Archive for December 2015

winter’s eve

December 31, 2015


winter’s eve

apple frozen on the tree
about as nice as ice can be

you center slice of leafless sky
pupil coiling clouded eye

wine-rued skin–thin as thin
still you hold a flesh within

as soft as face of once-was friend
as tough as any leathered stem

though the knowledge you impart,
may, like sweetness, veer toward rot

oh apple tethering seed to tree,
can you tell the end of me–


here’s a draft poem just because; no prompt.  Have a wonderful new year and thanks so much for all your support of my writing this year.   

ps: the above pic was taken tonight and the below, a couple of years ago.



Strangely (Human)

December 31, 2015


Strangely (human)

the man who raped her
also encouraged her
to pleasure herself.

“I want it to hurt,” he said,
but then slack-jawed, teeth-
gritted, fitted her hand
to her crotch so she could maybe
make it
not hurt.

These are just a couple of ways
plays us.


Draftish sort of poem, not auto-biographical, for Shay’s (Fireblossom’s) prompt on Real Toads to write something based on the work of Gerda Wegener.  An image of Gerda’s above. 


December 30, 2015


I walk to a far high corner
after dark
to get away from the too long
too short day,
where I hear sharp sharp sharp
at the corner of
my ear,
coyote barks.

I know to walk slowly sharp sharp only



Feeling soon enough sharp sharp
with the stupidity of sharp sharp
running, also, sharp
my speed, also sharp
my lack of speed–

how can this sharp sharp
be sharp


until impossibly sharp sharp
I pant sharp
into the (muted sharp sharp) shadow of
the halo (sharp)
of house lights


and hearing now  (sharp)
that it must really (sharp)
be cornering  (sharp)
some other

panting (sharp sharp)



A draft poem just because.  Linking to Real Toads Open Platform. Yes, it was terrifying. Yes, I should not have run, though all worked out perfectly well.  Pic from beginning of walk, before climb (or run!) 


December 28, 2015



Whatever there is in me
that sights the moon mornings
is you.

Whatever in me
alights in sun, in winter
yahoos it through
the windows, zesting warmth
like lemons,
is also you.

Whatever would, weirdly, if I were a bird,
hook its orange beak (or maybe its
orange toes)
(in the best of ways) to hold on to you
the way that cold days hold on
to hot tea and unwinding to
a breeze is what in me
holds on
to you,
only handed–

Whatever gives rise–be it green
or unseen–
writ or just
there is in me that someone
might care for–
is whatever is tinged
with you–

It sings

And, me, I says,
praise be,
oh, so freely
in the we


Here’s another draft poem of sorts and pic.   



Quiet In-Out (55)

December 27, 2015


Quiet In-Out

Just as there is a beat
in every moment, there is also
a rest,
nesting in breath’s breast–
It is where the beat goes too, at its best
(where what is blessed
is blessed).
Eyelids dome walls
as well as sky;
hum thrums–
a tuned whole plied.
There, lone has no meaning,


A draft 55 for Margaret Bednar’s Play it Again, Sam on Real Toads–I am rather tired this time of year so resorted to one of the many wonderful 55 challenges, still held in honor of the wonderful G-Man, Galen Haynes. 

The pic is one I took in Ladakh, India, years ago, at a Buddhist shrine. 

Just In Case

December 26, 2015


Just in Case

I sneaked a peak
into my pocket,
saved high against
soon lows,
viewed sky against
bluer woes.

Its rock face climbed,
as I moved on,
one Elvis hip,
sometimes softer
than its nestle of pelvis,
other times grinding
a sharp bend
at bone’s end.

I sneaked a peak
into my pocket,
stashed against
the crash–you know,
where mountain
meets ash; self,


Drafty poem for the wonderful Michael’s “Get Listed” prompt on Real Toads about a change of direction.  



Night Song

December 23, 2015

 Night Song

As I lie, not sleeping,
I find I seek safe-keeping,
handholds in repeating
chipped bits of near-lost prayer.

