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

Saturday, May 30, 2015

Beneath the Violets

Although he should have know he would get caught
His boundless arrogance encouraged him
He couldn't understand how he got got
Male vanity so often makes wits dim

Desirous of both the sun and shade
Well, you know how that greedy story goes
His rendezvous deep in a forest glade
He thought it secret but we know talk flows

They both confronted him with all his lies
Dried tears upon their faces cold as stone
Where trust no longer flourishes, love dies
For all his sins, he never could atone

He's buried in their yard beneath the lawn
The violets now grow brighter since he's gone.

Tuesday, May 26, 2015

Beginning Witchery

witch by MercuroBCotto
Shannan entered the scene just as Lola finished the spell:
"I warned you to stop catcalling women on the street! Now I'll turn you into a newt!"
Shannan assessed the man, now reptile, and sighed
"You better practice your spells. This is a skink, not a newt!"
Lola countered
"Skink, newt, same difference. He's got 4 legs and a tail."
"Well, by that logic, you may as well have turned him into a toy poodle!" Shannan fumed
"Sloppy spells come from an undisciplined mind. You need to focus, Lola!"
"Quit hounding me, Shannan! You're such a perfectionist!"
And with that, Lola pointed at Shannan and mumbled some incomprehensible words
"Ha! How do you like that, Ms. Perfect?!! I turned you into a frog! Now go hop away and leave me alone!"
The amphibian, formerly human, stared at Lola and spoke in a perturbed monotone
"I'm a toad, you nitwit."

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads,Tuesday Platform 

Saturday, May 23, 2015

Keep Your Balance

The head turns too quickly and
The room becomes a dizzying carnival ride
Mundane objects
pass in and out of vision like Dorothy's tornado
turn sinister in twisted vision:
Here's a stapler
Here's a desk chair
Here's a purse
Here's a window
Here's a pen
All fly by, ungraspable

Here is what you tell yourself:
It's all right
This feeling will pass
Hang on
You can get through this
Don't vomit
Calm down

Here is what you must do:
Lie down (the floor will do)
Close your eyes
Ignore the low hum/high ring  in your ear

When it's over:
Assess the damage
Sit up slowly
Drink some water
Walk a straight line
Keep your balance
Keep your balance.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, FB Friday, Recipe for...Poetry

Friday, May 22, 2015

Bird Watching

City sounds
Urban birdsong
A cacophonous May canvas
"Shoe shine! Shoooooe shine! Shooooooe shiiiine!"
sings a gray feathered bird
his capped head bent over
his springtime work
"Needa fat bitch! Oooooh, I needa fat bitch!"
another's shrill chirp distracts
Pigeons peck at the sidewalk
for crumbs
A small brown bird lands
on my shoulder
"Gotta minute? Gotta minute?"
he chirps in my ear
I pause to listen
Lost nest, hungry babies
Feeling the pull of the crowd
I almost brush him off then
consider the $35 box of gourmet donuts
tucked under my own wing
Give him money for food
and a little more for his family
Then watch him fly away.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Tuesday Platform

Sunday, May 10, 2015

Baltimore Burns

Baltimore burns

Blame the police
Blame the kids
Blame the thugs
Blame the agitators
It doesn't matter who
lit the match
The city is full of  kindling
to feed the flames

Fire fueled
by poverty
empty promises
Watch it burn to the ground

Watch it on our TVs
in our big houses
in our safe, green suburbs
Shake our heads and withdraw
from the insistent sea of angry black faces
Our own fragment of reality
so much more pleasant

We, the privileged,
who send our sons off to school
with a peck on the cheek
don't wonder whether they'll come back
who curse the crabgrass in our yards
not the clay colored stain of dried blood
on our sidewalks
whose souls are unbattered
ungnawed by daily injustices
ground down by despair
who matter
without having to write it
shout it
burn it
into consciousness
to make people pay attention.

submitted to Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Get Listed for May, Pablo Neruda