Jul 19 2018

my swamp, your swamp,
we all have a swamp

Mine lives just down the road, at the bottom of a hill I don’t climb often enough.

There are all sorts of metaphors I could spin around swamps, all sorts of things to say about current events.

Suffice it to say the last 18 months have been rough, in so many ways.

For now, the swamp is still there. It’s been a dry couple of months, so I won’t be surprised if it evaporates again this year. The fish will die, the air will smell, the herons, egrets, and vultures will have a party.

I will miss the reflection of sky as I drive by.

I will miss the serenity and the promise of intrigue that bodies of water always offer.

I will miss the geese who have nowhere to land.

I will miss the comfort of home.

I will despair, briefly, at all the mud and the loss and the injustice.
(I don’t do well with injustice).

One day it will rain again.

Puddles will grow and water will flow.

I’ll complain about the basement flooding.

The birds will return and the sun will shine and the cycle will begin, again.

At least that’s what I want to believe.

. . .

the crows wait by the side
as i skirt the puffed body
of an unfortunate car-naive groundhog

. . .

I hold my breath and keep walking,
metaphors lining my pockets.

. . .




Jul 16 2018

how high’s the water now, mama?

. . .

when we all have wet feet and broken hearts and crooked arrows

incredulity becomes reality and mud sticks between toes

that refuse to stop walking


the slap of heels on grooved wet pavement

it just keeps raining (pouring)

salt in old wounds

no time to heal

no time


on time

an hourglass

of sacrificial sand

it just keeps raining (pouring)

the slap of heels on grooved wet pavement


that refuse to stop walking

incredulity becomes reality and mud sticks between toes

when we all have wet feet and broken hearts and crooked arrows

. . .



Jan 1 2018

the first

a frozen sunrise
leaps between trees shocked
by the cold of reality
on a morning left behind
by a year
marked with double-time
black heels pounding
history’s false rhythm
good evil
light dark
black white
grey pavement winding
the only




Joining in over at dVersePoets for Quadrille.

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






Sep 22 2017

we have all
these pretty pictures

and all these temporary moments
but we crave permanence, don’t we?

i think that may be what makes us human

all these losses
broken promises
little hurts
deep wounds

stem from that desire

and the reality of truth
is always winning

say hello
wave goodbye

each night
each hour
each minute

say hello
wave goodbye

the morning glory
has just one day
to bloom

say hello
wave goodbye

but look
how she loves
the sky




Sep 11 2017

nine eleven

sixteen years later
that’s what we call it

not nine eleven oh one
not September 11, 2001
nine eleven

two words

three digits

two towers

four planes




not statistics





not dates
or where were you’s

just whole hearts
in odd numbers

each one

the only necessary


of love



I wrote this for the 10-year anniversary
of this tragic, horrid event.
I am re-posting it again today, in honor of all those hearts.
Never forget.


Aug 15 2017



i walked
in the rain



head held






Jul 11 2017

i made you my art, and then I remembered

i once
built a moon
on a red wall of chapter
singing verse and pressing mortar
into cracks and desperation

all scrabble fingered
and blister burned

pasting love and scraps of
over lies and offered

all the while pretty singing

this is the light
we eat by

this is the light
i worship at night

this is the light
i fly to

burning wing and hemmed

my own false idol
swinging from a string
in the blackest corner
of orion’s night




Jun 28 2017


as the crow

through clouded

my heart
will carry me




Apr 30 2017

it’s like this

there will always be days
stretched tight
by the too dry skin
of living

there will always
be evil
rubbing shoulders
with light

always be witches
dancing circles
at night

always a cloud
blotting out
the gold sun

always loss and possibility
mixing chance
in roiling ocean

it doesn’t have
to be enough

or even

warmth is the illusion
of life

parody is pure
in the blossom of sight

and green things grow
from the cracks
in black ice