Saturday, April 21, 2018

This Is The Last Poem I Will Ever Write (yayyy!) Oh No I've Changed My Mind Again (booo!) Good Night & Thank You.


I made it through day 20 of

non-dairy nano neener or whatever,

and now I need to 
 attend to important retiree shit.

^^^(not a poem)

I want my mornings back.  I need to binge watch something and eat ice cream out of the carton with my hands. I need to sing "Puff The Magic Dragon" in a heavy German accent. I need to look up Roger Freed's career batting average, and how to make a bundt cake and then not make a bundt cake.

I need to put my feet on the back of the couch
with my head off the edge and my tongue hanging out
while watching "Alice" reruns.

I need to ask Zacky Peanut "Who's a good boy?!?!"  
(Zacky Peanut is!)

I need to blast the stereo.

 I cannot brain today.

I have the dumb.


Friday, April 20, 2018

Sunset On The Cul De Sac

A pestilence took Jenny.
Our dolls' heads puked and did 360's.
Dad dumped Mom.
Bitches blew up his phone.

Kool Kat said,  pulp Jenny for a spell book.
Sun Rayz got her period.
I had a cool scab.

Doctor Rover couldn't save Jenny.
Mom's on bath salts.
Cloe kissed me for practice.
Damn the mosquitoes. 

a bit of foolishness for day 20

and for my BFF's flash 55 party.

Wednesday, April 18, 2018


Our Lady of the Blackberry Vine
reads Rilke for the thorn-caught ghosts,
herself their only anodyne.

With sugar cane and turpentine
she paints their lonely coffin-boats,
Our Lady of the Blackberry Vine.

She makes for them the Holy Sign
her foxfire flock in rotted clothes,
herself their only anodyne.

Willow wafer, cypress wine,
saint cards she sews in pocket-coats,
Our Lady of the Blackberry Vine. 

Her hair is braided serpentine
to be for them a woven host
herself their only anodyne.

No Diocese need her assign
to wash the feet that need it most;
Our Lady of the Blackberry Vine
herself their only anodyne.

for day 19, ever so slightly early.

I have never had any success trying to write a villanelle. The only one I ever managed to finish was a light-hearted one about my dog. But I thought I would try again, and this is the result. Thanks again to my BFF hedgewitch for the forms she recommended at my request.

Whee, or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The G's

"We are but a moment's sunlight"

In the stylish modern kitchen of God,
we are all just a glass
dropped from the Divine Hand.

All that came before
and all that comes after
stretch immeasurably in every direction--
God's crib is huge.

Ahead of us,
the Italian marble the Divine Dogs tread
will smash our vessel to smithereens.

For now, though, there's this weird fleeting instant
while we're in flight,
very importantly sweating which way we slosh
inside our little temporary capsule.

Very soon we'll be released,
set free to flow in the Cosmic Spill.
Don't worry, He's got cupboards full of Waterford,
and we'll be launched again
like space monkeys.

Until then don't stress, Little Rider.
Just let the vessel rock you like a cradle you can trust
but won't remember
from this time when you are dinky, but growing. 

for day 18.

and for Paul's "Write Here, Right Now" goose at Toads.

the quote at top is from the song "Get Together" written by Chet Powers aka Dino Valenti and made famous by the Youngbloods, Jefferson Airplane and others.

Many pardons are begged of the Goddess for my frivolous portrayal of Her as male in this poem.  I'll be doing dishes in the Celestial Kitchen for a year. Or emptying waste baskets in Her corner office on janitorial night shift. I am but a froward fool.


Tuesday, April 17, 2018

Blue Swans, Blue Stars

He said I was blue swans, blue stars,
a painted cup on a sill, reflected  lights in the rain.
I said I am a burning book, cinders, char. 
He said I was blue swans, blue stars.
I said I am a loosened stone, gravel, tar.
He whispered, honey and  hemlock sing the same.
He said I was blue swans, blue stars,
a painted cup on a sill, reflected lights in the rain. 

day 17


Monday, April 16, 2018

Sadie Hawkins Dance

At eleven, we were hollow-stemmed, yellow-haired flowering weeds,
all taller than the boys,
chained around a crab apple branch like thaw drops.

We were departing swallows
quicker than afternoon;
smug with our lessers, cowed by our betters,
kites with cat-tails, casting for a clue.

Want to go with me?
Say no, say yes, say no, say yes!
Whatever they said, it would be years before we felt this power again,
at the high arc of a cycle of seasons,
calling the steps, knowing the music would change.

day 16

for Rommy's "Fun and Games" prompt at Toads.

Sunday, April 15, 2018


At St. Catherine's
Master had a bowling ball in his throat.
A heavy fog drifted around our desks,
in our hair,

Ship's horns blew.
Some drowned.
I still can't identify the hypotenuse of a right triangle
or the bodies of the girls who turned to pussy-willows
during the long afternoons.

At night at St. Catherine's
I was in love with a girl who was not in love with me.
She spent her evenings stitching the windows closed,
while I fell in and out of clouds
like a blackbird in a storm in a book in my head.

St. Catherine's became a sea port,
then an art gallery,
then a candle wax manufactory.
It groaned under heavy currents,
the bricks ran in the rain,
then it caught fire and drifted into the harbor.

After St. Catherine's,
the girl who was not in love with me died
when her skirts became sails and sank 
somewhere off South America.
The guanacos  came down to eat her jewelry from her ears and fingers.
Then it rained but never touched the ground.

St Catherine's girls' choir
saved itself under my skin.
In the silent hours when my new love turns like stirred batter in my arms,
I can hear Handel.
Then I am alone except for the guanacos with their sorrowful eyes
who graze on the lichen in my palm, around my heart, and in this poem.

Process note, courtesy of Wikipedia:
Some guanacos live in the Atacama Desert, where in some areas it has not rained for over 50 years. A mountainous coastline running parallel to the desert enables them to survive in what are called "fog oases" or lomas. Where the cool water touches the hotter land, the air above the desert is cooled, creating a fog and thus, water vapor. Winds carry the fog across the desert, where cacti catch the water droplets and lichens that cling to the cacti soak it in like a sponge. Guanacos then eat the cacti flowers and the lichens.

St. Catherine's Taffy is a candy made by girls in Quebec to honour St. Catherine, the patron saint of unmarried women on her feast day, November 25.[1] St. Catherine's day is sometimes known in Quebec as "taffy day," a day when marriage-age girls would make taffy for eligible boys. Marguerite Bourgeoys, a founder of the Notre-Dame de Montréal and an early teacher at Ville-Marie, the colonial settlement that would later become Montreal is credited with starting the tradition as a way of keeping the attention of her young students.