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

Sunday, June 29, 2014


Street Art by Saki and Bitches, London East End  (photo by lolamouse)
I saw you walkin' down the street
Can't get you off my mind
Your brown skin glistened in the heat
Ripe peach from the behind
You flirt, you flaunt with your tight dress
Your hair is waves of blue
You leave me shakin' and a mess
Don't know what I'mma do
Girl, you know you're fresh and brash
And you make my mind whirl
Some folks be sayin' you're just trash
But you're my avant-girl.

Saturday, June 28, 2014


Anything for you, baby
You know that, don't ya?
If you want my attention, I'll drop whatever I'm doing
and give you anything you want
You know I'm a sit on the couch and watch SVU kinda girl
but if you want to go out,
I'm up and out the door - just let me put on my shoes, honey
You can take the covers, take the pillows - both of them
I just wanna sleep next to you
You can snore in my ear
and it's better than any Beethoven symphony
If you're feeling affectionate
I'll cuddle with you despite my hot flashes
and your tendency to smell like rancid Fritos
I'll accept your sloppy kisses
like they're gold coins pouring out of a slot machine
You know that I see you kiss other girls
and other boys
It's alright, baby
I know I'm your number one
You'll always be mine too
Anything for you.

Baby Mouse and Soni the Poodle

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Kerry Says - Let's Have a Conversation

One of my favorite Doggy poems by one of my favorite poets, Andrea Gibson

Saturday, June 14, 2014


You sneak up behind me
A cat after prey
Soft and silent
as night swallows day
You sedate with your purr
Rub your body on mine
Make me believe
You're a creature benign
Crystal green eyes
Reflect my desire
Give nothing away
of what will transpire
I reach out to touch
Pull back bloody and scratched
You walk away
Smug and detached.

Submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, FB Friday, The Art of Guido Vedovato

Here is the link to the painting that inspired the poem

Thursday, June 12, 2014


Meshes of the Afternoon by Maya Deren
The bread is stale
The flowers are dead
I look in the mirror and see
my mother

The roses are red
So is the blood
The mirror is cracked
The pill is swallowed

The flowers are lovely
The bread is round
The people are celebrating
The door is open

There is no bread
The flowers are pressed
The knife is at the wrist
The baby cries
The baby cries
The baby cries
The dirt is on the grave
The mirrors are covered
Where is the key?
Swallowed  by grandmother

The stairs are endless
The phone is silent
The music has stopped
I stare at the key

The bread is stale
The flowers are dead
I look in the mirror and see
my mother.

Sunday, June 1, 2014

Reflections on My Daughter Graduating

She sat among them-the mothers she had known for years. She had seen them at school events, awards ceremonies, field trips, parties since her daughter had started school, over twelve years ago now.  She glanced over their faces, as familiar to her as her own, and smiled as she thought, “Damn, I hate these bitches.”