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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 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. 

What Does It Want?

August 22, 2017

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.

Simply the way it was (Eclipse of sorts)

August 20, 2017

Simply the way it was (Eclipse of sorts)

At a certain point, she even felt the trees longing
to hold the child she carried,
the sky scrying to espy
the color of his eyes;
all of Nature, she felt sure,
yearned with her
to meet him,
though after he was born,
she kept him close as bark
for some time, letting not wind nor glare make
their acquaintance, any leaving
out of the question,
and whether Nature was peeved
was too complicated a thing
for her to think about, there with the new son
at her side.



For a prompt by the wonderful Kerry O’ Connor on Real Toads to write about a simple  thing.  I should note that this poem is imagined–not meant to express anything about boy or girl babies–I’ve only been thinking about the sun a bit what with the eclipse.

Drawing is mine–pastels and charcoal on paper, 2017.  All rights reserved.