Wednesday, June 21, 2017

Summer Solstice Haibun


I watch out into the window of the world, two glass sliding doors.  There's a dark-chocolate colored couch with an avalanche or burgundy-silk pillows where stacks of books sway me into so many other worlds.   But the window beguiles my writer's mind, and my fingers itch to bloom basic interaction into something more profound.  Pen poised I allow my muse to gaze beyond the ordinary.

Foot-falls sway beneath the heat,
as the city gives up it's secrets,
each walkway a world it's own.

written for a prompt at MindLoveMisery.

Yoga Theme

The 10 a.m. Yogini

Every morning
I become a mountain,
rising like the ash
of Pheonix from deep sleep,
I awaken myself from
ankles to knees.
There's a tree outside
my window, a Weeping Willow.
I use it as study,
push my hands toward
the sky, and sway like palm.

Written for a prompt at Poets United.

Tuesday, June 20, 2017

Weekly Haiku Writes

The prompt at Weekly Haiku this week urged use to use the words 'darkness' and 'deep,'

Here is my contribution:

Dark City

A girl in blue hair walks,
She's six blocks deep in the darkness
of a blown-out street lamp.

Likewise, Haiku Horizon's wants us to use the word 'bright' as inspiration this week.  I sort of a took a twist on the original poem above and reworked it below:

Not So Bright

Anonymous footfalls,
a corner street-light has blown,
wind rattles tree branches.

Twittering Tales #35

"Ahh," Jenny greeted each sidewalk cafe the same.

She would unload her books, drink java, and dream beneath the streetlights of the city.

Find the weekly Twittering Tales photo prompt HERE.

Quadrille #35

Over at d'verse our prompt for Monday was:

as this year is the 50th anniversary of the release of ‘Sgt.  Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band’ by The Beatles, I would like you to write a poem of exactly 44 words (not counting your title), including the word pepper.

Here is my contribution:

Talking 'Bout the Young Folk

Somewhere in Iowa,
past the fresh stream
in the wood where
old owls strum their
tree limbs like
vintage guitar chords;
past farms with rickety
porch steps where the
dust-bowl ghosts still reside,
there's a restaurant
called Pickled Peppers
where the young folk stroll.

Saturday, June 17, 2017


"The Pirate's Wife"

All the summer long she sewed the finest of silk, slept among the shell-white heads of dead men and awaited the white flags of her master's ship.

Created for an art challenge at Take A Word.

'Bees' Theme

"The Bee-Keeper's Wife"

She used to dive into meadows full of green and lily.  Eyes bright back then, and a head-full of dreaming.  These days the flame of new love has withered, her feet are itching to travel onward but this landscape holds her prisoner.  She walks country roads till her feet won't forgive her, wonders what life is like as a butterfly.  Unabashed by sunburn, she keeps conversation with the bees, because  even the sting is worth it to know she's still among the living.

Created for an art challenge at Digital Whisper.

Wednesday, June 14, 2017

Art Themes / Ideas / Prompts: For Exploration and Practice in Digital Art

I have purchased literally thousands of scrap kits from various sites over the years.  Yet, sometimes as I gaze through my folders, I struggle for a way to combine background images and elements into  certain themes.  Thus, this list is born!

I took a list of over 300 theme items from Go Make Something and then added some of my own ideas.

I will link my art to each theme (as I create it)....let's see how long it takes me to complete this list!


All about me
Alphabet or dictionary
Altered photos
American fifties ads
Ancient civilizations
Ancient cultures
Ancient history
Ancient spirits
Andy Warhol (or any other artist)
Antique maps
Anything antique
Around the world
Art Nouveau
At the beach
Au Naturel
Bad art
Bad things
Best inventions in the world
Black and white (or any color combination)
Board books
Body parts
Cartoon characters
Carve your own stamps
Celebration of the body
Childhood memories
Children’s literature
Classical composers
Crazy weather
Create your own goddess
Creative Life
Dark and strange
Day of the Dead (Dia de los Muertos)
Doors & windows
Dream landscapes
Emotional self-portrait
Endangered occupations
Fairy tales and folklore
Family Tree
Famous landmarks
Famous poets
Famous women
Faux postage
Favorite films
Favorite things
Feminine mystique
Figments of your imagination
Fonts and Lettering
Food/cooking/edible stuff
Foreign text
Fortune cookie sayings
Found objects
Found poetry
Four seasons
Fruits & vegetables
Full Circle
Game pieces
Games people play
Garden tools
Geometric shapes
Goddess in every woman
Graphic Novels
Great Outdoors
Growing Up
Happiness is…
Haunted houses
Head in the Clouds
Historical costumes
House & home
House of blues
Imaginary maps
Imaginary places
Inside Out
Instruction booklets
Jesters and jokers
King Arthur
Kings and Queens
Leonardo da Vinci (or any famous artist)
Life’s lessons
Lost things

