Thursday, September 27, 2012

Green Tea

Photo from Ella's Edge

Quiet, as I sit down
Knees folding 
Like an origami crane.
I was crisp and temporary
in that moment
When you set that tea cup
And I turn it this way
A little that way.

I close my eyes and take a sip
green leaves whirl
at the bottom
As silent as my wishes.

I have enjoyed tea ceremony with my Japanese friends
and they showed me how to appreciate the moment. I like the bitter tea
and the tiny sweet cake that accompanies it.
 Of course with coffee I take it large,creamy and sweet.;)
Great prompt. So satisfying...
Photo courtesy of Ella's Edge.

My offering for Poets United...

Thursday, September 20, 2012

A Sevenling: No Roses to Remember

There are no roses to remember
Only crossword puzzles and Jimmy Dean,
Brainstormings and quaquaversal readings.

I dance no boogie, you play no jazz
Only our heartbeats can play as one
But why is it that after twenty years

The wind brings laughter I cannot recall...

                               A form that intrigues me... This is my offering for Real Toads

Wednesday, September 19, 2012


This is my answer to that voice in the desert.

Woman, speak! Your voice, I hear it in the wind.
In the desert of your pain, come chill my bones.

I am enraged at the pain and suffering of other women. 

We are so lucky to have the luxury of speech.But the landai
is a weapon that a woman can hide in her garments or wiles.

Offering for Real Toads.

Monday, September 17, 2012


Tonight I fall headlong
Down into that abyss
The yawning cauldron,
And then calm
Before the water
Hits rockbottom

I crawl with jointed limbs

On the crags and on the cliff
My aerials shudder as I feel
The ancient craving
And inundation of your lip.

I am Raggedy Ann hurling

Into the eye of the cyclone
Perspiration freezing my bones
Traversing the deathly silence
Of the stone.

Tonight I fall headlong

Deep into that abyss
The moon mask looking on
Black iris of the sky,
I rise seaweed tangled
Your memory clinging to my hair
Like a barnacle.

Friday, September 7, 2012


She cut and carved her throne
Chiseled each nook with sordid care
Laid  each crevice with jewels
As if tomorrow have no place on earth.
She sat erect her sceptre held aloft
As if to bless all the commonfolks
Her boudouir a welcome hall
Her subjects greedy with tales told.
The brickwalls and chandeliers were witness
When queen and princess
 Hurled firestones
And gifted each other poisoned words
To seal apart their blighted worlds.
The hourglass amassed with sand
Turned upside down to let time run
A little kinder here
A little love flew there
In between two hearts too regal to avow.
Time stood between time
The wax has darkened the polished woods
The dents on silver reflect the ancient moon
In place of her crown the queen wears a solemn calm
And blessed her daughter
A precious ring of halcyon.

Frieda's Blue

Mommy’s dead
 She left me and baby Nick
Only milk and bread

Now everybody’s talking
 Like she’s some princess of dread
Mommy’s dead

She put her head in the oven
Baked it like bread
Mommy’s dead.

I wish I can cry
And beat myself red
But I can’t since Nick is crying ahead

Mommy’s dead
So so dead
Locked inside my head.

Monday, September 3, 2012

Still Life

Years have sliced me

Into little squares.

Flat, shiny jewels

So exact and so still

Quaint, noiseless frames

Captured and hoarded

To fill my book.

It is a known fact

That people have traded everything

For just about anything

But I have never known anyone

Give up photos for something else.

Life in a capsule

Some bitter, some limited

Others contained and coated

With saccharine smiles.

It really depends on

How one wants to be remembered.

They say there comes a time

When one questions and despairs,

Like asking a prestidigitator

To pull out a rabbit from a hat

Or to agitate ancient moss at the bottom

Of a pond. Anything.

When I, a lover of words

Could never make heads nor tails

Out of rhymes

That used to give me chills.

Baby pictures seem to be a favorite.

The first smile, the teeth nonexistent and guilt free.

The wedding picture, execution style.

A fa├žade, bricked off by the layer of lies

We try so hard to believe.

We bleach everything

From pillows to blankets,

Repair the damage good as new

Iron the edges (take no hostages!)

There’s nothing we can’t do

To make everything perfect in a photo.

After all, it’s just about lighting.

At night I’d flip

Through my treasure

Eyes growing sharper

Memory growing dim

The sharp edges cutting my finger

Until it bleeds.

Shared with Real Toads.  Hello poets!