cattail frolic.jpg

how could I be this lucky
fortunate girl
driving past such riches
of purple and yellow, side by side
with dried husks of late summer
cattails rising from rain-soaked ditches
the cornflowers
exquisitely unconcerned
with life driving by


painted with coffee, blueberries, and acrylics

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August wasn’t meant to dispense mercy
every bit of heat and glare possible
concocted by a troubled day
that some find shiny.
If I were honest, I do feel guilty
for grumbling, even silently, of
perspiration. aggravation. recalescence.
a created coolbringing option on my car
that doesn’t keep up, but
I know it wants to, panting
at every red light and train crossing
coughing for a good five minutes
after I have taken out the key

Working conditions

He said he would install a/c
in the room in which
I work in, but
I said no–I think I need
to be truly miserable to write
or the words come out anemic

He has not spoken to me
all day
since then
disgusted–or at least thrown
by my logic
which he says
has no basis outside of emotion

I wonder why he does not
go with the flow
and the reality
of living with me under a storm cloud
for 29 years
after all
I have a good umbrella.

It is cool under there
and safe from blinding suns.
He must admit
that the rain
has done an amazing job
with the impatiens


hotter than eggs on a pan

sitting in my own sweat
t-shirt sticking to the car seat
I go back years
to the scent of patchouli
and a badlyrolled joint
the backdrop for us

you and me and he
a triangle of the craziest, and
she nearly took my head off
guessing what game we were playing
the day covered in southern comfort

I was so glad mom didn’t know
what I was up to
sizzling summer days
on eagles’ wings
however we grasped at them
hands-knees-lips-neck

memories etched
in the rocks at the lake
impressions of our bodies gone
as sand shifted and water seeped
before anyone could see
that we had been there

Our summer carpet

clover

It was the dads
who wanted to be rid of the dandelions
we sat for hours tying them stem to stem
into necklaces
worthy of Cleopatra
bracelets we imagined bangled
as we held hands and danced
and then she would spin
a whirling dervish in a pink headband
the clovers hiding their four-leafed numbers
for then, we were not intended to succeed
too quickly
the grass rich, and the weeds plentiful
but they looked like blooms
from Nebuchadnezzar’s hanging gardens
to us

date night

I reach out for the vents
pointing the a/c at my thighs
and my neck
turning on the Stones
and edit this moment
to feel like a good time
a really, really good time
baby

you pop French fries
into my mouth
going 75 in the middle lane
dodging semi’s
and giggling
at your bad jokes
my hand at six o’clock
on the wheel

Dog days psalm

trees and sky

The loneliness has been beating me up
following me around during these dog days
a bag of rocks hanging around my neck
that I could not be wholly rid of

But when I fall on my knees
I feel so free, taking my eyes off me
I fall on my knees and I’m feeling released
when I pray and thank you Lord for your love

The stifling heat tries to tell me lies
that the bad will follow me around for good
voices in my head that say there’s no point
to convince me to stop trying and just lay down

But when I fall to my knees
feeling love, in sweet repose
the peace comes like fog rolling in
and the loneliness–it hits the streets


inspired by Isaiah 26:3 (ESV)
You keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you, because he trusts in you.

their seasons

damp brow
hard work and well-
earned rest
a starling sings, and
she lifts her hands
in prayer-full stance–
the wind is shifting
and she remembers

pre-twilight
early summer blues
a man-boy’s voice, inviting
don’t forget about the love
don’t leave behind
don’t leave summer behind

evergreen
through July’s singe of grass
first raspberries tart
and sweet
red lips musing
a wipe on the back of her arm
leaves
traces of longing

what do you suppose
the clouds talk about
congregating in cirrocumulus bevy
when they see all of it–
the neck bite
the slammed door
one red apple

by August’s fireflies
he-on the road
writing sonnets on social media
bursts
from her pen
epics he will not read
reams, of
her late night daydreams

just in time
for September,she
will answer the phone
breathless
wondering why he waited
until he finished the bottle
to call
each word counted
and kept

starting his wander back
he searches for her key
in a pocket with a hole in it
knowing
it will take nearly ’til May
to speak of her again. Until

the breeze catches her scent
and he returns, to
find her once more–
his brown-haired fay
he swore was made of vapour
from the clouds
of early June