Apr 4 2020

30 days of poems – 2020 {4}


mo(u)rning song

a grey veil
of fog

does not stop
the red, red cardinal
from singing

from the topmost branch
of the still-bare tree
planted by the echo
of ancestor

in the hedgerow
red-winged blackbirds

crow vies with jay

together we begin

a new day


. . . . .


here i am again, doing this again–30 days of poems, hoping the words will come.
hoping hope will come, as well.

Apr 3 2020

30 days of poems – 2020 {3}



everything is clean
and the world
is awash
with disease


ill seas

i watch the sky
not certain why

searching for signs
or rhymes
or lines

in the right



. . . . .


here i am again, doing this again–30 days of poems, hoping the words will come.
hoping hope will come, as well.

Apr 2 2020

30 days of poems – 2020 {2}


holding on


your hand
your love
your whisper of hope
tiny miracles
grey clouds

orion high
in night’s dark sky

a robin
builds a nest
in the tree
outside my window

she is my


. . . . .


here i am again, doing this again–30 days of poems, hoping the words will come.
hoping hope will come, as well.

Mar 31 2020

the simple sanity
of losing one’s mind

perhaps in a book
or under a rock in a garden
dotted with daffodil

or a path down the side
of a long empty road
dancing sideways and laughing
in that way no one ever
wants to hear

there’s always folding laundry
into perfect measured

or washing dishing
just as the sun
begins to settle

there are six snowdrops
by the back door

nine crocus

ten thousand leaves

(i counted)

but at night
in a room
filled with ghosts and
fraught silence

there is no way around
this bitter elephant
crushing my chest
and building a home

in the corners
of verity

i see you
eating darkness

feeding fear
and ancient bear

i see you bleeding tears
of collective memory

and you
keep visiting
my dreams

as if

there is something
to say



Mar 11 2020

last night

i let the dog out
and the moon was singing

down at the swamp
one thousand geese
honked the words
to a universal melody

polaris twinkled

guiding each of us






Feb 11 2020

love letter from the shade
of a tree long gone

and the minutes
turn back into hours

resting lazily
on firmaments
of fiction

you with
your back turned


from the light
and this corner
always lurking

never parried

a universe
in small spaces

revealing worlds
or open secrets

building stories
one by one

toppling towers

picking up pieces
again and again

learning you
in new lessons

leaving scars
mixed with


and midnight




Jan 20 2020

sitting with all of it

because what choice do we have

and besides
the sun made a rare appearance this morning
dishes needed washing
we need to eat


some days
it’s fair to say

i’m tired.

part of me thinks
is for the young

and we’re all just



to stand
or soar
or sit with it all

once more





Jan 9 2020

hot flashes

I couldn’t sleep for weeks
and then I remembered that I needed to write.

Ariel was always a dream, but a wakeful one,
whispering pictures and posturing portent.

I don’t need to sing, my body
is always happy to do that for me.

There’s a fire burning inside me (literally)
at the same time there’s a fire
burning down the world.

I lay awake at night and rage at everything,
but in a peaceful way.

I eat grace for breakfast and anomaly for lunch.

Everything has too many calories.
Something else I have to burn.

I can only sleep when my feet are cool
and mine are scorching these sheets
like my mother’s old iron.

This room is never dark enough,
and I am never really here.

It doesn’t matter.

Matter is energy and I am combustible.
I float like a gas just south of the ceiling.

No one ever notices, which is funny.
Except when I get stuck in cobwebs.

I’ve lived in this house longer than I haven’t.
It’s small and tiny and we are always tripping over each other.

I trip over everything anyway.

It’s winter and I miss the sky.

The snow geese are down at the swamp screaming injustice.

On New Year’s Eve the fireworks gave them fits
and I smiled as I stood
alone in the center of road
as white sparks drifted down
like lost feathers.




Dec 31 2019


i swallow purple and dream of bluebells
blanketing a field made of permanence

they put me under and i bleed in tandem
with color-blind heart
and restless fingers
tapping love songs to spiders
in starlit soliloquy

and we run
through red rivers
black oceans
dead forests

never out of breath
or short of currency

trailing ribbons
weaving knots
stitching sides





Nov 11 2017

these things take time

people say you’ve changed
and i say


about time!

how high?

my feet got bigger
and my hips got wider
and crone was painted every
where i looked in
big red scary letters
or long retracted grey whispers
(and both sound exactly just the same)

i inherited all this anger
from the girl that came before
this rage
raging all around

i’ve been breathing rage
for a year now

a year that broke my heart
in every sideway possible
and screwed it back together
with those cheap screws
that break
when you crank too hard

that makes it sound worse than it was
that makes it sound easier than screaming
that makes it sound so grandiose

when really it was just hours
and minutes and tears and breathing
sweat equity pouring down my back
as i walked for miles and miles and miles
and never did get far enough away

i have calluses stronger than my silence
i have plastic words and a purple parachute
i have this empty body standing tall

and we all sag under the weight
of whittled-down survival


this afternoon
the sky
was filled with geese

winter is coming

winter is coming

at night i hear these words
in the darkness

outside my window

inside my head

your voice

my voice

whisper scream

the possibility

of resurrection