
I say maybe you should just let me
lie down in a ditch, and I see,
as you drive through the darkness, me opening
the car door, only the scuttle’s gentle, not fast,
the body finding at last
a roadside channel where algae ivies
my cheek and eyes stare glassily
as pond scum, not perhaps
as active, (though bugs do frond
the uproots of
my hair something squinching
my ear) and you, driving steadily, say, no,
that wouldn’t be a good idea,

and I, glad for the seat belt, say still, to be dramatic,
why not sooner
than later? 
as you, adjusting the brights, answer, what’s wrong
with a little

the only roads home sometimes
these dark
curved ones.


A short draft poem.  Please read with a sense of humor! 


Complex Martyr

October 11, 2015


Complex Martyr

The slit was a tight fit,
still, seeking sainthood,
she served her heart on a silver salver.

Verisimilitude concluded with the platter–
for unlike Lucy (or Agatha, for that matter)
who had eyes (areolae) to spare–where
did the beat go
, her chest moaned
now that it had, in the wound, a mouth to intone–
even so, her belief in the blessing, like the bleeding,
would not stop.


Drafty poem for With Real Toads, micro poetry prompt by the wonderful Kerry O’Connor.  I have been very slow returning visits but will get there.  The painting of St. Agatha above (whose breasts were amputated in a christian martyrdom) is by Lorenzo Lippi.  Process Note – St. Lucy and St. Agatha are both Christian (medieval) saints who lost their eyes/breasts as punishment for being believers (though performed some miracle of not dying from their initial punishments.)  They are often depicted in renaissance paintings, Lucy with her eyes on a platter, Agatha, as above. 

Pair (In Need of Some Fix)

October 10, 2015


Pair (In Need of Some Fix)

They were a pair in disrepair,
all caring parlance pared by care
to a squeaking slog of “it’s not fair,”
a toe jam halting here to there–
parallel axes of despair
only intersecting where
mutually assured destruction
might liven up plain old dysfunction.

Each partner then a separate nation
whose jefe craved a daily ration
of intrigue, outrage, aggravation–
preferring the powed illumination
of blast and blow-up, the excitation
of ions, I-AMs, ‘you’ve got to be’s”
to the radiance that they might just see
in the sun-seek of their world in orbit,
in a disregard for gaud and store-bought–
in the stretch of flesh that like earth’s crust
cracks in rifts, shifts, drifts, and such
but for all its lava, all its freeze,
yet yields room for the birds and bees.


A rather silly little drafty and belated ditty for M’s  “Get Listed” prompt on With Real Toads.   All rights reserved on poem and elephants!


(Sort of) Sounding in Fall

October 8, 2015

(Sort of) Sounding In Fall

Often I write for sound–
rhymes abound, meter measured-
but what I write of now
is the meaning of your limbs
limning mine,
the way time hovers
over old lovers as asters float
over autumn’s greens like moths
miming spring, periwinkling flashes
of leaf light, a fall-out
of sky’s laugh,

the way your lashed eyes too
blue the darkness,
the muted indigo
of inner ulna nesting
my sojourn on your

rest is what it sounds like
and what it means–
rest, and what we wrest
from it–that floating press of blue
that outbids dawn, then moves, late,
to the west, sometimes under
the lids
of my eyes also —


Drafty poem, linking belatedly to Real Toads Tuesday open platform. The photo is mine, has asters in the foreground!



October 5, 2015


Here’s the thing–
we must sing
the body electric
and we must trick ourselves
into singing
the body unplugged,

for the mind must be tugged
from reflection (that des-pond
of antsy)
to connection–a circuitry that finds answer
simply in flow–
it tows longing
into a much-loved song
whose minor key records
our humanity, a harmony–if we can but find
its parts–
that need not be studied
to be learned by heart–

But how hard it is to hear the song
of the long view–
the electric without
the body,
the connection without


Another drafty poem that I may link to the open platform on With Real Toads.  Photo taken and edited by me–all rights reserved.