Tuesday, July 14, 2015

Mag 278 — goodbye

So as to not disturb the silence from which
this poem came I will whisper goodbye.

No goodbyes to the space that will always
hold us but goodbye to the vastness of
that space. No goodbyes to your face that
is there for friends in the good book of
these days, and no goodbyes to your face
in smiling pictures from those days,
but goodbye to seeing eye to eye.
Goodbye to your hands: I loved them to
look at, and being gifted by them with
pleasures. Goodbye to the pleasure of
knowing you well. Goodbye to your voice-
its tone and timbre, and your written voice-
its passion and poignancy. Goodbye to all you
were for me—heartbreaker and muse, taker
and lover, forsaker and friend, forgiver and

*first stanza - with a nod to final line of HOW TO BE A POET by Wendell Berry

Written for The Mag: Mag 278 that inspired with the above image prompt.

Tuesday, July 7, 2015

Pause for Reflection

The image she kept of herself: sophisticated
elegance, hair swept in perfumed grace, nails
groomed pink clinking against the drink glass,
ice winking from clear blue eyes.

Who she was: the drunk in dirty overalls,
flirty beauty long gone, slurring stories long on
lies, interrupting herself with "Excuse me,"
before puking inside her garment bib.

Written (with gratitude for we women who have attained sobriety) for two writing prompts:

1) Photo Challenge #68, Pause at MindLoveMisery's Menagerie.
Note: Image by wallpaperswide.com

2) 55 words for Flash 55 Plus at imaginary garden with real toads

Tuesday, May 19, 2015

Mag 270 — imprint

Today, five months after your death,
two young deer surprised me in the
yard at dawn. One trotted rhythmically
across the lawn, but the other stood
stoically feet away and we regarded
one another with quiet understanding.

The day held sunshine that filtered
through the slats and rays streaked
your bed. I lie briefly there each
night, my head quieted, my bones
sinking into spots where you slept.
Truth is, I still weep for you there.

At dusk clouds bloated with moisture
chugged across the sky, competing
with the sun. Eventually, as was pre-
dicted, they won. But the glorious
contest colored a modest rainbow,
while birds worked on symphonies.

Tonight gentle rain misted the yard
you loved well. It puddled in huge
rocks where it fell, those turquoise
ones we had hauled here that are
beloved by butterflies in summer.
I think they leave their prints behind.

Written for The Mag: Mag 270 that inspired with the above image prompt: artwork 
by Ulrike Bolenz.

Monday, April 13, 2015

Mag 265 — I am the sea

This is me. I am the sea.
I am pale as foam and
blue, drenched by a river
of tears flowing into me —
From me waves of change
are blowing, yet
I am still in the night,
cradling my host of loved
ones of the deep. We
sleep with the moon in
reflective trust as aeons
of dreams turn the tide.

Written for The Mag: Mag 265 that inspired with the above image prompt: painting by Daria Petrilli.


Monday, March 23, 2015

Mag 262 — Green God

You see, I see you
you mossy green god
and god how I love you,
you with trunks to spare
and that wild white eye
beneath your unicorn horn

You see me ignoring your
comical grimace as I come
near to whisper into your
elfin ear god how I love you

You raise your forked tail
into the green canopy,
grasping to feel the rays
of the sun and

You coax out the stars
from a midnight sky to
cool under as I unroll
my bag to sleep beneath
you with your claws as a
mossy green pillow

You show me visions in my
dreams of the story of your
old forest grove, the sad story
how you came to be lone elder

You see then that I see you
and how your grimace formed
and why you grew your giant
elfin ear to maybe, maybe
hear across the fields for
messages from your type

You stretch deeper and farther
beyond the tender young ones
and grasses, reaching for eternity,
showing earth how you love her

Written for The Mag: Mag 262 that inspired with the above image prompt.


Tuesday, March 10, 2015


When when was a word
trailing off into space
and change was avoided, 
to keep an unholy peace,
I kept pace with the
fullness of nothing.

Then then became a sword
to die upon or to swallow
and in my marrow I knew
that when is now and
always had been.

So without a runway or
landing strip I changed
course and one day
I will say I flew.


Sunday, February 1, 2015

Flash 55 — Boon's


There is power of place here,
Solid as mortared brick -
Ethereal as finespun memories.

I sip Earl Grey tea
On a waning winter day,
Remembering dark ale drunk
In the sunshine of youth at
That table, and that one by the
Pot-bellied stove.

Decades slipped away …
And his eyes are still the bluest blue.


My post written in exactly 55 words for Flash 55, now hosted by the lovelies over at imaginary garden with read toads.

Friday, January 30, 2015

Meeting the Bar — For my dog, Bonbon

Jupiter and moons from telescope, via astronomyonline.org

Is our meeting place
Since you died my light went out
Out I go each night and I see you
Prancing there

Written for Meeting The Bar—The Cinquain .. .Expanded, at dVerse Poets Pub, hosted this week by Tony Maude. Tony has revitalized the traditional five-line Cinquain poetry form (follow link to refresh your memory) by working "with the cinquain, breaking it by adding an extra syllable to each line, giving a five-line poem with lines of 3, 5, 7, 9 and 3 syllables in that order." Very cool, Tony!



Related Posts with Thumbnails