Posted tagged ‘ManicDDaily poetry’

Dream Song

October 4, 2019

Dream Song

I dreamed I dreamed in one two three
I dreamed that you were here with me.

Repeating music held us close
its harmonies in measures dosed
as phrases that sang again again
while we seemed to be back then

when you were you and I was me
and we could see, hear, move freely,
when you held me and I held you—
we didn’t know time held us too.

Now all that’s left is time’s tight hold
so close around as I’ve grown old,
I see it as through a magnifier—
blurred, yet lined, a fist, a mire.

You, like the music, just in my head
when I lie upon my bed
in the dark that even enfolds time
sometimes sometimes sometimes sometimes.


Hello! Here’s a poem that I am posting for Kerry O’Connor’s post on Real Toads, with the wonderful picture by McMonster, @mc__monster, below. Pic above is mine.

“Here, Body” (Your Body Is Not Even Your Good Lab)

July 29, 2012


Here, Body

The body is not your good dog.
It may sit, lie down, roll over,
but there’s a limit to its Rover
aspect. No spank
will keep it from
accident; no leash
train it to the right; no yank
make it heel

You tell it what to want, but
it will vaunt
its fleshly, furry ways,
sneaking food when already fed;
taking up all the room on the bed;
whiffing what should not be sniffed;
its passion aimed at but a toy–
here, girl; here, boy–
that can never love it back.

It will decay
though you say stay. Still,
you will love it,
this not-good dog;
for even as you scold and cajole,
and despair
of calling,
you will find yourself
cradling it;
you will find yourself
in its arms.

This is an older poem I am reposting for MagPie Tales, a writing blog hosted by Tess Kincaid. Tess posts a picture prompt each week; Tess’s prompt, an image by Zelko Nedic.  I am also posting for Open Link Night of Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, a great poetry blog.  My rather silly picture, prompted by Leonardo, is above.



If you have time on this rainy Sunday, check out my books. Nose Dive is only 99 cents on Kindle – well, with ten times that much, which is its price in paper!

Children’s counting book 1 Mississippi -for lovers of rivers, light and pachyderms. Or, if you in the mood for something older, check out Going on Somewhere, poetry, or Nose Dive, a very fun novel for those who are somewhat discontent with their appearance but love musicals, cheese and downtown NYC.

Making the Best of It – Natural Life In Unnatural World (“They Perch”)

February 18, 2012


They Perch

They perch
on posts in the Hudson above/
below Canal, by the West Side Highway,
Walking, we duck
our heads, bob knees, swish shoulders–as if
our moves will motivate their stretch
or intake of wing.
On a sunny day, their still basking
seems so reasonable that it takes some time
to realize that
they are sculpted–Herons?
On those same sunny days,
New Yorkers stretch
on the jetties, Adam’s apples towards the
sky–there, by the brick/braille ventilation
tower of the Holland Tunnel, all that
below the tide.

We want to think that our life
is natural, here in this city, country, mindset.
We want to believe
that a place where many building windows
do not even open
can support wild birds.

Apparently, there’s even a raptor
or two, aeries wedged
by cornice.

We want
to believe that they like it
here.  That even untempered
by doses of the more rarified Metroplitan (opera or gallery) (which
we too do not experience enough)
can thrive.

We strain–eyes, head, shoulder–
just in case a living one
has gotten confused, just in case
a living one
has landed, perhaps even
settled down.

On the opposite side, cars
rush every green light.

Hi all!  Happy Saturday Night!  The above poem is a draft posted for the wonderful dVerse Poets Pub poetics prompt, hosted by Brian Miller, based on beautiful photographs by Reena Walkling.  I don’t like to post other people’s are work so have done my own drawn version of Reena’s photo above.

(As always, all rights reserved.)

Why Pearl Is Not At Westminster This Year

February 13, 2012


Why Pearl is Not in Westminster This Year

Because when she was a puppy and was groomed
professionally, she would
sit on the couch for several days afterwards
the only part of her not trembling
a bright pink bow the groomer had
stuck on; and

because after that, when I began cutting
her hair myself–I can’t
call it grooming–she would end up–
with splotches of fur and
baldness, since, I confess,
I’ve been known
to wear mismatched
socks and to fix my own ‘do
by rubbing palms through it
like a balloon that you want
to stick to a wall or sweater; and also

because her breath
smells an awful
lot like dead fish these
days, though
after sixteen years
you tend to
be sort of glad for things like that–
especially in the warmth
of speckled, oddly-
furred, tummy.

(Check out a “Truest Love Poem” for Pearl, from Going on Somewhere, my collection of poetry.  Check it out too!  And NOSE DIVE!)

“Imagism” in Tube Socks

January 19, 2012


Victoria C. Slotto, hosting dVerse Poets Pub’s “Meet the Bar” today urges participants to try to write poems in the style of “imagism,” that is, in the spare concrete and imagistic mode of William Carlos Williams, H.D., or Pound.  (Victoria has a wonderful article much more fully describing the movement.)

This is a difficult challenge for very wordy me.

Here’s my attempt:

Tube Socks

How, in near night
grass, do
white cotton
pulse light?
(left right)
at our feet.