More Themes:

Retro Diner
Retro Fashion
Ice Cream Shop
Vintage Fashion
Sock Hop
Retro Ad Ideas
Vintage Household
Strange Family
Since You've Been Gone
Haunted Lady
Decorate a Room
Victorian Homestead
Funny Farm
Picnic at the Lake
The Drive-In
Film Noir
Black and White Movies
Dress Shop
Sidewalk Cafe
In the Kitchen
Sad Love Song
Any Song Lyric
Musically Inclined
Private Show
Fitness Girl
Shy Dancer
Vintage Romance Novel
Drama Queen
Retro Beach
Retro Clothing Ad
The Lone Traveler
Unemployed Boyfriend
Angry Face
Yoga / Yogini
Free Spirit
Soul Searcher
Girl Gone
The Lost Girl
Flowers in the Attic (V.C. Andrews inspired artwork)
Vintage Gothic Romance Covers (book cover inspired)
Retro Sci Fi Book Cover (book cover inspired)
Depiction of a Horror Story (inspired by a scary story)
Midnight in Venice


Yosemite National Park
Pacific Coast Highways, USA
New Orleans
Portland, Oregon
The Deep South, USA
Chicago, Illinois
The Everglades, USA
Las Vegas, USA

Wine Orchard
Grand Canyon
Seattle, Washington
the coast of Norway
Pyramid Lake, Nevada
the Cayman Islands
Biei, Japan
Tanzania, Africa
Tunisia, Africa
Laos, Asia
Bali, Indonesia
The Netherlands
New Zealand
The Cook Islands
Soloman Islands

World Holidays:
click here for a complete list
Made up countries or lands
Magic garden
Magic of the ordinary
Magical creatures
Magical recipes
Marie Antoinette
Medicine and/or Anatomy
Messy & Sloppy
Middle East
Mixed media
Movie Posters
Moving parts
Music of the spheres
My favorite things
My life
Mythological creatures
Native American
Nature spirits
Newspaper clippings
Nightmare before Christmas
Odd objects
Ode to famous artists
Office supplies
Old-timer cars
One image
Optical illusions
Out of Place
Past times
Photos from the attic
Pin ups
Play on words
Pre-Raphaelites (or any artistic movement)
Queen of hearts
Recycled materials
Robin Hood
Robots & spaceships
Rubber stamping
Sacred spaces
Scary movies
School days
Seasonal celebrations
Second chance
Seven wonders
Shattered Images
Snap shots
Solar System
Spells and magic
Stenciled motifs
Still life
Story lines
Super heroes
Talking trees
Tarot cards
Tea Time
Teddy bears
Things with wings
Through a Window
Throw away collage
Tim Burton (or any modern film artist)
Time and Space
Time travel
Traditional costumes
Treasure decos
Treasure maps
Tree of life
T-shirt sayings
Unreal cities
Urban Art
Urban moments
Urban vs. Rural
Use acrylics only
Use pencils only
Use the computer only
Use watercolor only
Using lace
Vampires and creatures of the night
Vintage fashion
Vintage men
Vintage nudes
Vintage photos
Vintage voyage
Vintage wallpaper
Wall art
Weird science
Where I live
Wild animals
Wild west
Wild women
Wine, women and song
Witch queens
Wizard of Oz
Women heroines
Wonderful women
Words of wisdom
World Holidays
World Religons
World Within a World
Zoom In

Monday, June 12, 2017

A Touch of Red

"Lady of the Night"

The eyes of the city are ever-watching.  Night folds her velvet blanket across black pavement, a silent slight-of-hand.  Business  men walk sidewalk mazes to fancy cars while women in evening-dress await dates too late to make a proper impression.  One lady sits amidst the shadows of a streetlamp.  Dressed in red and untouchable.  The darkness does not scare her.

Created for an art  challenge at The Three Muses.

