Posted tagged ‘april 2017’

No Heel

April 27, 2017

No Heel

He tried to speak in boot, but worried that it came out
in penny loafer–

The problem was that he didn’t want to speak
in the tongue of just any
boot–not goose-stepper, arse-
kicker, not

but rocker, worker, hiker,
Frye–he’d even have settled for high-top, which was rather like boot, if cloth–

Oh, bass weejun could, he supposed,
talk the walk,
but his words felt flat, soulless–also, he really really
did not want to sink
to topsider–

Then he met her,
and one night at a party full
of ankle-covering (if

she took his hand and pulled him outside
to a lawn fresh-soaked
with summer night,
and sighed–”isn’t it so great
to have slip-ons–” slipping
hers off–

He accepted then
some part of himself,
which felt snug, in a good way,
and almost as warm in that moment
as her side–


drafty poem for Real Toads prompt by the wonderful Marian Kent to write of shoes.  The pic above is a charcoal (photograph modified) of mine, and for interest I post one I made on iPad below.  Thanks!

patio, grass, sky

April 18, 2017

stucco knobbly as charcoal briquets
the smell of hot dogs some idyll
of summer–sweating to

then that grass
dashed out on–for it was evening and we were neon
with it, free, it seemed late June, forever–
whose blades felt like 1000 leaps
softly landed–

that grass that laid down on, breathing
after a game, smelled
like a history of flight,
which is not made of nearly so much sky
as one might imagine–



drafty poem for April, Real Toads open link; pic mine, all rights reserved. 

Easter (American Sentences)

April 16, 2017

Easter (American Sentences)

March–skirt puffs up
like blossoms
blown back–Easter–
the net on
best hats.

April–sun crossed the nave–Easter–
waves of short white gloves almost
too warm.

Old lady’s
even the memory
of Death’s held hand

Its palm warm
as blossom, soft as
worn gloves, lets go for today
all stones.


Draft poem for Kerry O’Connor’s prompt on Real Toads to write a poem using Allan Ginsburg 17 syllable American Sentences.  Drawing mine; pastel on paper.  April 2017, all rights reserved. 

Fall (2016)

April 3, 2017

Fall (2016)

There were
no apples.
Last year, the flies were boozy
with the glut;
but in this season, the flies made do
with dust, woozing only
about silled windowpanes.

Mounding the apples
was more fun,
though we should not have picked
so many–when they oozed, we tossed
some back, as if  in recompense, as if to defend
the orchard against all dearth,
as if apples could help
with such things.


Poem for Magali’s prompt on Real Toads to write of fruit stillborn (or other things) in the face of climate change.  For April.  (Not sure if I’m doing a poem a day, but will see.)  Pic is not exactly apple pic, but a recent one of mine–all rights reserved.

I’m sorry to be late reciprocating visits; will get there!