Wednesday, November 28, 2007

It's really November?

There are few things


than a gorgeous, open-blue sky day

and a small person running
to find

the last leaves
creaking on the trees.

(mittens fly in abandon)

Saturday, November 17, 2007

the wrath of mama bear

When you
(who have no children)
informed my husband
that we were lacking

(and possibly dangerous to other people we love)

about something
that isn't your CONCERN

I caught a glimpse of something I hadn't seen before

that you


in your looks-so-perfect life.

And I will never look at you the same way again.

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

sometimes life is all Who lyrics

The sky is glass, the sea is brown
You pretend that you don't see
It's in my own hands, I know I'll cope,
You can't listen you won't hear me

How can we forgive a grievance
Prepare to walk the line
I think this heart has bled once too often,
I'm gonna make the most of my time

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

cabin fever

Turning my secrets
Inside out
Knowing all my flavors

Wondering how
I ever lived without you

And wondering how
I can push you away again

I like




Thursday, August 16, 2007

the manse gets the best spam

Against this sky no longer of our world.
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc
marked with a dark stroke from the left, encroached
At four, the spectators leave in pairs, off
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form
How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,
will come, blighting our harbingers of spring,
What? What can you do?
Bronze the sky, with no
Thinking of your abiding spirit brings
Of meaning like these the world created by
And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring
Across the heavens' gray.
Everywhere, utterly.
Introduction by Vilhjalmur Stefansson
The earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape,
That patch of white at the very end of the road
Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye
XVIII. The Northeast and Northwest Passages

Vilhjalmur Stefansson was an incredible man, exploring much and learning throughout his life.

While I have no idea if he wrote the above, (and can't find any reference to him crafting words in this way) seeing the spam led me to google him and end up reading about this person I never would have known about.

I love this about the internet.

Monday, June 18, 2007

blueprint of a girl

given to imperialism
has no compunctions about taking the last piece of - whatever - left
a bit of a madam (look at my bows! my rings! watch me!)

twines her arms around my neck for hugs


Thursday, May 10, 2007

morning on the sand

Swept clean,
the breakers sighing and three
angry gulls foraging for fish scraps.
Broken shells and washed-up seaweed.

How can it be so heartbreakingly lonely and beautiful all at once?

Nothing like an empty beach
to make you turn over your fears
come back to yourself
and begin again.

Crunching on stones
feet clattering a message
you return to your life
fresher, clearer
and centered once again.

Your worries tossed to the gulls.
Let them fight and scrap over it.

Saturday, May 5, 2007

still there

but still there.

Appointment first thing next week.

And like a whiff of forgotten cologne, she remembers

his sweet baby smell
and how



the best thing

she ever did.

The stone in her heart is heavy.

Monday, April 23, 2007

high school sweetheart

The dog pants in the warm night.

The children turn over and kick their covers off,
of faster bikes and bigger playgrounds
and longer swimming days.

His wife snores in the bed
while he stares out into the night,
and remembers another face.

She had the prettiest hands.

And suddenly he remembers who he was back then with her,
Ball player, world by the tail

And the weight of his soft belly and his thickening thighs
Holds him fast to the earth

and brings him back to now with a snap.

She had the prettiest hands, he thinks with a smile,
and bends, kissing his wife
wondering how on earth he ended up so lucky.

Tuesday, April 17, 2007


How unspeakably awful

to have to hope

your child's last moment

was a 'What was that?'

and not a 'Oh God it hurrrts....'

Thursday, April 12, 2007


My God, she's scared.

It wasn't so bad when they found the lump, though her husbands suddenly probing fingers and his shuttered white face will haunt her.

But now this period. That won't stop.
She's always been a four-day girl. And now it's day eleven, with no end in sight.

She's tired of stained panties and putting on a good face and assuring everyone she's fine, damnit,
when all she wants to do is cry.

What if this is it?
What if this is all there is?

What if they don't remember?

Wednesday, April 11, 2007


Packed into scenic shoeboxes by the bay,
the commuters crouch, staring.
Their glass-bound goldfish circle uneasily.

Should they eat the fish-food?
Or each other?