Sunday, February 17, 2019

Dreaming in Green

I came to ask you
how you have managed 
to endure for millennia,
with humankind
so threatening.
Do you tremble
when you hear
the grapple-yarders
and the saws,
coming ever closer?
(I think you do.)

They rip your roots
out of the ground;
they stick up in the air,
like the wisdom teeth 
of the planet,
being pulled
by madmen
who have forgotten
we all need 
to breathe.

I imagine, much like us,
those peaceful hours when you sleep
are your release.

I imagine, when you dream,
that you still dream in green.

for Magaly's prompt at Real Toads: strange news. The question is do trees sleep at night? I think they do. They are very alive, and must need rest.

Thursday, February 14, 2019

On the Left Side of My Head

On the left side of my head, I turned my cheek.
Trying to kiss my lips, he landed on my ear.

That may have been the clue
we should have heeded.

The justice of the peace proclaimed the words
that turned me from girl to wife.

No skin off his nose; he was grinning,
likely imagining the awkward night to follow.

On the right side of my brain were enchanted
and magical thinking dreams.

On the left side of my life, I paid the price.
Being a wife did not bring a happy life.

My third eye was fixed on escape and liberation,
which finally arrived; o! merciful release!

The next man said "You've not been kissed
for a hundred years."

He said, "You came to me a virgin." It was true.
After that, left and right sides came together.

After that, when cage doors appeared,
I was a bird with eyes completely on the sky.

for Sanaa's challenge at Real Toads: to pen a poem in the style and format of Joseph Legaspi's poem "The Kisser's Handbook". Given my memory bank, this is what popped up. Nevertheless, I have remained a hopeless romantic all my life.

Instead of roses........

Instead of roses, bullets.
Instead of smiles, tears 
that will never end.
Like September 11,
Valentine's Day
will never be the same.
We remember you.

Today is the anniversary of the Valentine's Day shooting at the Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School.  Those Parkland kids who became activists after that event are my heroes, and my biggest source of hope. I hope all millennials turn out at the voting booths. We need every single one of their votes, if we are going to turn this ship around and get into sane and sustainable waters. Those who have sold their souls to money are never going to do what needs to be done. There is a good article about some of the Parkland survivors here.

Wednesday, February 13, 2019

In Love With the Wild

My heart belongs to the wild.
My eyes make love to the shore.
As long as I can hear the waves,
I could not ask for more.

I fell in love with the sky.
I lost my heart to the trees,
and a small wolf pup
with a goofy grin
claimed the rest of me.

He awakened the wild in me.
I loved the wild in him.
He lives forever in my heart.
His memory will never dim.

The creatures of the earth,
its mountains, fields 
and streams,
feed my hungry soul
and wander nightly
through my dreams.

As long as there is sky,
as long as there are trees,
I need little more than a roof
and a bed -
the wild's enough
for me.

for Susan's prompt at Midweek Motif: Love

Sunday, February 10, 2019


Gratitude travels
from eyes to heart,
at the beauty I am seeing.
Memory rolls out
the long line of gifts
I have been given.
From way back then
to the wonder of now:
my spirit rising
in a prayer of thankfulness
to the All That Is.

Gratitude is my most constant feeling, these days and all my days. For Marian's prompt at Real Toads: Sensation.

Friday, February 8, 2019

In This One Moment

At the shore,
sandpipers picky-toe
along the sand,
then rise as a group,
flying off
when a loose dog
gets too near.
The song of the sea
swirls through my being,
like a lullaby,
a hymn,
a cry of freedom.
The waves roll out;
they roll in.
is happening
in this one moment.

for Karin's prompt at Real Toads: Finding a Moment

Thursday, February 7, 2019


from deviant art

follow a raven
and find a wolf
hear her gobble-cry,
his soft whuff

up on the ridge
where wild grasses grow
they tarry to listen
while the west wind blows

the wolf sings out
when the full moon beams
hear his howl
threading through your dreams

out on the desert
before the dawn
you can look for his tracks
but he'll be gone

at the end of the trail
near the Joshua Tree
a big black wolf
waits for only me

one from 2012 to be shared with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United - great reading every Sunday morning.