Sunday, June 11, 2017


"French Quarter Fireflies"

She spent her days reading tarot cards on the slick-backed benches of birch picnic tables near a cafe, common for the gathering of gypsy souls and the left-footed dancers who'd lost their way.  By night she'd gather words into a notebook atop her lap as the fireflies hummed beneath the ancient globes of streetlights.  Nothing's ever been as beautiful since that smoky city beneath cloud-break and moonlight.

Created for a postcard challenge at Sunday Postcard Art.


"A Magical Time"
Time is magical.  A sphere of star-beam caught within a cylinder of light.  The certain gloaming of hour before midnight when fey and fairy and gnome delight in mushroom dance amongst the rosemary.  A moment when clocks stop ticking and, for a just a breath-beat, you'll wonder if what your eyes saw was real or whether you were dreaming.  

Created for a digital art challenge at Take A Word.


"She Dances"

"Stopping For A Drink at Mellow Brook"
Gypsy:  one who wonders.  A lone traveler.  She is the brave-spirit of dirt road, the seedling shine of some rare as yet unnamed country flower.  A troubadour for lonely stretches of highway where the sun dips into her smile and the moon shades her eyes.  She carries her heart, a tie between old guitar strings, lively and colorful as an aurora kind of night.

Created for a digital art challenge at Digital Whisper.

Saturday, June 3, 2017

I'm Baaaaack!

If you've visited in the last month you probably noticed my blog was made private.  I just really wanted a Spring break, I suppose.

I think a lot of times something fun (like a blog) begins to feel like a responsibility after a while.  And sometimes, when you are aware you have an audience of sorts, your work becomes more about serving the audience than being true to one's creative which case the authenticity of what I write and create begins to suffer.  This epiphany forced me to rethink my purpose for continuing this blog.

Mostly, I blog because I enjoy creating (rather through writing or digital art), and sometimes I enjoy sharing my creative outlet with others. we are again.

I have promised myself to partake only in prompts that inspire me (hence, do NOT feel like a chore).  And to post whichever poems/art pieces I write and am totally comfortable with sharing.

Also, I have resigned from the idea that followers, comments, hits per day define my success as a blogger.  Maybe they do for some people but such calculations really have just stolen the joy of blogging for me.

So visit and comment if you like.  If you don't, you don't.  I'll still be around.

I also recently resigned as masthead from Pink.Girl.Ink.  (an online women's zine I founded a few years ago).  I gave the responsibility completely to my partner, Miranda.  Although I may still write articles for it from time to time.  Again, too much responsibility has simply taken away whatever joy I found in working on that zine.

Some updates to consider though:  I will no longer be doing my weekly writing prompts.   They simply feel more like writing assignments than fun.  And, well, hopefully my nine year college career is over now so I'd like to feel free of writing assignments for a while.

So, I'll be seeing you creative, wondering souls when I see ya.  Hopefully I will have some new art to post really soon.

Much love, and Namaste!

Wednesday, May 10, 2017

Vintage Beauty

"Beyond the Moors"

I imagine she's taking a leisurely stroll.  Captivated by her colorful beauty, the parrot has followed.  In the distance a tiny road through the moors leads to her little red paradise beyond the edge of a shimmering, cerulean-green sea (just out of eye-shot).

Created for a lovely art challenge at The Three Muses.

Tuesday, May 9, 2017

Retro Writes (Tuesday) #11

The Rules:

Welcome to my new writing challenge!

Every other Tuesday I will post some lovely retro-era eye candy as inspiration (think 50's-80's decades).  I will be posting photographs and advertisement ephemera that, perhaps, is quite different from modern day photography in hopes that it may inspire us to come up with parallels and concepts we might not otherwise make with modern art/photography.

Simply write a piece of poetry, fiction, flash fiction, or even create your own art-work.  Anything goes so long as you create/write something original!

Leave a link to your post so I (along with others) can visit and comment.  Please also link back to this page in your original post so others can find it.  

Most of all, have fun creating!

And now, for the prompt.

Retro Writes (Tuesday) #11

Look at the advertisement photo for a few moments and allow yourself to be inspired.

Here is my contribution:

The Songbird

Bettina would have
made a bad housewife,
for days on end she'd wrap
hours around the Edison Phonograph,
writing and rehearsing lyrics
to songs none other would
ever hear but her mother.
While the neighborhood girls
learned to churn butter
and swaddle-wrap young babies,
Bettina sang the yellow-faded
wallpaper to sleep, invislble
doves between her fingers as
she wept between the words
until one day, bless her soul,
the song finally delivered her
unto the gray-bearded sky-man
in a choir among the angels.