P.S. I have not been much involved in the bookselling busiess lately due to all the turmoil in my life, but please please please check out NOSE DIVE, a very silly comic novel written by me and illustrated by Jonathan Segal.  At 99 cents (on Kindle) it’s an incredible bargain.  Also available on paperback for a bit more.  Thanks much!

Open Link/Broken Link Poem – “Divorce”

December 6, 2011


After a couple of weeks away from job, time is short, so here is a short, older poem from GOING ON SOMEWHERE (check it out!) posted for dVerse Poets Pub open link night.


Starvation for love sands heart to sliver,
my daughter’s cheeks smell of her hours with the sitter:
too sweet.
Let me have a sip–

Magpie Tales 92 – He loved Fellini–“Like a Cello (or Two)”

November 20, 2011


Here’s my offering (fresh off the press) for Magpie Tales 92, a very cool writing/photo blog hosted by Tess Kincaid.  I’ve modified Tess’s wonderful photo, and I’m afraid my offering may show my age.  (If you don’t know the references, check them out!)

Like a Cello (or Two)

He loved Fellini;
She tended towards George Cukor:
Mastroianni led the forward skip of
his self-style–hers Audrey, champagne
lightness in black flats, though she also
kept Marcello in the loop. (And how!)
Like a cello, each body curved–
a cello clothed in case for protective
carry through black/white streets till
he carried her to sheets too soft
for his tweed jacket, her bare arms
making up the smoothness gap.
Like a bow was the straight line of their connection–but
how can two cellos be played upon at once?
They managed it.




(P.S. – edited this very slightly since sending out–taking out “a” before case.   And I really feel like something about reverberation should be added. Any ideas.)

“Staccato Poem?” – “World War I Veteran” – Belated Armistice Day

November 17, 2011


Today, dVerse Poets Pub has a “form for all” challenge hosted by Gay Reiser Cannon and Beth Winter, to write a “staccato” poem.  I had not heard of this form before, and although Gay and Beth give both a good explanation and great examples of it in their own poetry blogs, I’m not completely sold on it.  (It involves two six line stanzas with a series of couplets and internal rhymes and certain emphatic repeated words.)

My own staccato poem came to mind in thinking belatedly of Armistice Day, the end of World War I.

I’m sorry, I’m afraid my iPad painting came out a bit more grisly than intended.  That said, World War I seems to be almost as grisly a war as one can imagine.

World War I Veteran

She now speaks of her uncle’s mask with pride,
how she, her brother, each sniffed deep inside–
Yes! Yes!–they put their faces in–
(eyes bug’s), imagined traces in
the mustiness–of mustard’s scent and mud;
and yes, on khaki’s fade, the stain, old blood.

Knew only what they heard or read or guessed–
their uncle never spoke, not even yes
or no.  (No! No!)  Made tooled leather
wallets and small sacs to gather
coins.  Though often he just sat in his old car,
not able to manage masks, no, anymore.

Open Link Night- “Poem For My Father”

November 15, 2011


As a downtown New Yorker, I’ve been pretty taken up by the happenings at Zuccotti Park today, so it feels strange to post the very different poem I’d planned for  dVerse Poets Pub open link night.  But life is complex, lived in lots of layers at once. The iPad painting (above) doesn’t exactly go with the poem, but all I could think of.  I am also posting this for Poet’s Rally at Promising Poets.

Poem for my father

My father, who loves me completely,
is weakening.
My father, who loves me through and through,
cannot sit up on his own.
My dad, who would do anything for me,
cannot make his throat swallow.
I say to him,
“you have to try,” and he does, but
his body is not
all heart.

What will I do
when not loved
through and through? Hurts
thinking of it, hurts
completely, my body all heart
in a throat that can’t swallow.

Magpie Tales (91) – Villanelle to Wandering Mind

November 13, 2011


I am posting this in response to the prompt of Tess Kincaid at Magpie Tales.  Tess posts an interesting photo each week.  Because I like to use my own art work (except the current header landscape by Jason Martin), I’ve redone the photo (more or less).

In this case, due to the chaotic conditions of this particular November day, I’m cheating a bit, in that my poem below does not completely fit with the photo, and is also a poem  that I have posted before.  (But what’s cheating in love and poetry? Ummm… not a great thing.  Sorry.)

Still, it is an interesting poem, and although I think it belongs to the image of an older female–i.e. one about my own age–it does describe a certain twilit mental crossroads (one without clear signposts, and perhaps, several empty chairs.)

Villanelle to Wandering Brain

Sometimes my mind feels like it’s lost its way
and must make do with words that are in reach
as pink as dusk (not dawn), the half-light of the day,

when what it craves is crimson, noon in May,
the unscathed verb or complex forms of speech.
But sometimes my mind feels like it’s lost its way

and calls the egg a lightbulb, plan a tray,
and no matter how it search or how beseech
is pink as dusk (not dawn), the half-light of the day.

I try to make a joke of my decay
or say that busy-ness acts as the leech
that makes my mind feel like it’s lost its way,

but whole years seem as spent as last month’s pay,
plundered in unmet dares to eat a peach—
as pink as dusk (not dawn), the half-light of the day.

There is so much I think I still should say,
so press poor words like linens to heart’s breach,
but find my mind has somehow lost its way
as pink as dusk (not dawn), the half-light of the day.