Do You?


Do you know
it takes my
breath to think
–that you would
reach for me,
–that in your eyes
I see such softness
mixed with longing,
–that when you
call me sweetheart,
my soul
shakes its wings?


My Plea

will you look into my eyes
— plunge the depths,
without looking away?
Can you see me?
Will you hurt me,
if I ask you to?

Can you find your teeth
and tear my flesh,
make me bleed–
silence the voices
in my head,
quiet the jangling
of my heart?

Will you draw from me
cries of pain,
tears of relief —
as though my body
were a well?

Can you scare me–
loose your growl,
rake your claws
into my skin?

Will you watch me
while I tremble,
watch me cringe,
as my mouth opens wide,
spills out screams
of agony?

Can you paint–
my flesh your canvas–
with strips of leather,
with sharpened steel,
with fingers dipped
into my blood?

Will you feed your hunger
with these things,
and find your way
in the darkness
–with me?



Leftover Thoughts on Being Lost – After Kasey Chambers, Lost and Found (a golden shovel poem)



No, I don’t want to talk about it yet.
don’t know which of these words I could 
say to make sense — some thoughts can give 
a girl such nightmares, and scatter away 
all the good from the coffee and sun of this 
morning. I do know this — my sensitive heart 
is shifting, in these hours of weariness. I’ll leave 
it to itself – to refold the map and choose the path it 
wants to take. My feet will find their way. So, in 
case you’re thinking you should worry — the 
truth is, there’s no reason. I know I’m not lost 
for long. I’ll find my compass in this confusion, and 
let it point me north — keep going until I’m found.


golden shovel – Take a line (or lines) from a poem you like. Use each word as an end word in your poem. Keep the end words in order. Credit the original poet, ie. “-after (poet)”.

For today’s prompt, write a leftovers poem.

Ritual — After In This Moment, Whore (a golden shovel poem)


It’s a habit — a thing, something so 
much nature — it’s part of me. How 
is it that an act this simple — I can 
feel in the bend of my knees, my hips this 
folding, unfolding, opening up? Could it be 
that it’s your surrender too, that you’re 
meeting me, right here? Are you praying 
what I’m praying, in the quiet next to 
breathing? Do you feel — or is it just me? 



golden shovel – Take a line (or lines) from a poem you like. Use each word as an end word in your poem. Keep the end words in order. Credit the original poet, ie. “-after (poet)”.


For today’s prompt, write a ritual poem.

Risky Business


So you want to love a poet? I can tell. I see the light in your eyes when I mention it, see how your skin ripples with that frisson of life as you nod enthusiastic assent. I know well this thrill you feel! I can assure you. There is a sort of romance in the idea, an excitement — I know you see, for I have loved a few poets in my life. They are a magical breed, an odd lot who see the world through a slightly different lens. I have loved them, yes — and lived to tell the tale — though perhaps, the reason is that I too am a poet. It is ink that runs through my veins, and I know what it is like to be loved by one who may not truly know what a messy, wonderful, risky thing this loving a poet can be.

I am here to tell you a truth — there is a risk to giving your love to a poet. I admonish you, do not enter her world blindly, seeking to know her heart, drawn by the magic you see like fireflies to tall grass in a summertime back yard. We are a lot of scrappers. We are able spies. We are thieves. We will do whatever it takes to ply our lyrical trade, to work our spells and create our poetic art. You — especially if we are in love with you, too — are not safe from our trickster ways! Consider this fair warning, we are good at what we do. There is no other way, it is in our genes, in our blood, and it is what you risk, when we choose to share our hearts with you.

A clever poet will a rifle through your pockets, scrabble through your text messages, raid your innocent (and not so innocent) conversations —  for language, for phrases that either please our ears or prick our skin. We’ll even steal from those odd and funny things you mumble when you’re talking in your sleep. We’ll carry pocket notebooks, and stubby pencils, licking the lead once or thrice before we jot them down on scraps of paper, fill our own pockets, steal napkins and matchbooks, text ourselves  to catch thousands of letters and words, just so we can stash them away, sift them through our fingers, like a king counting gold coins in the depths of his castle, as the magpies look greedily on.

We will watch you hawkishly, like spies, alert for the slightest change in your facial expressions. We’ll make note of the way your body moves when you shift in your chair, or stroll toward us up the driveway. We’ll watch the way your mouth moves when you smile, and the way your breath catches in your throat when you say our name. We will record every hungry, probing kiss, every blazing touch that sets our skin on fire, we will make ebony ink from the ashes and and we will spill that ink, in copious amounts, attempting to capture the essence of these moments with you. We are bound by our very nature to repeat this exercise a hundred thousand times or more, for as long as you allow us to, chasing your light, your darkness, your essence, with our ink stained fingers gripping worn out pens.

We will steal from you, the notes you scratch on the edges of the pages in your favorite books, your late night love song dedications, your starry-eyed gazes at the full moon in the midnight sky, your rumbling growls of desire and your steamy sighs of satisfied release. We will listen in, as you sing in the shower, or tell jokes to your friends, we will draw from your your childhood stories, like pirates stealing jewels and gold doubloons. We will take whatever we can — your beating heart, your faltering breath, your ability to think, to form sentences, to express yourself clearly — so intoxicated will you be on the air we breathe. Are you prepared to surrender these things, to love us? For this is the risk of loving a poet, I can tell you there’s nothing more true. The costs should be carefully weighed, before you choose.