Friday, May 5, 2017

NaPoWriMo Day #30

So I finally have arrived at the end of NaPoWriMo for this year.  I'm five days late but it's a feat, in and of itself, to even partake.  I'm relieved to do my last poem for the month.  I think my poetic muse will probably hide out for a few weeks after this.  And I'm really looking forward to returning to all the great weekly digital art prompts.  I have missed my Photoshop something terrible these last five weeks, as well as all the kindred souls I meet via the art blog community.

Anyway, the last prompt at NaPoWriMo for this year was:

Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem about something that happens again and again (kind of like NaPoWriMo/GloPoWriMo). It could be the setting of the sun, or your Aunt Georgia telling the same story at Thanksgiving every single year. It could be the swallows returning to Capistrano or how, without fail, you will lock your keys in the car whenever you go to the beach.

I decided to write about morning.  After all, it happens everyday!  

In the a.m. of Everyday

Every different morning,
yet the day always tastes the same,
Robbins swing from tree to tree
like high-strung marionettes,
school buses and big rigs
choreograph their signals
at cross-ways where businessman
pause on sidewalks to shift
the heady hands of their briefcases.
The elderly man across the street
allows his dog to gallop along
the rivers edge, Spring breeze
lifting cloud from the edge
of the sun like a pagoda-shade
pushed to the wayside of the window
where I watch the world wake up,
coffee spilling across my lips
as the cat murmurs in his feline language
and licks my ankles as if to say
'we were meant to greet this day together.'

NaPoWriMo Day #29

The prompt over at NaPoWriMo today was :

Today, I’d like to challenge you to take one of your favorite poems and find a very specific, concrete noun in it. For example, if your favorite poem is this verse of Emily Dickinson’s, you might choose the word “stones” or “spectre.” After you’ve chosen your word, put the original poem away and spend five minutes free-writing associations – other nouns, adjectives, etc. Then use your original word and the results of your free-writing as the building blocks for a new poem.

The word I chose was 'brochure.'

Of Real Folks and Brochures

Appalachia in Spring,
most locals dream to leave
these hills where the moon
streams between thick trees
like a translucent wedding veil,
others dream of days grown
short by a drowsy autumn sun;
folks like me who live by
the season of night,
a world grown orange and bulbous,
the worldly folks who flock
to downtown benches where
they feed pigeons just for
the sake of the old poets' lost habits.
We dream neither of glamour
or beaches, not of tanned toes
or hot purple Lamborghinis.
We rendezvous by moonlight,
illuminated by visions of make-believe
and kisses made of bodies
real enough not to smear at
the rough grip-edge of one another..
If I must be real, I will proclaim
that I explore my lover with bare hands,
weave his memories of my words
with the same ink-stained fingers that
broke a slippery morning dish before
strawberries on the back patio
where the stream speaks his ancient
wisdom between the cat-call of
a lone red beetle, his wings floating
him into the same old small-city crevices
my feet creep past come evening.

NaPoWriMo Day #28

Couldn't really think of anything to use for the prompt at the official NaPoWriMo today so I just did a free association/free verse.

Might As Well Swim

I never asked to love you.
In defense of you,
you also never asked me to.
You blew into the door of
my life like an old memory,
an Indian gift best left unopened
but I couldn't resist the sharp
crave of my fingers for your skin;
I held them in my pockets for months
to avoid my fear of opening
something I innately understood
I'd never be able to will myself to shut again.
Like a twisted-vanilla Pandora's
box of erotica, you weaved your face
into the chain-braid of my daydreams
and for some time I vowed
I'd leave you there, a shelf in the corner
where dust could mar the half-meaning.
I promised myself never to love
anyone again with the excess of such desire,
cup-full of kisses overflowing, and
the simple part of your lips against
words, the only aphrodisiac I needed.
I sit, pardoning with the pieces of myself,
awaiting this river I know will wash
me away whether I wish to jump,
or greedily take that first swim,
though I'm sure it doesn't matter anymore
'when' if I'm already wading into the fire.

Wednesday, May 3, 2017

NaPoWriMo Day #27

Although I did steadily write throughout April, my posting fell to the wayside of real-life responsibilities.  I am almost caught up though.  Only three more poems and I will have completed the National Poetry Writing Month for 2017!  It will be a relief!

