Monday, July 16, 2018

Daily Prose Poem

                                Image result for vintage cab


Because there's always room for one more, you flip your coin, cash your ticket, check your bags and tip the cab.  And because there's something forlorn about rolling the flesh of yourself atop four wheels across barren city side strips you've never been before, tipsy of cheap bar wine and craving the feel of soft carpeted hotel rooms.  The luckiest traveler is the one who doesn't end the night alone.  Or maybe the most unluckiest is the one who kisses the lips of some desperate stranger in a shady corner, some sad other-worldly person who wants to return to the land of home just as desperately as you.

Saturday, July 14, 2018

Daily Prose Poem

Twittering Stories #1


She was passionate, but she was lonesome.  Plastic handle of her camera strap the only hand to hold.  Her evenings were spent in black and white, 'interpretive colors' she would tell herself as she dreamed of the back seats of limosines, her name on colorful signs, and fine wine.

Sunday, April 22, 2018

Daily Prose Poem


Opposite of the girl with the bright umbrella, handle poised across its handle like the stem of a flower she swirls between drops of rain, their substance more like dew or a delicate drizzle.  Her waiflike figure spins in and out of traffic, bright bobby socks light as air between her steps.  She looks like no one else on the street, tender heart of a child, fingers stained of paint.  I imagine she lives in a secret world only she can create, her unlocked windows absent of danger, her morning tea never bitter.

Saturday, April 21, 2018

Daily Prose Poem


Feet propped atop a table.  Head thrown back behind sunglasses.  Lazy lashes not busy.  A day too boring to gaze into.  A girl so quiet, so aloof that you have to wonder who she is.  She checks her watch, delicately lifts a cup of java to her lips for a sip.

Friday, April 20, 2018

Daily Prose Poem


Contained on the last page of a newspaper, or maybe the back flipside of a magazine cover.  The too-small type with promises you can't quite read, you just drop your check in the mail and await the surprise miracle.  Perhaps its someone's lonesome reverie: single white female with a love for vintage decor and cats, marriage comes equipped with Antebellum mansion.

Thursday, April 5, 2018

NaPoWriMo 2018: Day 5

And now for our (optional) prompt. Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem that, like the work in Translucence, reacts both to photography and to words in a language not your own. Begin with a photograph. Now find a poem in a language you don’t know (here’s a good place to look!) Ignore any accompanying English translation (maybe cover it up, or cut-and-paste the original into a new document). Now start translating the poem into English, with the idea that the poem is actually “about” your photograph. Use the look and feel of the words in the original to guide you along as you write, while trying to describe your photograph. It will be a bit of a balancing act, but hopefully it will lead to new and beautiful (and possibly very weird) places.

The Wintering

I apologize for the lack in all my letters, Spring tip-toed past my window so quickly.  Is October thick with winter where you are?  My mind wonders avenues toward you too often.  Summer skies, air between us heavy of stars, myself barefoot on some random earth-walk.  You know how love is, even when it's gone.  You can't help but untangle how it all went wrong.  How something so meant to be, so proper could accidentally unravel when you weren't watching, like a cashmere sweater on the eve of some gala event and so you're forced to change into a less-favorable color.  Right now the winter has wedged itself between the leaf-less trees.  And the cold emptiness, wherever it came from, is inescapable.  I wonder if its winter where you've nested?  Are your shoulders shaking of cold like mine are?  The clouds here are the color of ice prisms, they carry whole invisible islands across their backs.  The wind is strangely still and I'm wondering if this is how it ends:  my heart rolling across the edge of tomorrow like an old stone.  If we ever meet again I'll ask you about the anatomy of wild dandelion.

Wednesday, April 4, 2018

NaPoWriMo 2018: Day 4

And now for our (optional) daily prompt. Our craft resource today focuses on the use of concrete nouns and specific details, using the idea of “putting a dog in it.” Today, we challenge you to write a poem that is about something abstract – perhaps an ideal like “beauty” or “justice,” but which discusses or describes that abstraction in the form of relentlessly concrete nouns. Adjectives are fine too! For example, you could have a poem about sadness that describes that emotion as “a rowboat tethered with fishing line to a willow that leans over a pond. Rainwater collects in the bottom, and mosquito eggs.” Concrete details like those can draw the reader in and let them imagine the real world where your abstract ideal or feeling happens.


Was a lily pond
surrounded by an ocean
of babies breath,
the wind orchestrating
a series of chimes between
whispering willow eves
and ivy branches;
Easter dogwood bending
a Namaste bow to
such untethered tranquility.
And beneath the skies,
robin egg blue and devouring
the world a rainbow hue,
we bloomed, she and I.
Our twisted roots uncoiling
from the frayed dirt of an old life,
into the new petal skin of one flower.

Tuesday, April 3, 2018

NaPoWriMo 2018: Day 3

Today’s prompt (optional as always), is inspired by our interview with Peter Davis. As he indicates there, his latest book is rooted in endlessly writing ideas for band names. Today, we challenge you to try this out yourself by writing a list poem in which all the items are made-up names. If band names don’t inspire, how about a list of titles for romantic novels? Or new television cop dramas? They can be as over-the-top as you like, because that’s (at least) half the fun.

I actually wrote my poem using some random book titles of V.C. Andrews, since there's a huge shelf of them sitting right next to me.

Shelf Reading

Some poems are Orphans,
intricate as Whitefern.
Twisted Roots of their lines
swinging ancient
Dollanganger synonyms,
a metaphorical pendulum
for Secrets in the Shadows;
bitter of winter
and awaiting April.

Monday, April 2, 2018

NaPoWriMo 2018: Day 2

Today I did my own thing in terms of prompts.  I modeled this poem after a poem written by Natalie Goldberg, hers is titled 'Wanting Men.'

Butch Girls

I fear their soft palms,
a magic-trick their skin
pulls across your naked eye.
I love the measure of mystery
they force upon you by the sweet
smell of cologne not meant for femininity.
I believe such women are Goddesses
and I long to have them teach me
of their ancient Kama Sutras.
I want women with short hair,
I want to prick my fingertips
of their style, dip my fingertips
into the essence of what it
means to be a woman.
I want to ride the smooth
skin of their thick thighs
toward the barren stretch
of an open-star sky,
the total absence of inhibition
as they lather my skin of their love.
How I love the way their thick,
lank bodies fill a mens pair of jeans,
how they blink in deep sleep, and smile.

I love the way my girl
chews the edges of her tongue
while sleeping and I wonder
if she's tasting me.
I love how she raises her
cushion-pillow lips across
her teeth, a ruby-curtain smile
that melts the clay between my ribcage.
Her body, a magic lotus flower,
how she rises above me,
hip against hip, my woman warrior.

I love the way she drives us
into night, reimagining some
eternal childhood flaw, headlights
two steady stars we follow into oblivion,
wheels swerving dangerously toward
out-dated bell-curves, reckless on caffeine
and it terrible need of sleep.