Sun on the porch!
I never complained of rain.
Bees flyby my red chair.



you have yourself
and all the birthday cake
you can hold
you do not need me
or my thoughts
you you you you
I think I have my title

Take them, they’re yours

My words, cast on the wind
to travel where they will
without map or GPS, these
tender mercies given to me
translated to hopeful wordplay

Knowing how often they lack
but what they do not have in substance
they make up for in spirit
my little ones with bright eyes
that want to reach you

If you steal my verses
my words, like my children
from my soul, a deep place–
aweak place–sometimes a strong place–
they could touch you too

So this is me, a vagabond
in this world, still unable
to put a label upon myself
giving you the one thing I have
like fingerprints

Love letters

Love letters?
Sure I love them
how they meet
and merge
Even the Q
Though less
accommodating than others
like me
some days

you push your way
inside me
hot and pulsing
every word
melded with mine
a new being
glowing outward
from my eyes

the danger being
that such volatile
might melt, and
seep into the blood
until I am no longer
me but us
some kind of animal
words for eyes

Letter from the sanatorium

When Monday comes you’ll be doing what you do
what you always do. A productive day
even if you daydream on the way
during drive-through coffee
or heart murmur’d traffic, a world
I left behind, responsible and hectic

Yet, you meet me where I am
in a sink full of dishes that does not end
looking out the window at a world
that is not always a friend
reading books that show me
a thousand worlds

I am not sad–so don’t you feel bad
only keep on covering me
in that sweet veneer
in times like this friendship is dear
when I’m waiting on rain and it just won’t come
brushing my hair with silence instead of a comb

When Monday arrives smelling good in your suit
I’ll be cleaning up from Sunday
and tucking away loot
a dollar in an envelope a fiver in the drawer
under my panties, in my socks
what am I keeping it there for

I’ve got this inclination–
call it a whim call it a dream
I’ll check out of here someday
a momentary gleam–of fantasy
and thoughts of luck
and saving every solitary buck

So when I get enough of them
I’ll find contentment
looking like a friend

open (wound)

writing here
is like writing in an open
volcano crater

the night was easy, now
the morning
much like a razor

held gently (my eyes on Mars)
it won’t cut me
if I don’t squeeze too hard

still I’m bleeding (words)
for days
and this can’t be covered
with your Band-aid

sorry it got on your shoes
are they last year’s Prada
bought yesterday?

tell me what you see
(after short-sheeting me)
in the folds of the bed

through your filters
I only see red

lap dancin’ poets

cannot be trusted–
give them a few nicely formed words
and the next thing you know they are
sliding into your lap
I can dig it–
a few notes of inspiration
and perspiration
baring my soul, heart,
body, and my mind
to the world–
but when you end up in my face
I find it hard to think straight

hell if I know what
poets are thinking
one day they are crying
and the next they are drooling
over some flower
that popped up in their garden
or the sun rising and falling–
I suppose that is
to throw the rest of us off
in this odd, huge world community
where I can’t even trust
the dangling participles

Continue reading “lap dancin’ poets”

Hold on, hold on

I was there (I am here)
right where you were – teetering-
over coals I danced
putting all the words in Times New Roman
in a fire-proof box
pithy words – funeral plans-
and watching someone
romanticize your end
makes me sick (I wish
we were friends)
Ginny, why dammit
(hold on, hold on)
did no one tell you not to go
or was your mind made up-
if we had been friends
(I wonder)
could words be enough
would we
have stopped one another
from making the decision
to end the dance