The prompt at NaPoWriMo today was:

Many poems explore the sight or sound or feel of things, and Proust famously wrote about the memories evoked by smell, but today I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that explores your sense of taste! This could be a poem about food, or wine, or even the oddly metallic sensation of a snowflake on your tongue.

Cups Upon Cups

The kitchen was my safe place,
a world away from the world
where hands were always busy
butter-dipping or bean-breaking or
cake-mixing a vanilla-bean concoction
that, even at age seven, tasted like
a dream when mixed with the coffee
I would sneak from my grandmothers
pot in the dining-room where a
white dish cabinet rested old-fashioned
perfume bottles and vintage trinkets
I dared never to touch for the
memory-sake of my ancestors' preservation.
Yet there was always the hot smell
of coffee, Folgers in a red can, and
I remember well how my father
would dip his measuring spoon
into the grounds every morning, like
a magic that would repeat itself, then
again each evening after-dinner
we'd all drink as the day broke
into night sounds and gray cloud.
Unbeknownst to me, I became a
connoisseur of the coffee bean; it became
a mainstay for my memories.
I failed to realize this, until recently,
how well I acquired the taste:
stopping by random campus coffee shops,
stepping into every franchise cafe
that crossed my route between small cities
and buses and cabs and temp jobs, and
how, with each cup-grip, I was
sipping the proverbial nectar of some
days gone long past, the coffee a mere
emblem of comfort, a piece of the
innocent calm my life once was,
a time that can never again return.

NaPoWriMo Day #26

I was not inspired by the prompt at the official NaPoWriMo page, so today I just did a short free-write.

Late-Night Retroflection

On these sultry
pre-summer days,
I like to roam
the downtown district,
my belly empty,
dreaming of sixteen.

NaPoWriMo Day #25

The prompt over at NaPoWriMo today was:

In 1958, the philosopher/critic Gaston Bachelard wrote a book called The Poetics of Space, about the emotional relationship that people have with particular kinds of spaces – the insides of sea shells, drawers, nooks, and all the various parts of houses. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that explores a small, defined space – it could be your childhood bedroom, or the box where you keep old photos. It could be the inside of a coin purse or the recesses of an umbrella stand. Any space will do – so long as it is small, definite, and meaningful to you.

Where Country Roads Claimed Me

I suppose I'll always be
fond of country greenery,
of whippoorwills and red-breasted robins,
the smell of bacon and garden beans
and tiny little hillside kitchens
where raspberry bushes grow at
the edge of purple wildflower,
so many colorful flowers whose 
names, to this day, I still know not.
And, although the inner city blues
have claimed me 'otherworldly' in their 
magnificent trade of street lamps,
an illuminating dance of moon
against telephone wire and bird-speak,
somewhere inside me there's still
that girl who squeezes her own lemonade,
who warms her toes by a stream
where tadpoles swim their magic and
squirrels mate in the distance where
bright green leaves shimmer in the 
sun like glitter for all the young girls
who still enjoy a summers-day dream-sitting.

Tuesday, May 2, 2017

NaPoWriMo Day #24

The prompt over at NaPoWriMo today encouraged us to write a poem about an art piece.  I decided to write about some of my favorite art:  the vintage pulp horror/gothic romance book covers!

Dime-Store Cover-Art

Sometimes I wonder
what they were thinking,
all those women running
from the blurry silhouettes
of overtly-dark houses
that rise in the background
of leafy-green trees on moors,
or rocks atop mountains
meant never to be scoured
by the mortal hands of man.
All those houses with one
bright window like the
eye of night, invisible
mouths of doors ready
to swallow screams,
those dark and silent
vintage pop-art tombs.

NaPoWriMo Day #23

The prompt over at NaPoWriMo today was:

Our prompt for Day Twenty-Three comes to us from Gloria Gonsalves, who challenges us to write a double elevenie. What’s that? Well, an elevenie is an eleven-word poem of five lines, with each line performing a specific task in the poem. The first line is one word, a noun. The second line is two words that explain what the noun in the first line does, the third line explains where the noun is in three words, the fourth line provides further explanation in four words, and the fifth line concludes with one word that sums up the feeling or result of the first line’s noun being what it is and where it is. There are some good examples in the link above.
A double elevenie would have two stanzas of five lines each, and twenty-two words in all. It might be fun to try to write your double elevenie based on two nouns that are opposites, like sun and moon, or mountain and sea.

