Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. Leonard Cohen

Sunday, March 30, 2014

Souvenirs From Dreams

She believed
She believed with all the faith
her tender five year-old soul could hold
More than she believed in God
More than Heaven
More than even her own name
She believed
that dreaming and waking
were just different rooms
in the same house
She believed
boundaries were permeable
She could travel thresholds
of unconscious to conscious
like she traversed bedroom to kitchen
and back
She believed
if she really tried
she could return from her dreams
with some souvenir
like when she returned to her room
with a cookie from the cupboard
She believed this so strongly
that each night she would try to grasp some trinket
from dreaming
and wake with it in her hand
But each morning she awoke 
empty handed
her dream object faint and 
fading into the evasive penumbra of night
a  beautiful shell she tried to snatch from the ocean
just as a huge wave washed her under
She would finally stand
gripping nothing
but sand.

Thursday, March 27, 2014


I tell you if there's anything worse than dealing with a staunch woman... S-T-A-U-N-C-H. There's nothing worse, I'm telling you. They don't weaken, no matter what. ”

― Edith "Little Edie" Bouvier Beale

Sunday, March 23, 2014

Sticky Sweet Summer Memories

Starcraft pop-up towed behind faux wood paneled station wagon
Marshmallows burning to sticky sweet perfection
Odor of pine needles and earth
Rain pelting canvas, resonant and mellow
Eating bologna and cheese sandwiches while waiting for fish to bite
Summer smells of sweat, Coppertone, and bug spray

Not ours but quite similar! Source
submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Camped Out In the Garden

Sunday, March 9, 2014

Dark Pleasure

Dark Pleasure by Vandy Massey
I had forgotten what real was
until you reminded me
The taste was new, yet familiar
like a dream almost remembered
Each kiss,
redolent of sweet wine,
inky, dark and dangerous
Scarlet stains 
sticky on my lips
Burgundy bruises to remind me
Leaving me sated
and craving more.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Sunday's Featured Artist,Vandy Massey

Wednesday, March 5, 2014

Are You Dreaming?

 Are you dreaming of me?
When you close your eyes,
do you see another time?
 When I lie awake at night, I wonder
Are you dreaming of me?

Do I keep you awake too?
Do you toss in listless non-slumber
on those nights I dream
of you?

Would one last kiss goodbye
Here or there
finally let me sleep

59 words, submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Words Count w/Mama Zen, An Interview With Nathan Brown

Sunday, March 2, 2014


The butterfly is never born with wings
She starts upon the earth and only crawls
But to that form she knows she cannot cling
For holding on means transformation stalls

The courage to allow yourself to fall
So freely that you fear that you may die
Becomes the very thing that lets you fly.

She Rides

She heard the hoof beats and she thought of stripes
Imagination conjured up the rare
For all her life she was one of those types
Accomplished what the others did not dare

So with proud peacock flumes tucked in her hair
She rides a zebra through the azure night
She knows that life is more than black and white.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, FB Fridays, Rhyme Royal and WT Benda

Saturday, March 1, 2014

The Poet

Poet's Sleep, 1989, by Chang Houg Ahn
The poet is no alchemist
He cannot find the Philosopher's Stone
that will transform pedestrian words
into gold

The remains of his earlier efforts
lay scattered in the weeds
The poet chokes
on the dust of bones

The poet sleeps
He dreams of blood coursing through stones
Alive and

submitted for The Mag, Mag208