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

Friday, August 22, 2014


pressed between book  pages
On the flowers, fragile and faded,
I can still smell the scent of long-ago perfume
The petals fall, papery snowflakes
melting like promises

Written for the previous week's Sunday Mini Challenge, Triquain at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

Sunday, August 10, 2014

Heaven's Ghetto

Keith Haring
Love can be dangerous
Cross the wrong street-
love can be deadly
Doesn't matter how we die
Disease, murder, brainwashing, hopelessness
We all end up in the same pile of bodies
Buried by gloved hands and masked faces
Heads shaking 
Thinking "not me"
until it is

Hatred is a virus
as much as HIV
It spreads by fear
Grows stronger through ignorance
And the cure still seems miles
We die for love
Destined for Heaven's ghetto.

submitted for Magpie Tales, Mag 232

Saturday, August 9, 2014


There are closets in my skeleton
Gaping spaces between bones
Inaccessible places

Waiting for me to press "play"
or not

My ribs are not your tie rack
They sit too close
to my heart.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real ToadsArtistic Interpretations w/Margaret,Skeleton Poetry

Tuesday, August 5, 2014

Children of Decay

Overnight they emerge
Ghostly grey presence
belying the morning shine
Flat headed phantoms
balanced on thin, stringy stems
Children of decay
birthed of death
No fairy picnics under these
skeletal umbrellas
Prodders of rot
Auguries of degeneration
spreading earthy perfume
among the sweet flowers
They stand
ashen tombstones
marking time
Reminders of mortality
always reminding.

submitted (late again) for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Flash Fiction 55

Dog, you, me, dog

Lined up 
on the bed
Pressed together
A living panini
on a sheeted plate
Our essences mingle
wrapped in heat
wrapped in sheets
Warm, gooey, cozy treat
Sandwich perfection