But take heart my friend, for the rewards of loving a poet are many, and may well outweigh the price you’d pay. The treasure lies in the music of our verses, the passion in our lovemaking, the soft sounds that spill from the backs of our throats, the ecstasy of meeting our eyes across a crowded room. These things will be worth the risk, if you truly love one of us.   We will help you see the world with new eyes, show you how the trees sing to the night sky, and the way the shadows march across the hill in a fiery sunset. We will point out the way the sunlight creates the shadow, defining the beautiful curve of a face, and how a dotted yellow line unfurls like ribbon down an endless highway — we’ll make you want to chase it like a playful cat. You’ll find our inky fingerprints on your tingling skin, and note how our spoken rhymes match the rhythm of your beating pulse. We will be the drums that move your hips and feet, and remind you how wonderful it is just to be alive.

So come with us, if you dare. Fall in love with a poet, and dance along the edge of the sea. Empty your pockets, your heart, and your mouth of the words we need, and we will repay you a million times over, with music and beauty and love. We will write you into our lives with indelible ink, and you will be the poem we create. Keep calm, and fall in love!



Some days, the best
I can do is to breathe,
to plant two bare feet
in wet dirt and
sticky green grass,
while I turn my
face to the sky.

Some days, my
two feet are just
the beginning.
I must sit solidly
upon the earth,
feel her pulse
beneath my hands.

This day, my body
aches to lie
against her breast,
surrender to the wind.

Will you meet
me here,
come and lie
beside me
on this cool and
sacred ground?

Fall Recall – One of Three Flashbacks

This weekend I celebrated my birthday, and it was filled with amazing experiences with incredible loves… and no writing whatsoever. So, this week, I’m revisiting some early posts, and sharing them again. I hope you enjoy this one!


Night Air (a Quatern)


That’s the night air in the city
tastes like remorse mixed with regret.
When you can’t see stars for neon
glow of traffic, just forget it.

When the moon as pale as smoke is,
that’s the night air in the city.
Caterpillar blows his smoke rings,
questions floating, “Just who are you?”

Sounds like bike tires on the sidewalk,
swishing, swishing, just a whisper.
That’s the night air in the city,
filling your ears with nothing new.

Turn the corner, follow footsteps,
She’s the rabbit in a white dress,
always slipping out of your sight.
That’s the night air in the city.


Prompt #12 of the April 2014 Writer’s Digest Poem-A-Day Challenge

For today’s prompt, write a city poem. The poem can take place in a city, can remember the city (in a general sense), be an ode to a specific city, or well, you should know the drill by now. City poem: Write it!


Quatern Poetic Form Rules
1.This poem has 16 lines broken up into 4 quatrains (or 4-line stanzas).
2.Each line is comprised of eight syllables.
3.The first line is the refrain. In the second stanza, the refrain appears in the second line; in the third stanza, the third line; in the fourth stanza, the fourth (and final) line.
4.There are no rules for rhyming or iambics.


The Wall I Wasn’t Seeking (a rondel poem)


You may be the boulder, below
and the wall I wasn’t seeking.
I perhaps am the poem speaking
these rhymes which you do not yet know.
You may be the wind, howling low,
and I, the tree branches creaking.
You may be the boulder below
and the wall I wasn’t seeking.
I hear distant calls from the crow
as the moon through clouds is peeking, 
I do have a growing feeling.
Though I honestly don’t yet know,
you may be the boulder below.

A French form, similar to the rondeau and the triolet, consisting of 13 eight-syllable lines in three stanzas.
Rhyme scheme = ABba/abAB/abbaA

Gears (a triolet poem)



“You prefer not to see the gears of the clock, as to better tell time.”

― Erin MorgensternThe Night Circus

You prefer not to see the gears of the clock
— as to better tell the time.
You guard the magic, turn a key in the lock.
You prefer not to see the gears of the clock.
You’d rather imagine, than to take full stock,
to live life with more whimsy than rhyme.
You prefer not to see the gears of the clock
— as to better tell the time.

The triolet (TREE-o-LAY), has 13th century French roots linked to the rondeau or “round” poem. An 8-line poem, in which the first line is used 3 times and the second line is used twice. There are 3 other lines 2 of which rhyme with the first line, the other rhymes with the second line.
A (first line)
B (second line)
a (rhymes with first line)
A (repeat first line)
a (rhymes with first line)
b (rhymes with second line)
A (repeat first line)
B (repeat second line)
For more information on this form, check out Poetic Asides.


Battle Weary

2015-07-21 07.43.40


Maybe I’m naive.
Maybe I’m ink
and emotion and
too much trust,
too little guarded.

Maybe love isn’t pure,
can’t be, maybe
I’m bleeding
all over this floor.
Maybe I’m just tired.

Maybe I’m lost and
maybe everything
gets diluted, deluded
by reality. Do you really
belive in magic?

Because maybe
I’ve been up all night
arguing with my doubts.