Thursday, April 20, 2017

My Love Is Crow

My love is Crow, but I am not.  His wings
are black against my skin.  His voice is raw and rough,
and his English is terrible.

Skyless, I call him down to dirt.
Not born to ground, he begs me climb
to the top most branches of the oak tree -
we kiss high and hidden.

We're found when Fall and Frost take the leaves.
A sheriff comes with a shiny badge. A deputy ogles
my fine feathered body.
I stare back, unblinking.

My love is Crow, but I am not           not yet!
His blue is out of reach.
Weak winged, I cannot fly with him -
I'm falling.

For Fireblossom Friday at Real Toads

Sunday, April 16, 2017


Hard Rain
Gilad (173) Photobucket

I toss and turn beneath a sheet of rain.
The streetlight flickers fancies across my face.

I'm cornered at the corner of 4th and Main.
Caught between the weather and whether to wait

here pillowed by the pavement cold and awake
half-dreaming to myself you're late,

but coming.

A quick and dirty draft for Kerry at Real Toads.  Also submitted to Poetry Pantry at Poets United.

Friday, April 14, 2017


You are not
a consumer.  You are

but not breath.
but not song.

Your heart is a drum,
but no one marches
to its staccato

hitch   hitch   hitching itself
to a long dead star.

For Marian's prompt at Real Toads

Tuesday, April 11, 2017

Loud, Untethered, Free

Rocky Mountain Way
on the radio, I play
air guitar and sing -
loud, untethered, free.
Got no one bossin' me,
nowhere I gotta be,
but I'll get there -




Inspired to have a little fun by Kerry at Real Toads

News and Notes:  Sherry included one of my poems in a beautiful feature about daughter-inspired poems.  Sherry always does such a great job with these features.  You can read it a Poets United.

If that's not enough poetry for you, I also have some poems up at Five to One Magazine.  Happy Poetry Month!

Saturday, April 8, 2017

The Field Is Fallow

The field is fallow.

A breath
held.  A death knelled by an old belled
cat.  Till it, turn it tenderly,
check the almanac and the weather.
Consult the moon and your
arthritic knees.

The field is sown.

 It's too wet too dry
too wet too dry too wet -
the righteous and unrighteous alike
have sunburns and muddy boots.
Bankers never die.  Any morning you
could wake up with a sheriff's
sale in your stock pens and your daughter's
pony being led away by a stranger.
All because it was too wet too dry too wet
too dry too wet -

Before the sickle or scythe

From the air, the whole county
looks like a patchwork quilt.
Section line squares -  brown green brown green.  Beautiful.
So goddamn beautiful.

the field must grow.

You know
how ice tumbles in the clouds.
One drop. Then another
rises faster freezing falls
flattening all flattening all killing

The field is fallow.
The field is sown.
Before sickle or scythe
the field must grow.

For Sherry's prompt at Real Toads

Friday, April 7, 2017


Tree Girl with Woodpeckers (1960)
Kaoro Kawano

All bark and no bite -
that's the story of my life.

Rooted in place no matter
how rude the circumstance
or crass the company.  Fertilized
with bullshit.  Bladed by boys
to impress girls and scarred
long after C ceased
to LUV T 4-EVER.

This is not a smile -
it is a rictus, and it aches.
Beaks buried to my sap: tap, tap, tap.
Tap, tap, tap.  I've heard voices say
the shade is nice this time of year.
My face stays tilted to the sun,
my branches martyred.

For Kerry's prompt at Real Toads

Wednesday, April 5, 2017


Time is relative
when dining with relatives
who voted for Trump.

Or, when working your way
through a ginormous dump
of Algebra on a weekend.

Time fits and starts
like a schoolgirl's heart
with a crush on an inappropriate boy.

It spins like a wind-up toy
and runs down -
a middle-aged mom at bedtime.

Slipping away
by inches -
your child's height surpassing your own.

Time flies.
It flew.
It has flown

through the bones of your fingers.

For Bjorn's prompt at Real Toads