Archive for the ‘2019’ Category

No!

Wednesday, April 10th, 2019

Days watching TV
Instead of writing poems
NaPoWriNoMo?

Yes, Sally Jane

Wednesday, April 10th, 2019

I am one of those
Poets who try to catch up
When I fall behind.

Mosquito Snow

Wednesday, April 10th, 2019

Mountains disappear
In April snow. Buddhists pray:
Freeze, mosquito eggs.

Yucca

Wednesday, April 10th, 2019

Winter yellow spears
gently gather snow, rain,
distracted horse’s life.

Thank Queer Eye for the Recipe
And Spray with Lemon

Wednesday, April 10th, 2019

Halved, tossed with garlic
Bacon grease, salt and pepper
Brussels sprouts don’t fart.

Babylonian Bazaar

Friday, April 5th, 2019

The striped vegetable stalls
of the mountain street market
aren’t full of home grown vegetables
but stones men find in cave pockets
to polish and suitably sell where people
don’t bother to brush their hair
or properly corral proud nipples
before wandering the town square.
Most Saturdays I come here to pause
over tables dotted with wire-wraps
of rose quartz, bloodstone, turquoise,
the solid, nervine promises of lapis
lazuli—muse of ancient blue glaze—
but my bare throat is no Ishtar’s Gate.

2019

Elephant Cloud Gallery

Friday, April 5th, 2019

Crows and honey comb,
Rothko, faceless floating man:
Paintings can’t agree.

2019

First Throw

Wednesday, April 3rd, 2019

Red mud cup on the wheel.
Your first. Slice it off with wire.
It dries. Note the bottom crack.
Damn. Change your plans.
Feed it to electric fire. Shrink.
Think coffee size, get tea.
Glaze it like an earth or sky
With your sloppiest thought.
Only for your hands. This cup.
Tiny planter? Better. Tequila.
Drink from the bottom seep.
Dream wabi sabi silver seam.

2019

Invisible Dog

Tuesday, April 2nd, 2019

When the day goes grey
my invisible dog gets antsy.
No one but me hears him bark,
frantic, while I slip on boots,
smiling at his silly grammar.
I take him off leash. He knows
the eleven-minute loop
by heart, is actually walking me.
Twitching toward coyote,
mountain lion, wild cat,
domestic dog, brown bear:
holy scat. All to the nose,
none to the lifted leg,
are sacrosanct.
He’s no ghost.
This pinyon church
in which we live,
his scented domain.
God’s favorite dog.
When we return,
I appear alone.
My husband doesn’t know
while we watch the screen,
invisible, my dog sits pretty,
watching me, hunting my eyes,
tongue panting gratitude and hope
for another go. I don’t.

2019

Self Portrait as Hydra

Monday, April 1st, 2019

I slash at my own heads.
One lost, two gained.
Always budding.
Beast of Hera,
Barely visible to the naked eye.
When Sun is in Cancer,
My heads are near.
If disturbed, I contract.
Cut me into pieces: I rebuild.
Never a set number of heads.
Some say seven, some nine,
Others one hundred.
Only one is immortal. Guess.
I reproduce on my own
Unless conditions are harsh:
Winter, poor food.
I reach out for a mate.
One man’s morbid task.
They called him Hercules
But killers are weak.
The strong man lets me live, finds
My singular immortality
Loving me.
I live forever under
The right circumstances,
See without eyes,
Sting in response to light,
Align with moons:
Charon, ferryman of
Forgetfulness.
Align with Nix.
Non-zero.
My tiny eccentricity.
Larger than Pluto’s
Smallest moons,
Smaller than Styx.
Invertebrate capable of great
Contraction, still I reach
Through fresh water,
Digest what is whole,
Regenerate.
Stopped up in one place,
I burst forth in another.

2019

Happy National Poetry Month!
Let Poem-a-Day practice begin!!

Monday, April 1st, 2019

Here we are again, my poetry peeps!  National Poetry Month is my absolute favorite month of the year, which might also be connected to the fact that April is the month of my birth. And who doesn’t love spring after a long winter?  So, let’s start writing. I don’t think I’ve ever actually written a poem for every day in April, but I get darn close.  Here’s a link to the NaPoWriMo page that gives us prompts to help us write a poem a day. Let’s do this!

napo2019button1

16 and 19

Friday, March 29th, 2019

Taller than        their mother,               now men,

heavy-           hearted heads          their inheritance,

sometimes        they are little boys,       straddle handles

on         rolling suitcases             to ride them,

long legs          Fred Flintstoning            down the ramp

to           plane entrances.                 Then they are

holograms:       mirages of toddlers,        5- to 12-year-olds

prism-tilting         out at all angles       superimposed over

grown bodies             like time           ghosts.

2019

Fresh Snow Haipu

Monday, March 18th, 2019

More beautiful now
Snow rests upon new places
Full bag of dog doo

2019

After the Hot Springs

Sunday, March 17th, 2019

Despite the time
Change, I slept,
My body its own bed
Of buried salt water.
Lithium infused, my dreams
Lounged around
My edges like fat elders,
No longer self-conscious
Of saggy arms draped
Along pool ledges,
Outstretched like a hug
Headed nowhere.

2019

47

Saturday, March 9th, 2019

after Nathan Brown

To the touch, my face feels
like a bloated marshmallow
when I wake, the kind
about to slip its skin over fire.
Puffy, warm, loose. Not so
fine lines and nearsightedness
combine to make memories rise.
My mother’s voice in her late 40s,
50s, 60s, 70s, before her vanity
on a small red-cushioned
wrought iron stool
in the master bathroom,
magnifying mirror parked
like a goblet of mercury.
Hearing my morning approach,
lifting a folded, cold wash cloth
off her eyes, wide blue and bright
with disgust at her body’s betrayal,
she would bark, “Look at these eyes!”
and jab an accusing finger
at the soft face, not the mirror,
that has always loved me.

2019