Our fathering the wake
of mind that won’t forsake
this day’s dark night’s churned lake
for some deeper float in air.

For hours, arts in heaven
plead trespasses forgiven,
against us nothing leaven–
eyelids’ hollowed fare–

all that comes–the kingdom,
phrased arms that, slanted, ring round
this embodied foreground
of me, still lying there

not sleeping,
re-membering safe-keeping,
my father, earth once leaping==
so far now, and so fair–


Draft poem for no prompt, but will link to Real Toads Open Platform.

Home at last after nearly two weeks away and feeling a bit more seasonal!  (Though this one and the non-sleep night before arrival here!)  Thanks for all!

ps – the pic is mine–of a Christmas window at New York City Saks Fifth Avenue.

Teachings (Of a Sort)

December 22, 2015

 Teachings (Of a Sort)

Your front teeth just to let me know
what was what, that
and a clap on the butt.

The ringing slap
a schooled bell’s blare,
something swearing loud
that I’d not yet learned enough
to do you proud.
I don’t even want to talk
about the shakes, their gripping
lessons, my own teeth then given
a run for the money.


A very non-Christmasy poem that I assure you is not in the least bit autobiographical.  For my own prompt on Real Toads riffing off of two words of a Christmas song (All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth); posted for the Tuesday open link platform.

ps -sorry this is so unseasonal! I hope to come up with something more cheery soon!  

Sounding Joy

December 19, 2015

DSC00494Sounding Joy

Some have no need
to chart its depth.
My grandmother only worried about what she’d feed
people, and whether the rolls, with their rounds like
child cheeks, had risen, and, if
the chew at the table near equaled
the talk, she’d beam
in the gustatory steam
foregoing the hand-over-hand lifting
of the lead.

While me, I can hardly witness
my own happiness, much less bask,
rather I ask the moment
echoing questions
about lasting, and too, the past,
trying to fathom
what is bound in part
by that effort,

and what is bound in other part
by the nature of the heart,
shaped, as it is, like a fist
that wants to grasp things, hold
them tight, rather than, say, a fish
who’ll swim in stream, pond, sea alike–
who’ll swish even
in the curl of puddle–you know,
if it’s a wise


Not sure about the end of this poem, but it’s a draft draft draft for my own prompt on With Real Toads to write something using two words of a Christmas carol or other holiday song.  In my case, the words are “sounding joy” from Joy to the World.  

Process Note–I use sounding here in all kinds of ways (I hope) but  particularly sounding depths of water, which traditionally used a rope and a lead, and, more recently, sonar.

Pic is mine.  All rights reserved.

Thinking of GOP Candidates — Auguries of Disingenuousness

December 15, 2015

Auguries of Disingenuousness
(US  GOP Presidential Candidates as of December 2015) 

To see a world in a grain of sand,
don’t make it glow with carpet-bombs.
To flower heaven in your hand,
don’t turn strewn rocks into lined tombstones.

Eternity’s cut by every hour
that we barter off the soul–
the harlot’s cry quite overpowered
by those who’d hawk our all.

Burnishing our fears with bling,
combing bald hates with shine,
they boast they’ll get us everything,
snaking oil o’er twists of spine.

But the grains that hold the world they see
are measurements of ammo–
Oh good lord, please save me
from their deserts of glow-woe,
from their plasticked deserts of woe.

(Optional refrain:  oh-glow-woe-woh-woh-woh-woh/oh-glow-woe-woh-woh-woh=woh–)


Not sure about the rhythms at the end of this one, but here’s a poem originally inspired by Kerry O’Connor’s Real Toads prompt and based very very very loosely on William Blake’s poem, the Auguries of Innocence (that begins with “to see the world in a grain of sand”–and finding heaven in a wildflower and moves on to the winding sheet woven by the harlot’s cry.)  My offering for Real Toads Open Link Platform. 

The pic is mine; not sand, but detailed (ha.) 

Process notes–a grain is a weight used for measurement of propellant in bullets and other projectile weaponry; plastic refers to all kinds of things of course, but also certain explosives.