Three Sheets Between

my erotica,
you lay awake,
a seed between my sheets.

your touch
sears a burn
beneath my breast-bone.

NaPoWriMo Day #22

I wasn't really inspired by the prompt over at the official NaPoWriMo page today, so I just enjoyed a quick free-write.

Last-Chance Cafe

I imagine it's a place
with vanilla-cream paint,
Formica counters and
a footpath carved
by people who return
for the taste of
bitter java and one last
dream-wish to awaken.

NaPoWriMo Day #21

The prompt at NaPoWriMo today was:

Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that incorporates overheard speech. It could be something you’ve heard on the radio, or a phrase you remember from your childhood, even something you overheard a coworker say in the break room! Use the overheard speech as a springboard from which to launch your poem. Your poem could comment directly on the overheard phrase or simply use it as illustration or tone-setting material.

Mid-Morning Resolve

Hand-in-hand, I walk
my daughter into the only cafe
in the historical downtown district.
Giddily, she is immediately taken
by the colorful array of stone-dish
photos of cheeseburgers
five-layer deep and the variety
of busy-kitchen aromas.
As I half-heartedly finger the menu
I can't help but particularly oversee
a conversation between two
middle-aged gypsies, their long skirts
whispering together beneath
a tall table beyond the dusty
picture window they bend their
heads toward the eye-gaze of
one another like conspirators,
their faces pinched with a serious
severity that I dare believe can
only arrive beyond a certain physical age.
They complain of how an unexpected
frost stole the beginning buds of
a precious garden, their unwanted
premature patches of gray, and I
observe the way a deep dissatisfaction
pinches at their faces.
How they fail to notice the drizzle
disappear, a wavering sun blinking
his eyes behind the city-building horizon.
I pity the resilience of their quiet anger
and resolve never to be an old grump
as I throw my daughter an air kiss
over thirsty soda-pops with extra fizz,
then we walk back into the world,
across the threshold of an early afternoon,
each of us tipping our heads back
with the laughter of life, mouths parting,
swallowing little yellow,
invisible particles of sun.

Monday, May 1, 2017

NaPoWriMo Day #20

The prompt at NaPoWriMo didn't really inspire me, so I decided to use one from Poetic Asides.  It went like this:

For today’s prompt, pick an object (any object), make it the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Possible titles could include: “Toothbrush,” “Rake,” “Pilot G2 Premium Gel Roller Pen,” or any number of other objective titles. Have fun with it.

Metal-Wicker Deck Chair

This spring I've been spending most of my leisure time in a deck chair, beneath a turquoise umbrella that spins its metal pole each time the wind bends.  But I've been traveling quite a bit whilst simply siting there.  The wicker-edged table is usually heaped with books, journals, and the ever-trusty Bic pen.  There's plenty of Espresso and a panoramic view of the two-way lane of intersecting roadways that lead into the historical downtown district.  This sitting spot is a utopia of sorts when the shade drops and the day breaks.  I stuff moments stolen from pedestrians and overheard parking-lot conversations into the pocket of my notebook, a pantomime of self-expression.  A sort of expansion of my own life, if and where I choose to weave these random snippets into characters and stories proclamations of daily life.

NaPoWriMo Day #19

The prompt at NaPoWriMo today is:

Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that recounts a creation myth. It doesn’t have to be an existing creation myth, or even recount how all of creation came to be.

An Account of Creation

The whole idea is sub-par.  Lacking in scientific detail as much as a proper metal dialogue, minus language.  You simply cannot claim that, in anger, you painted the sky red in three days yet fail to deliver the simple equation of paint-pails divided by the time each brush-stroke stole.  I refuse to believe that human-kind was just rolled out like a baker flour-dusting before his cookie-cutting.  I also refute the idea that particle dust was of no essence.  Only those innocent, most feeble and sheeply-minded could defy the fact that the universe spun star-matter and moon dust in the cauldron of its empty guts for eons, until some magnificent combustion came to fruition.  A general mutation that mutated for a billion years into the cells of myself, the pigment of my hair.  Yes...everything alive is a positively-charged collection of atoms.  We are but the reincarnation of dead-star.

NaPoWriMo Day #18

The prompt at NaPoWriMo today was:

Today, I challenge you to write a poem that incorporates neologisms. What’s that? Well, it’s a made-up word! Your neologisms could be portmanteaus (basically, a word made from combining two existing words, like “motel” coming from “motor” and “hotel”) or they could be words invented entirely for their sound.

