Archive for May 2016

Back Then You Swam Rather Like A Butterfly

May 30, 2016

IMG_1330 - Version 2

Back Then You Swam Rather Like A Butterfly

Somewhere, a sneeze–

its moist blow haloing fellow passengers
in some careering car
of a trained train–

the mucilaginous scree
catapaulting me
to my bed with a bad flu,
while you, not yet a drop
in my bucket, made

my husband catching it too,
and too recovering
in that same bed.

God bless, I may have said,
in subway’s weary blear–but how was I
so blessed?

Your essence bright blinked some
months later, newborn eyes as dark
as so many kinds
of wisdom–that earth that nourishes
roots, that night that blues
dawn’s horizon, the lifting sides of all the different wings
that astonish us–
what just flew there–flies–


Poem of sorts for Bjorn Rudberg’s prompt on Real Toads about the butterfly effect.  (True story may be a little more complex. Ha.) 


May 27, 2016



There’s a sadness in me
that if I were a sea
would be the sea weed,
endlessly re-fronding
like a ghost that weaves
its own winding sheet,
and in that unwinding
of deeper green
the sea wants
to weep
as if there were room
in such water
for any more
salt; as if there were room
in such salt
for any more
only maybe the unwound sadness
is itself the sea,
and me, the weed,
life being suffering, according to many,
and me, for all of it,
sprouting at odd angles, joy–
oh boy, says she/me/this
small sea.


Draft poem belatedly for Fireblossom’s prompt on Real Toads, about finding the grey in the good.  I don’t think this really fits–I did another which seemed kind of silly but maybe will post sometime.  (Thanks. Shay, for great prompt!)

Not Quite Piano Piano

May 25, 2016

New scan 12-10-10

Not Quite Piano Piano

We listen to Lang Lang who milks
(almost amusingly)
the pauses,
then go out to look
at Mars,
its brightness tipped with red
in the blue night.
A plane seems almost
to fly into it and you joke about seeing
Martians, your arm in the sling, recovering,
as tree frogs sing of Spring (almost
amusingly), and I wonder why it is
we do not make a hymn
to every single
given moment.

A draft draft incidental poem for Real Toads Open Platform.  Process notes: Lang Lang is a celebrated and very skilled pianist — a great showman.  Tree frogs are excessively loud, while the term piano refers to softness in volume.

The painting above is by my husband, Jason Martin, and was used in the cover of my poetry book, Going on Somewhere.   (This copy is a bit purply–sorry, Jay.)

Hope all well for all. 


May 15, 2016


In that time when my face was whole,
love thought it knew my heart;
but when you wore my face to holes,
love found some missing parts.

Like all veneers, so lips will chip,
as surface roughs, so cheek;
so me who craved your covering hips
the bones as hard as teak.

I let the sky now hold my face
let blue through gap and tear,
and, in the night, the stars find space
to slip light through the wear.

And though my skin no more is whole
love loves with all my heart;
and though what’s me slips through the holes,
I love with each lost part.


Draft draft draft poem, for my own prompt on Real Toads to write about no more–here I’ve also tried to think of some of Byron’s rhythms.  I’ve been thinking about this poem for the last couple of days and this version (just now come up with) excludes a few stanzas and takes it in a different direction.  If anyone is interested in process or just likes to give free advice,  I am happy to post other stanzas/versions. 

The pictures above and below are from the wonderful Pergamon exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum in New York (Hellenistic statues from Turkey.)   The poem is not ekphrastic, but I do like the pics, which set me on the track of the poem.  All rights reserved. 



May 7, 2016



When someone dies,
their face puckers.
It’s not so much a kiss

as a squeeze,
the body prised
through some other
and it is not their face

but his or hers
in that last moment’s day,
the body saying me,
even the mostly-stolen self

no longer in stealth, breathing,
oh no, oh yes,
oh my. 


Drafty poem for Brendan’s prompt on Real Toads about the harrowing and hallowed.  I’ve been on a bit of a break (mainly working and reading) and I’m not really “back” but this poem came to me, so thought I’d post.  The pic is mine but of a light sculpture by Jason Martin. 

The poem has been edited since first posting.  k. 

Giving It A Rest

May 4, 2016


 Thanks as always for your support.

Brain Hurts

May 1, 2016
Updated Brain in Bed (With Dog)

Brain Hurts

My brain hurts
from inhaled pain,
swollen now
to not quite sane.
Nought it knows
will be the same,
nor answer to
its (or my) name.

My heart hurts
with built-in stain;
it’s been set
by drenching rain;
what washes it
might have a name,
but I don’t know it
just the same.

Very much a draft ditty for May 1 and Kerry O’Connor’s 55 word prompt on Real Toads.  I’m just doing recycled drawings at the moment; this of a brain in bed, with canine companion.