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life-changing moment

thinking thinking thinking
bee wasp bee
flea itch itch
thinking butterfly thinking
Ouch! Wha..?
There’s an apple on my head!
Where’d that come from?
What do I want with an apple?
thinking thinking thinking
bee fly butterfly itch
what was I thinking?
crunch toss flea itch


in brief

whose car that is
I think I know
his wife is in the city, though,
and will not see him
stopping here
to catch an hour with a

Grimm Ballet

On the Origins of Class Warfare in Traditional German Folk Tale

every night, dance.
And every morning–holes.
And it’s the cobbler gets the damns
for giving them paper soles.
But they must be feather-light for romance,
the dozen flighty scolds.
Anger the cobblers:  we’ll shoe you to prance
properly.   On your toes.


Poetry Jam:  Aphrodite’s Jam


Thinking about those dark ladies and mysterious love objects…

(to the “inside out” of the prompt)


if i were trouble and you
were a dog
my internal vowels
would be strewn over two fields, my
b would be hung
about with l like long sausage.
the buzzards
would eat my r
and sip tea from my disturbed
while you rest your chin on crossed paws,
making sonnets about my bloody scent


We Write Poems Prompt #72 better inside out

Shame is the starting point for this prompt. Shame is often a strongly felt emotion. But shame in itself is also a useless state of being, restoring nothing that might have been damaged, and is at root a self-centered point of view. Most of its energy comes out of our not wanting it to be revealed. However this prompt is not “about” shame, but rather how it might be addressed in a manner that expresses and releases the experience. How you address and discover this process within a poem is the real challenge of this prompt.

Fortune, cookie

the eyes that smile above the rim
holds you in two hands
is in the fearless heart
is upright, knowing how to bend

He just woke up

He Just Woke Up

He has gotten out his pipe
and the same pouch of tobacco
he opened last time the change of weather caught him
in this mood. He’s gone philosophical, and tweedy,
and talks about the virtue
of real pens, thinks he may start a journal,
something he could turn to book form someday,
wonders where he put the matches;
and the ash tray, did that go to Goodwill?
Dew on the spider web;
he was standing on the porch this morning, pipe unlit,
and nodding at the neighbor on the corner.
He thinks the worst may be over.
Maybe he’ll start walking again.



Jennifer, Jenny,
plain as a window pane, Jen
sighed at her weight
and tucked a sachet
in the sash at her waist
a coy addition,
a small ornament, but,
like the little wave in her hair
and the absence of guilt
in her mist-pale eyes, frowned on
by her grandparents and straight-laced sects.

On another plane,
a gin-swizzled jinn sighs
over fish. In the marble pool
beside her, gilt-scaled koi sashay
through bending lily stems to spawn.
Such a waste, to be over-sexed here.
A pain to wait for a lover her size,
with armament. To sire a jinn. And wit.
To make her grandparents waive their objections.