Poetry, Prose, Art, Photography, Random Shit

blue ink

falls behind
glass and sand sunset
shadows taller
our love
blue ink
into water

a magic day he passed my way

maybe i could fall asleep if you would sing to me

he said, sweetly

settling under my chin

so i

who refuse to sing

allowed a nat king cole lullaby

nature boy

to fall gently from my lips

that is how i know he is the only one for me

there was a boy…

a very strange, enchanted boy…

they say he wandered very far, very far

over land and sea…


pictures of
young Virginia Woolf
cause me to weep
her features
seem as though
depression was her mother
pain her father
a mouth made to sigh
as if she knew
the moment she was born
she wanted to die

now that my heart falls asleep full of love

now that my heart
falls asleep full of love
it empties itself of horrors held silent
through my dreams
in the night
wounds inflicted at the hands
of a man who was never right
or worthy of sharing my bed
i pitch and scream
crying out to be let go
for justice
for my children
for help
for light
in the end
i endure
i escape
i reclaim my name
i wake
to a miraculous new life

fallen hearts

keep a supply
of iodine and fresh bandages
if you make a habit
of trying to glue back together
broken people
you will cut your fingers
on their fallen hearts
as if they were
shattered wine glasses

my poetry waits quietly in my pocketbook

happiness is
turning my moments
of inspiration
Pinterest sessions
where one may choose
cakes made from edible flowers
lavender lovely
make wedding centerpieces
from hemp rope,
vintage coffee sack burlap,
and the discarded
quilt pieces of the
Daughters of the American Revolution
my poetry waits quietly
in my pocketbook
content in my joy
encouraging me
to be my own woman
a connoisseur of literature
a goddess of wine
Dionysus triumphant
a suburban expatriate
who refuses to put a rug
on her toilet lid
born to a people who do

bluegrass and white fences

has a way about it
that feels
both timeless
and impermanent
without ever
choosing a side

she is beautiful


a waitress has the power
to break your heart
with her kindness

this morning
there is an 80-year-old
bringing me coffee
with the same watch yourself it’s hot care
a grandmother would

one of her legs is longer than the other
she has a special lifted shoe
and walks with a limp

i see lines deepen around her eyes
with every step
she is in pain
and has sons who don’t call

she makes me want to sit her down
and wait on her

ask her lilting southern voice
where she was
when we killed martin and each kennedy

after my bagel disappeared
i left her a twenty on the table
though i can’t afford to

pondering that no one deserves this at age 80

the word expatriate
forms a bitter lump in my throat

settling up at the cashier stand
i tell the flippant manager
with the microphone

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jackie went crawling


how fitting
that we exploded
the same november day
jackie went crawling
on the trunk of a convertible
to chase down a piece of jack’s skull

festive to a fault we were
never missing observances
or special occasions

books were written
conspiracy theories

and there is still a castro controlling cuba

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