Published in Offshoots 12 — Writing from Geneva
I can see my little boy
squatting in his sandbox
with pine cone people
guarding stick forts
for an afternoon
in the shade
watching squirrels race
along the picket fence
that keeps out.
I see him – now –
hunched on red sofa
with game console in hand
splattering bodies of blood
for an afternoon
in the dark
feeding on ugliness
the chickadees go hungry
while squirrels race
along the picket fence
with slats missing.
Published in Offshoots – Writing from Geneva. Mother to Daughter: Tanka poem to me from my mother, Eve Joanne Linger Hamblett Cassatt:
To Faraway Child at Christmas
Grandfather clock strikes
dinging through the silent house.
Faraway Child, know
in my heart I hold you closer,
perhaps, than when you were here.
Daughter to Mother: Tanka answer to my mother from me:
To Mother from my Garden in May
This morning, Mother,
I caught you hiding in my
white lilac bushes
slowly breathed in your absence.
Dewdrops trickled down my cheeks.
Thrilled that this poem was featured by National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) 3 April 2015. The generative prompt was from the preceding day: “…Today, I challenge you to take your gaze upward, and write a poem about the stars… Any form or style will do.”
peach and cherry sunset cocktails
rimmed with slices of fresh silence
skyful of shooting stars with
lucky tails to slurp like spaghetti —
plenty of stardust sauce to splatter
darkest chocolate sky-pie
to nibble and lick towards infinity
until there’s nothing left to do
but roll over into a spoon.
Everyday Haiku, were first published in Everyday Haiku: an Anthology(2014)
swiss snowflakes don’t fall
they alight on chosen sites
it’s a bit like this —
stray thoughts wrap around my brain
squeeze out poetry
cows bow for thick licks
silver frosted field at dawn
grass popsicle treats
lounging on chaise longue
spring’s tender warmth envelops
growing going on
spring birds twerp off key
winter’s monotone silence
pitter patter quench
mud rows cup deep steeping wet
spring sips its field tea
forecast’s blunder slipped
mistook rain’s claim on the day
mist took advantage
light shooting through the bleakness
make a wish for spring
our liquid lips sipped
each other for that first kiss
we remain unquenched
she poured hope to dull edges
in the wineglasses
kitchen wreckage states
last night’s sworn testament in
dinner party dregs
Rock & Sling’s literary magazine created a special post-election USA 2016 issue, Vox, which happens to include my poem, “The Morning After” written the day after the election.
So. It’s Nov. 9. I’ve got a plan.
I’m going to get a plump chicken.
Smear that sucker with loads of butter and watch it slow roast.
Then watch it cool.
I’ll pick it clean. And I mean right down through the sinew to the bone.
I’ll throw the carcass into a pot and watch it boil for a while.
I’ll scoop out the bones and watch the liquid reduce.
Once it’s down to gravy-material, I’ll add a bit of flour, stir, then drop after drop of milk and stir until smooth.
I’ll call Luna, my golden retriever, and fill another pot with water.
We’ll watch some potatoes boil for 20 minutes.
We’ll watch them cool.
Then I’ll pour the chicken gravy on the potatoes and give them to her.
I abhor chicken gravy but Luna adores it.
Hide and Seek at the Bataclan, featured by The Society of Classical Poets (New York). Paris, 13 November 2015
The hiders: cheaters with suicide-belted access
to ethereal hiding places — traceless
but for grieving faces searching sidewalks.
The seekers: police, army, press corps, beloved
— my son in front of the TV. I try to shove
the new rules into our silent conversation.
The Bataclan echoes, Come out! Come out
wherever you are! but nobody can breakout
from their infinite hiding spots.
Us and them. We’re all entangled in
an eternal endgame. Nobody wins.
Together, we’re all it.
Published with three other pieces on Necessary Fiction (2012)
Summer’s down to a simmer
but still here to savor.
A sole sunflower stands
in the field of sticky weeds.
I eye it in the morning.
It eyes me in the evening.
My vase remains empty.