Archive for June 2016

Eve Sailing

June 28, 2016


Eve Sailing

She thought sail boats
would be different,
but she got sick
as a slumped dog
while he wailed histrionically, belly whaled
over the deck, though his legs, their hair thick
as baleen, manned the stairs
to down below–

There had to be a bus home, she thought,
when they anchored at Santa
Catalina and he ordered dindin, candlelit,
or, given that it was his home they were supposed
to return to,
a bus headed anywhere.

Yet the stars shone
when they boarded again
as beautifully as ever they do,
and the waves crocheted their light into lace
as is their way,

and he laughed and sang, a little drunk and the boat turning out
to have a motor,

while she, still feeling sickish, endowed
the hydrochloric scent that she remembered emanating
from the back of a Greyhound with some previously-unnoted romance,
as its headlights, in her mind’s eye,
swabbed the dark ahead;

in other words, all things were fully themselves
in that
night ocean.



This is a sort of poem for Real Toads open platform originally inspired by Gillena Cox’s prompt re sailing. The photos are mine from the Ruffino Tamayo Museum of Pre-Hispanic Art in Oaxaca, Mexico. 


June 26, 2016





They sailed by the ton
in the dim hulls of masted boats
whose cracks wet
rather than lit
the shells, the thoraxes.

If life lingered in the crush,
she who held it likely did not remember
her cactus, its pad drilled
by the white spume she’d spun,
Nopale not a word known to beetles,
who tend to speak in hums.

Nor could she predict
that she’d soon be a marker of
most high, cloaking
a cardinal–no matter that his sect forswore
the insides of female kind,

nor how she’d make him glow
more brightly than the eye
of best mother,
with her swallowed west,
with that sun that, like the dye, set in her.


Here’s a rather odd poem for Gillena Cox’s prompt on Real Toads about sailing.  This is about the cochineal beetle, a beetle native to the area around Oaxaca, Mexico, which is famous for the rich red dye made from the shell and body of the females.  Soon after the conquest of Mexico by the Spanish, the beetle was imported into Europe by the ton and used as a red dye, particularly effective in fabrics made with animal rather than vegetable matter, i.e. wool over cotton, and the dye was used particularly for the rich red robes of cardinals and many Church officials.  The beetle’s dye is still used today for rugs and many cosmetics and beverages.  It is a strong red that can be modified based upon natural additives and preparation techniques.  Above are pictures of the beetle whole and then crushed in somone’s hand and with a stone;  it grows on the Nopale cactus, shown below.

(Poem supposed to be under 100 words–I think I’m a little above–cut some, but sorry Gillena!) 



June 25, 2016

DSC00428 (1)


When I look at the flash of fireflies
over the tall-grassed field,
I feel, after all, that you must not
have disappeared.

I hear in their silent light
your not-stillness; eyes ache
at the unmade sounds
even as hurt

is run aground, all small
beneath the untilled sky, but


I am posting this rather belatedly for Poets United’s prompt on resilience.  Photo is mine–a bit early in the evening for fireflies, which are so hard to capture on film in any case. 

A Hope

June 18, 2016


A Hope

Oh sister death, oh sister night,
I’ll seek your hold
at last bright light.
And when times come
that we three part
your echo still
will ring my heart,
and I will feel
nor ill nor fright
in the cisterned well
of death and night.


Draft draft draft poem for Kerry O’ Connor’s micro poetry prompt on Real Toads based in part on Gustave Klimt and Walt Whitman, both favorites.  I am sorry to have been so absent; a busy time.  Photo is mine, from the Museum of Pre-hispanic Art of Mexico (collection of Ruffino Tamayo) in Oaxaca, Mexico.

A Sounding

June 4, 2016

IMG_2600A Sounding

Hello darkness, not my friend,
you’ve come to play with me again.
You don’t bother with soft creeping;
you just shake me like a doll sleeping
with eyelids pushed down and up at your command
beneath your hand.
Oh, darkness, you confound
my balance.

Hello darkness, not my friend,
somehow we’ll make it to the end.
You’ll keep pushing, but I’ll pull through.
My eyes will not be blanked by you,
nor will my sky be ground down
into dust, or if it must,
I’ll be its sister
I’ll be its sister


This is very much a draft poem a not 55 words but, nonetheless, I am positing it for Kerry O’Connor’s 55 word prompt on With Real Toads, which was also asked one to use the words of a sad song as an inspiration. Mine, The Sounds of Silence, by Paul Simon.  Pic is by me or a Buddhist painting in Ladakh, India.  All rights reserved. 

L’Heure Bleu

June 2, 2016

L’Heure Bleu

They ask me another name
for the l’heure bleu, and all I can think of
are yellow squares, kitchen framed
by eventide, those windows
where women work–

and through the yellow, beams
of door jamb, a chintz
of suds, dish rag, stretch-marked
cupped wells of coffee–the dark sides
of too many moons, or canyons
of a more distilled amber (burning
as it goes down)–
eyes flecked
with dab, veins rooting legs
before a sink–

I don’t mean to make it sound ugly–that gold glimmer as beautiful as
cake, luminous as
honey comb, and in the blue-black backdrop,
moths shimmer/flap
against sheened

and in the putting it all away,
one more helping,

TV greys elsewheres
but there a rose will smell as sweet even painted
dripping Dawn–

no fear

no fear

Draft poem for Real Toads Open Platform hosted by Marian.  The l’heure bleu is the blue hour- a time of dusk/evening that is exactly what it sounds like.   Painting is one of mine; watercolor with windows added through iphone app. (Ha.)  All rights reserved.