Straw Drew

Posted September 10, 2017 by ManicDdaily
Categories: Uncategorized

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

Posted September 8, 2017 by ManicDdaily
Categories: poetry, Uncategorized

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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

Posted September 4, 2017 by ManicDdaily
Categories: Uncategorized

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Charcoal on paper, 2017, all rights reserved.

Worried Face Tree

Posted September 4, 2017 by ManicDdaily
Categories: Uncategorized

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Charcoal on paper, 2017, all rights reserved.


Posted September 3, 2017 by ManicDdaily
Categories: poetry

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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. 

Long Worn Bird Mask

Posted August 25, 2017 by ManicDdaily
Categories: drawings

Charcoal on paper, 2017, all rights reserved.
Other titles– “Help maybe.”

What Does It Want?

Posted August 22, 2017 by ManicDdaily
Categories: poetry, Uncategorized

Tags: , , ,

What does it want?

There is a part of me that can’t shake
that hears the rise of the mourning dove
as fall;
that substitutes for throat
but will not be slaked–

What does it want– this ache?

For everything that’s been
to have been
all right.

To lay down upon a lap
as if it were a head
that might be stroked.

To not be a head
that is thinking, thinking,
but a body of that water
that laps gently
and doesn’t churn.

And to have you, my sometimes world,
hold me 
in earthen arms.

In the reeds that grow about us,
red-winged blackbirds nest;
just above, swallows swallow.



Poem for open link platform on Real Toads (

Drawing is mine.  It’s a bit more complicated than I’d like, ha.