Archive for September 2017

Ode to the Windowed Hall Where I’ve Not Turned on the Light

September 28, 2017

Ode to the Windowed Hall Where I’ve Not Turned on the Light

It is a bar that is not a barrier but
a passage,
where I pass by the glass of night
that is able to make itself known
in the absence of over-reflection,
the way you made known to me,
I you,
when, in the darkness,
we found something other than walls
to hold on to–



Poem for my own prompt on Real Toads re thinking about the little things.  Check it out. 

Also, if in the mood, check out my two new children’s books, DOGGONE! and DOES MELANIE LIKE MELON?   Or other books! 


What Might Make It Better

September 21, 2017

What Might Make It Better

I want to call you and tell you
that I actually am
losing my vision–so I’ve just
been told–
I want to hear
how worried that makes you,
which would somehow allow me to say, dismissively,
“don’t worry,”
that all
will be okay.

Though actually I wouldn’t tell you
about my troubled vision
if you were still alive,
not wanting to worry you.

Oh, how I miss not telling you
what I would not.





Poem for Fireblossom’s (Shay’s) prompt on Real Toads.. Drawing mine.  Charcoal on paper, all rights reserved. 

And, to change the sad subject, I am also happy to announce that I have published a new children’s novel,  called Doggone! This is a sequel to Dogspell and also involves Seemore, the highly talented dog, and his sidekick, Sally; illustrated by yours truly.   Available on Amazon but am happy to send free copies to anyone who wishes to review!  




Picking Me Up At the Train Station at the end of a Long Week

September 17, 2017

Frederic Chopin Thinking About Sand

Picking Me Up at the Station at the End of a Long Week

He promises as we walk to the car
that the CD is “coming up
on Chopin.”

He says this because he knows I like
the familiar–

And I do like Chopin,
yes, because I’ve heard him many times before,
but more because
the music flows,

and when you are in a dry place–no,
when you are in a place that may be dry or wet
but you yourself are a desert,

and there comes this music that sounds
like walking on water,
waltzing on water,
weeping while walking or waltzing on water,
wanting while walking or waltzing
on water,
music which wells,
the wanting (sometimes)
you (if you are me)
simply wade into
the swim.

Yes, please, let in
the Chopin.



A belated poem for Sanaa’s prompt on Real Toads to write something just taking in the atmosphere.  The pic is an old watercolor of mine of Chopin thinking of Sand (as in Georges).  



Trumping the Lord’s Prayer

September 16, 2017

Trumping the Lord’s Prayer

Oh Donald,
we were never a heaven,
but now hollowed
is our name–
a kingdom of guns
if thy will be done
the earth will have
no haven.
Day-to-day run
by bread,
leaders in bed
with temptation
delivering us to the upheaval
of thine King Dumb, craving
power and gory
hopefully not


Something like that.  For Brendan’s prompt on Real Toads, in part about power.  Pic, such as it is, is mine.  All rights reserved. 


September 11, 2017


Like those flowers
by the side of the road in fall
that you see first
as blurred blue
but then find here
and here
and here
until they are all
that is everywhere,
so grief focuses, sharply,
as green recedes,
road fades,
and trees like shy teens try not
to be seen
and you know looking
at those blue blossoms
(even if it is not your parent
who has been lost)
that you will never be a child again, and that honestly
you have been one
your whole life long.



Poem that I will likely link to Real Toads Open Link Forum this week.  Very uncertain of line breaks, but so it goes– pic is mine. k.

Straw Drew

September 10, 2017

Straw Drew

Dear Nancy,
I could never be
your twin–no Bobbseys, we.
My dad simply would not be
a town-leading attorney,
nor, however loving,
would he ever give me
a convertible.
I did have blonde hair
but it would not curl under.

Still there wasn’t much
that could tear us asunder,
for a time there
in the basement under
your yellow covers
where owls could be seen
to who
and clocks
to hickory,
where Mylai was maybe some weird cocktail
that you would never drink,
where everyone but the bad guys
were good yet you
were always gooder
but in a good way, meaning
with lipstick

and I was allowed in,
as unseen onlooker
sort of like when, snooping, you hid in a closet,
but not.


Drafty poem for Magaly Guererro’s prompt on Real Toads to write to a book.  This to the Nancy Drew mysteries by Carolyn Keene. It feels rather trivial in the face of all going on in the Caribbean and Florida, still here it is–


Drawing is mine–all rights reserved.  k. 

Book of Words

September 8, 2017

Book of Words

Mimi cry
cause Testa meant
no good–
oh he would rap sure,
so cool he set her hair a-tic (not just heart)
but if Mimi tried
for her own part,
he slagged her as a Me-imitator,
said he’d terminate her
if she didn’t goddamn
shut up,
and so she shut,
but for the cry.


Kind of a strange ditty for Mama Zen’s prompt on Real Toads to use words from a wonderful book of words put together by her daughter–I’ve cheated here I believe, using my own versions of same.  Drawing is mine, all rights reserved.

More Cheerful Face Tree

September 4, 2017

Charcoal on paper, 2017, all rights reserved.

Worried Face Tree

September 4, 2017

Charcoal on paper, 2017, all rights reserved.


September 3, 2017


She woke between pained breaths and said,
“they’ve all
crossed over.”

So, after soothing her shock
of white bang back,
we hurried to measure
the morphine,
pretty sure she would not try to get up
like she did the day before, anxious
to meet them,
but not certain,

“sweetheart,” saying, as we nosed the syringe into
the inside of the downward-tilted
cheek, then smoothed squeezed balm
over desert lips, “sweetheart,”
caressing back
that shock of hair again

until I lay down beside her at last
to listen to the full
and hollow,
not breathing myself
in some of the pauses.

So a good death goes,
and comes,
oh sweetheart.


Poem for my mother.