Midnight Poet-Talk

The poet-cry
is but a steadily-wavering
slip of candle-burn,
the sum of a small sun,
inferior to the worldly
mechanics that soil
like old blacktop
come morning.
You find them culdesacced
against the corners
of dusty bookshelves
where Byron's talk of lust
still sizzle the fingertips
and redden the cheeks
of those often-awkward sub-folk.
We are wordy, otherworldly;
I suppose I self-identify.
But spare me a moment
with the moon, I'm yearning
to rewrite a lullaby.

Sunday, April 30, 2017

NaPoWriMo Day #17

The prompt at NaPoWriMo today was:

Today, I challenge you to write a nocturne. In music, a nocturne is a composition meant to be played at night, usually for piano, and with a tender and melancholy sort of sound. Your nocturne should aim to translate this sensibility into poetic form! Need more inspiration? Why not listen to one of history’s most famous nocturnes, Chopin’s Op. 9 No. 2?

My Nocturne

I found the twilight a tawny, withering thing.  Feeble in octave, its fingers cool of a cold-front kind of pre-storm frigidity.  The moon osculated between clouds of white-gray, a sorry little gloaming for the lone nocturnal mammal.  And, of myself atop a balcony where balustrades twisted between the shadows of a quiet night like gray bone.  Why, I was elated with the whims of woman.  Giddy in my toes for the feel of a kiss.  The breeze delivered both, albeit a steady, sultry, late-night sort of moan amidst the trees that formed a myriad of colors as they shadow-danced against the full-moon.

NaPoWriMo Day #16

The prompt at NaPoWriMo today was;

Today I challenge you to take your inspiration, like our featured interviewee did in the chapbook she co-authored with Ross Gay, from the act of letter-writing. Your poem can be in the form of a letter to a person, place, or thing, or in the form of a back-and-forth correspondence.

Dear Ex-Lover

I'm finding your absence a little easier to swallow considering you've left a smear of your former self, a frown I've yet to decontaminate from my picture-window view.  For there's a certain contentment found in the theory that you refuse to remove yourself more thoroughly.  It would appear to me that there's something still left of me unaffected that you feel I'd be humbled by your ever-awkward touch.  Perhaps you wish to still persuade some part of me.  Yet I rest you assure that whatever portion I had once reserved for you is available no longer.

Enjoy Moving Along &
Never Yours Again,

NaPoWriMo Day #15

The prompt at NaPoWriMo today is:

Because we’re halfway through NaPoWriMo/GloPoWriMo today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that reflects on the nature of being in the middle of something. The poem could be about being on a journey and stopping for a break, or the gap between something half-done and all-done. Half a loaf is supposedly better than none, but what’s the difference between half of a very large loaf and all of a very small one? Let your mind wander into the middle distance, betwixt the beginning of things and the end. Hopefully, you will find some poetry there!

The Changeling

The rain midday was
only enough to wet the sidewalk.
I'm more so taken
by a storm that rages.
Give me gray thunderclouds
and a wind that quakes
the foundation of my shutters.
Maybe I'm invigorated
by the emotional sensation
in the unfulfilled pregnancy
of the feel of danger.

My last lover left me with
a sense of emptiness,
as if the distilled air of a vintage
whisky bottle had been stuffed
inside my chest for keeps.
I'd rather be transformed by
the agape sort of admiration,
or else left inconsolable,
by some irreconcilable
difference in agenda.

Teacher, if you must do anything,
please leave me altered.
An immaculate painting
smeared center-stroke,
or a table full of only
the best sort of food, minus
some vital, minuscule seasoning.
Steal something, or else
unburden your baggage.

Friday, April 14, 2017

NaPoWriMo Day #14

The prompt from NaPoWriMo today is:

Last but not least, our prompt! Because it’s Friday, let’s keep it light and silly today, with a clerihew. This is a four line biographical poem that satirizes a famous person.

The Mannerisms of Anne (Sexton)

She reveled the yogis among their rigid corpse-pose 
testified to the colossal man-hate of Plath.
She was a ten-toed Geanie with her belly full of
writer's glow and one last wish for the fishes.

NaPoWriMo Day #13

I wasn't too inspired by the prompt at the official NaPoWriMo site today, so I just wrote a free verse of my own.

