•September 2, 2017 • Leave a Comment

I make monsters
out of molehills
as I toss my hair
and try to skip
and around them
or I blithely think
“I’ll kick them down”
but by then
they have already grabbed
my ankles
yanking hard
causing me to stop and sink
and who can skip
or think or kick
or blithely do anything
when you’re up to your knees
in monster’s muck
not me apparently
and so today
I simply
look and lock eyes
monster a monster
and wonder if they know
just who it is
they have in tow



Demon pet Painting: A Girl and her Demon Pet, by Omar Rayyan

This is a reposting of a poem that has become, I guess always is, relevant again. Also because I feel the month of October picking up speed towards me.


As Summer Ends

•August 28, 2017 • Leave a Comment

I envy the distant heat
Lightning between spectres
Dark clouds electric
Shrouds of static connection
The spark and quick response
Of attraction so fast
The charges meet and clash
With silent gasps and winks
Before the rest of us
Give thought to wince or blink



Would Rot

•August 25, 2017 • Leave a Comment

Rotting old sills
Let in winnowing light
I will witness the day with
Decomposing delight



Something Different

•August 2, 2017 • 5 Comments

When I arrived home this afternoon, from yet another therapy session, I wasn’t quite sure what to do with myself. I never am, as I am full of unformed ideas, globular feelings, and untethered thoughts, all of which quickly escape my grasp and leave me sometimes more empty than before. I typically eat something less than satisfying and turn on the news, and I did that again today. But it felt hollow and unproductive, and has been trending that way for awhile. Today, however, instead of just giving in to the empty calories of junk and media, I turned off the television and asked myself, “What do you actually want to do?” Myself whispered back, “go sit on the front porch with that storm rolling in and write.” I wanted to do something different.

So here I am. I am sitting on my porch with warm and stormy winds swirling, and thunder echoing all around me. It seems as though the dark clouds are gathering on all sides of me and converging on this very spot, while I sit here quite in the middle of it writing, and feeling, and watching it build on itself. In my peripheral vision I see lightening blinking, and with each crack of thunder I hear dogs in the distance barking from inside their homes. Are they barking in fear, or are they simply doing their best to shepherd the storm away from their front doors?

There are landscape workers in bright orange t-shirts across the street. They had been sitting in their truck eating lunch, sandwiches I think, when I first walked outside. But now they are each respectively; out and sitting on the curb, pacing back and forth in the street talking on a cell phone, and standing still in the alley way with hands on hips looking up at the sky. I imagine the cab of the truck became too still and stifling, in temperature and in company. But outside of the truck there is more space, and it is cooler now with the cloud-cover and turbulent breeze. The man sitting on the curb takes off his work boots and wiggles his toes. He is rubbing the arch of his left foot, then quickly shoving his white-socked feet back into those damn boots. I know that feeling, that ache of feet. I also know that rubbing your own feet is never quite as satisfying as when a loved one does it for you. However, doing it yourself will usually suffice when one is alone and has feet in need of soothing. Perhaps tonight someone will lovingly hold his feet and comfort him, only after the working-dirt has been washed off of course. I wish that for him. He should have that moment of care and connection tonight. Someone should, even if that will not be my own fate for this evening.

Is it wrong that I sit here wishing for the sky to split open? Enough with the rumbling and warning. Enough talk. Let’s do this thing. Can you just split and spill please!

The sky is not listening to me. Well, if it is listening it is only answering back with grumbling refusals. It is certainly not heeding my command. Silly sky and Thunder God, don’t you know who I am? I am a girl with an empty heart imploring you to spill your rain and fill me up. What better plans did you have today? What better goal than that? And still He simply fusses and laughs and denies my fullness for now. So I shrug my shoulders and inhale deeply. I will settle for filling myself with the scent of approaching rain, that smell of fresh and moisture-heavy air. That smell which carries with it hope and cleansing, possibility and a clean slate…even if only for an afternoon. So, that is all the sky will give for now, that sweet scent of torrential-potential, and I will breathe in again and accept it.

The workers have ended their break and are cranking up their manmade motorized rumbling machines. The grumbles blend in to the sound of thunder and it is hard to tell where one starts and the other begins. They must be glad to have the heat of day cooled for them. I wonder if they feel some company, like I do, as the sky does its own high decibel labor above them. I suppose each of us has work to do; the sky, the landscapers, and me. Each of us maintaining, doing what we must, full and moving forward. All fortuitously in the same spot, gutting it out and grinding separately, but somehow in it together for the moment. Towards what end, who knows, but in proximity just the same. Let us do our work together for awhile.

And now it seems we must move on. Those stingy clouds are passing, the men have finished and are back in their truck and driving away, and me…I gather myself, my words, and my emptiness. I prepare my heart to go inside and do those things that must be done, and as I do, a bolt of lightening splits the grey, the Thunder God cracks and calls out to me, and steady drops of rain begin falling from the sky.



Clearly I felt like posting something different. I tried to write a poem and this is what emerged, for better or worse. I am sure there are grammatical mistakes…as it is mostly free writing and mostly unedited. It as my attempt to write what and how I feel like writing, regardless of form or perfection. I have been writing so much lately that is not poetry…and it has been begging for the same light of day. So here is something different.

No Matter

•June 24, 2017 • 4 Comments

The will to write escapes me
Not because there is nothing
But because there is too much
And in that muchness I feel nothing
I have become a shadow whisp of me
With vortex-swirls inside
Contained by only what once was
And ghosts they cannot write of it
Their fingers only slip through keys
Or try to grip pencils in vain
The most they do is flicker lights
Perhaps with just enough mad fight
They may knock a few memories
To shatter from some shelves
Maybe rearrange a few dear pieces
Causing only slight concern
Or speak their scattered verse
In the static between stations
I can do that, I have done that
But write about the nothing much
With fingers made of unformed air
What restless spirit can do that
No matter the will to try


Painting: Judith By Laurel Hausler

Half Full

•May 6, 2017 • 3 Comments

My fingertips can feel again
They’d been numb for quite awhile
Oh such things
To do with them
This tapping time was not my style

My palms are warming plump again
The chilly fists they’d made are free
To press them on
The pulsing world
This holding empty was not me

My hands are reaching out again
With friction ridge and patterned palm
Toward sanguine space
Where instincts play
This beckoning could be my balm



Painting: The Dance By Penny Warden

Half Empty

•May 3, 2017 • Leave a Comment

I was dead
In future moments
So I gladly wept and leapt
With pessimism’s groaning
Melodies whispered in my ear
A moaning of such sweet surrender
Dissenting sighs of rest and resignation
A momentary melancholic lullaby
Without much meaning or making
My home without itself to master
Which was everything to spite
Me as nothing empty
From this moment
I was born



Painting: Optimism v/s Pessimism by Lokesh Mandot

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