Sunday, March 18, 2018

An Un-Named Fear

I pull words
from the well of myself,
wondering always,
'Will this be the poem
that runs out of words?'

Writing For The Sake of Sadness

There are children starving
somewhere south of Nepal,
ankle-deep of dirt and
bellies full of unearthed worms.
And I'm sitting on a varanda,
edges of the splintered floor-planks
extra-brown of designer paint.
And I'm battling my brain
for writer's-sake, two javas
past the point of no return.
I sift my thoughts like sugar,
granulated, syllable-by-syllable,
though never quite as sweet.

Friday, December 29, 2017

Three Line Tales, Week 100

three line tales, week 100: a ferris wheel in Paris with soldiers patrolling

A New Year is Dawning

Friday swam past the clock too slowly, drawing the work-week to a close.  The girl in the cafe window pulled the blinds before stepping into the familiar concrete jungle.  Already an early winter dark was dawning, a premature twilight glow drawing the sky together like silky, see-through curtains.

She skirted against the crowd toward the edge of town where the city was tweaking the sidewalk for another New Years celebration.  A ferris wheel danced center-stage, its bright lights searing the early-dark like an omen.  Jane closed her eyes against bitter memories as she walked into its twinkling-metal glow.

Thursday, December 28, 2017

Weekly Haiku

Image result for december street lights

The Year is New

Lights twinkle and tinsel
dances against champagne as seconds
count down to expectation.

Image result for snow street lights

Winter is Peace

Twilight arrives at five and
everything behind the glass is silent
as snow falls on Broadway.

Wednesday, December 27, 2017

Twittering Tales #64


Bookworm Awaits Midnight

She sat at the corner table, twirling extra vanilla into her coffee. Near the edge, where the wood met air, her midnight reads sat perched. Keats and Kerouac wedged between the bindings of pulp trash. Already she was imagining fleece and wine, the cat curling his warmth against her ankles.

Twittering Tales #63

I'm late for this one.  I've been so busy lately, but was inspired by this photo and wanted to write with it.


"Night is always deepest in winter," she reminded herself.

Each night, motions set steady to the grandfather clocks arithmatic ticks, she'd tie the curtains and pull the blinds.   Then she'd light the candle, watch it flicker.  Inside the halo of yellow gloom, the moon would wane among treetops, stars would dance back into their little black holes.  Wind would whisper it's wail into a crescendo, startling a school blackbird and rattling the tin roof.

Still, she would stand there, lady in a black dress.  Hands tied into each other like little keys, stiff fingers a steeple to hold invisible things...the words of her dead grandmother, syllables from songs some old lover used to sing.  Lonely each night, she'd speak to the ghosts behind her eyes, wish with all her might one might come back alive.

Then she'd fall asleep against the memories of Frost, reimagining herself in that snowy wood, wishing she were brave enough to venture beyond well-lit paths and window panes.

Wednesday, December 6, 2017

Weekly Haiku / Short Poetry

Night unfolds me
two empty hands.

What does a dreamer do
when night pulls her gray-black curtains
across the milky rays of a half-nail moon
and all the broken hearts beat in tandem
to languages undecipherable in sadness,
old friend and nemesis, the two-faced sun
to my unrequited, bi-polar dreams.

Tuesday, December 5, 2017


The Road Less Traveled Leads You...

You need little more than rust
on a chain to pacify old memories.
Stick to one spot long enough
and the ghosts resurrect themselves.

Alongside highway 23 the dust
still swelled itself against the gritty
wind of big-rigs, a Southern kind of whirlwind.
The old backroad that opened its mouth:

A wishing well, the future rolling backward.
A stillness that could hide, behind
the next burning bush, some raw beauty.
I parked the car at a liquor-store-

turned-convenient-mart, something you'd expect
in a shady, nowhere town more
turn-of-the-century than 2012.
Elderly men haggled near the pumps,

in stiff-gray Rip Van Winkle beards,
a few teenage boys were attempting to impress
the only girl:  the convenience store clerk
who stood smoking near the hood of a car

where the crowd tinkered, air heavy
with the smell of oil and the thick,
damp woods of an early fall evening.
Did they drive this far into no-where,

or were they born amidst this
country-black that swallowed headlight shadows
and rivaled smoke rings their stale-gray darkness?
Against the 8pm twilight the road was merely

a long strand of Indian-ribbon wrapping
the edges of tree-lined hillsides, which flashed
a hunter-green silhouette against
the wobbly tail-lights of passing cars.

Old farm houses stood in the distance,
isolated as islands across the moon's surface,
abandoned as old bodies, they were mummified 
in a perminant stance, black-shingle roofs

bending toward me like empty hands.
I imagined each year the wind of Spring monsoons
pulled their wooden fingers a little closer to the dust
as I stood some distance and marveled

the cool, dry air of this green-orange oasis,
damp wind kissing the backs of my stocking-covered knees
like a lover I once had, and I realized 
I remembered too much of some older life;

that there was a deep-seated unease in
the attention I gave to spent memories, yet a
grave-still consolation is the trickery
of the sundials dance, the realization of things
half-dead I might bring back to life
because I no longer believed one aging highway
was any different than the end destination of another.

Wednesday, October 18, 2017

Three Line Tales, Week 89

Three Line Tales, Week 89

This is my first time visiting Three Line Tales. 
I'm always on the look-out for fun writing communities so if you know of any I don't already have linked (at the right), leave a comment and let me know where I can find them!

Winter had come quickly that year, she mused as she pulled the sleeves of her sweater over cold-white knuckles and gazed beyond the cafe window.  If November had been unkind in her leafless tree-branches and the arrhythmic tick of midterm dates and mind-numbing essays, December was lavish of twinkling lights and leisurely cups of hot java.  She wrapped her hands around the warm mug, smiling into her memory of last weekends dinner date, marveling at the timelessness of new love as a fresh snow began to paint the horizon an angel-wing white.

Written for Three Line Tales.

A Retro Write Flash Fiction

Cyanide and Dreams

"Everyday is just the same ole day,"  Jenny complained into the two wine glasses.

Her comment wasn't a complete untruth.  Johnny worked long hours at the firm.  Then he came home and worked until late evening on home projects.  First it was the back patio, then it was the greenhouse, now he was planting trees for an apple orchard.

"An apple orchard," she yelled into the empty kitchen.  "Why, we'll be old and gray before it's ever fully grown.  What's he expect me to do, languish inside this house from daylight to dark while he works himself to death at that firm and these silly home projects, only to spend my golden years picking apples?"

She'd spoken to Johnny countless times on account of her dissatisfaction.  And, always, he would ignore her as he explained his future plans with gusto.  Well, not anymore!  She skipped into the study, crossed the room to the corner desk and pulled a manilla envelope from beneath the metal rotary.  The top paper was her application to the local beauty school, and beneath it was the policy.  Three months ago she'd first signed it.  Today made ninety days, today meant the policy was now in effect.

Seventy-five thousand dollars.  That was enough to pay off the house, buy a new car, pay for beauty school, start a new life! She smiled to herself and walked back to the kitchen.  There, she carefully pulled the bottle from cabinet, emptied two capsules into the wine glass.

"Hey Johhnn-nnnyyy,"  she yelled from the kitchen window with her crystalline smile.  "Time for our evening drink!"

Written for a prompt at Pink.Girl.Ink.