Month: July 2024

The Hth Symphony

The Hth Symphony
As dull as licking the window pane
Flavor of CPA licensure
Or funeral home director.

It works it’s waves through the folds
Of my wounded mind,
And I remember how
The snowflake flashed “help “ in Morse code
As it glistened to death in my warm hand.

Velvet transpires with Chantilly lace
To pluck Hth out of the air,
Twist it around and stretch it,
Bleeding pink dreams as it distorts beyond recognition.

What makes you the most qualified applicant
To modernize sound for the sensibilities of the dark?
If you gather courage from the mangroves bleeding orange juice,
You may be able to tolerate the Gth symphony.
If that is too tangy an endeavor for you,
It’s chutes not ladders for you,
For the rest of your

L
I
F
E

February – Or Limits.

The ghost of February
Rummages through my garage,
Unearthing thousands of decayed dreams.

February is ice blue
Is lonely
Is unhinged.
Climate Control
Battles with her every year.
But each year February dies
And her ghost
Is a pick pocket on the beach I grew up on.

When she comes to my home,
My pink dwelling by the sea,
She searches for her brother,
January.
I do not tell her
But I buried him
And selfish ambition
Under the Norfolk Pine.

One of my dreams is delicate,
Lacy,
Shy.
Her I named Aurora
For the lights I long to see
At the ends of the Earth.
She almost turns to dust in February’s
Damp hands.

February takes a shine to her and asks me,
“May I?”
I acquiesce.
She wipes away the frost
On her eyes,
And sachets out of my garage,
My little green dream chattering away at her.
May my tender little dream

Go where I cannot.

Ghosts

Ghost is a noun,
a verb,
A philosophy.
The spilled milk curdles
on a floor I have no time for,
as I float toward the sun roof.

I left behind a peril of poison
to enter this paradise.
So many ghosts march outside,
sliding past my windows
to a war I have left.

Sometimes you can take
your ball and go home,
but home is some place new and blue.

Doors

Domesticated butterflies
dust my curio cabinet.
Feral dogs howl outside my door.
Why is every door in this house
blue and covered in teeth?

I collect crystal,
smiles,
foreign flags.
I teach a curriculum
of careful altruism
to my class of invertebrate Thursdays.

I understand the lascivious sunset and all her erotic, neurotic colors.
I, too, am a walking box of crazy desire.

This house is a department store
specializing in drapes.
This house is a mismanaged dream.
This house is a disease
that makes you ten years younger.

I thank my butterflies,
And I feed the dogs.


Long Time No Chat

It’s been a while since I used this sweet little blog. Life has been busy. We lived in Florida for two years. We had a beautiful pink house by the beach. I could see the water and listen to the waves from my porch. Definitely the experience of a lifetime. I miss it.

My daughter is in the double digits now. She’s growing up so fast. Right now we’re enjoying summer break and spending time together. She is so smart and kind and creative. She has always been an absolute joy. We are immeasurably proud of her.

I’m still a poet, but I’ve gotten really into film photography. I love instant cameras and cheap disposables or holgas. I am somewhat obsessed. I paint too and make collages. Art is so therapeutic.

I finally took the plunge and got an iPad so I can do digital painting too. I adore Procreate. I get every brush I can find.

Life is good. We have changes coming to our family, and we are all so excited. Oh, and we have two dogs now. The last time I really used this blog we didn’t even have one, but now we are a two dog household and I love it. I have been stretching and growing creatively. If all goes well I might be publishing a book this year.

The sampling above is a sliver of what I’ve been doing. We have taken great trips, I’ve learned new skills (I cook and bake and I’m learning embroidery!), and my husband is doing great in his career. All in all, I just feel super blessed and grateful.

Kitchen Knife

In the crisp, cropped morning –
gold daydreams at the edges.
I hurry to class
fantasizing about books,
about the secret haven of birds,
about a candy leopard.

The future ripples like
accommodating grass
with each turn I make.
Each choice is a wind setting out
over the plane of my uncategorized existence
like a ray of light.

What lies in the center of beauty
but a fawn sleeping soundly,
her mother still 3 days away
from the hunter’s gun?

Amiable maps will reveal
the road to catharsis,
but hide the rambling path
of permanent joy
that I have to cut into the brush                     myself with a kitchen knife.