I was reading a book of poetry by Paul Zaller today.  He wrote a quite a few poems about war.  I like to reflect when I read poetry, sort of see where my thoughts take me.  The year 1969 came up in one of the poems and I thought to myself, 'that would have been in some previous life for me.'  And thus, this poem was born.

I Was Once Some Other Woman

Somewhere there is a cozy room,
it holds fresh linen and smells of cedar.
There's a paint-chipped window sill
behind the sink where the breeze used
to blow my evening candles asleep.
A classic 50's cooler is nestled in the corner,
metal ice-trays ready to clink their
ready-made cubes against the smooth bodies
of one another over late-dinner drinks.
The paint on the walls is faded
and the linoleum is peeling near the edges,
but love lives behind it's lose corners
for there's an old red cooler on the porch
waiting for summer, and some wading
boots worn by a man I loved.
I cannot remember the bend of his neck,
nor the tan clasp of his gentle hands, those
details are closed behind the closet of my mind,
each moment a brilliant stroke of color,
the complete experience a mere
fine-detailed painting and, dip as I may,
my fingers into bowls-full of acrylic,
whole worlds of color and possibility all their own,
I cannot properly reassemble the picture
of fists-full of babies breath, a house on
the edge of a green-blue moor,
his hands in my hair, my head on his chest.

Wednesday, April 12, 2017

NaPoWriMo Day #12

The prompt at NaPoWriMo for today is:

Today, I’d like you to write a poem that explicitly incorporates alliteration (the use of repeated consonant sounds) and assonance (the use of repeated vowel sounds). This doesn’t mean necessarily limiting yourself to a few consonants or vowels, although it could. Even relatively restrained alliteration and assonance can help tighten a poem, with the sounds reinforcing the sense. 

I Never Said I Wasn't...

I've been writing lately
in secret places
petty little box-top corners
where the weary carry
their invisible burdens
into careless corners of 
these empty, vacant cross-
ways near the cab wheels
where rusty rims stop my step.
And I've been wishing
on the emptiest nights
of wavering twilight
like the wishy-washy
I-dream-of-Jeanie in
a silver bottle already
washed of yesterdays Bicardi,
that I could fill the empty
well of myself with
anything swell, or real,
or wish-me-well?

Word List Wednesday #12 (Also my NaPoWriMo Day #11, 2017)

I know these weekly prompts are sporadic.  I lead a busy life.  I wish I was one of those people who could actually commit to a weekly posting on a certain day, but as it is, I can only do so when my schedule allows.  No matter, I hope I can inspire someone.

EVERY OTHER Wednesday (twice per month) I select a list of at least 10 words (sometimes more).  I pull these words from a favorite literary piece that has inspired me. Usually it's another poem.  I always provide the poem author and title unless you want to go read it for yourself.

The idea is to take those 10 words and create a new, unique piece of writing of our own.

I love word lists/wordles because  they allow me to use words I don't often use, and those new words encourage fresh concepts and ideas for my poetry.

I first created this weekly prompt to inspire myself.  However, I am extending the invitation to others who may enjoy writing with my word list.  I invite you to link your work in the comments section if so!

The Word List for this week is selected from the beautiful lyrics by Van Morrison as they appear in his song titled Astral Weeks.

Word List:

Here is my contribution:

Reminiscing a Trespass

She stood at the picture window near
the fireplace, looking beyond the
black stormy world of an astral kind of night.
The last of the guests had blown their
sherry-and-gin kisses into the space
beyond her cheeks, tip-toeing their
heels and crispy suits across the lawn
toward fancy cars, a distinct sort of music.
The whipporwills rattled in the elms
between the beginning of a Spring rain,
the wind spun softly, the sound of the ocean
caught between the inner-chamber of a seashell.
Dewdrops whispered from the intricately-shaped
leaves of the eves that swayed overhead.
And two addresses down the lane stood his house,
one window-block glowing like a California sun.
She watched his shadow flit momentarily past
the shaded pane, eyes traveling the backroads
of her mind.  Her memories were a slipstream,
the viaducts plugged.  She wanted to run
from the desire to wade the muddy waters
to his door, to bang the silver knocker
and fill his mouth with her kiss;  sultrily, hungry,
wet clothes peeling from her skin like sun-dried fruit.
She was a positively-charged ion, a 
spinning particle caught in the will of lust, made 
immobile in the absence of his touch.