Thursday, April 6, 2017


Today's prompt dealt with writing a nature poem...I'll just let you guess what's going on in my kitchen currently...

April Invasion

Shiny brown ants seep
as rainwater through kitchen

walls: warmed soil’s spring flood.

Wednesday, April 5, 2017


I didn't follow the prompt today. I got sidetracked slaying Donald Duck and helping the Ponies win the  war against the Bergens and then we all ate Trolls.  And we were happy.  Such is motherhood.

Playtime with Miss N, Age 4

Fluffy Bear has lost his hair
and doesn’t know where to turn.
The dollies march to Bergentown
and pause to watch it burn.

Board my boat and cross the sea
and return Cinderella’s shoe.
Minnie Mouse has trashed the house
but left this cake for you.

Princess dress and blankie cape
and glowing Jedi sword
are her armor when Mom finds her

curled, napping on the floor.

Tuesday, April 4, 2017


Monday's prompt dealt with writing an elegy ( a poem that mourns the loss of someone or something), and urged writers to include odd little details about the deceased. Mine went on the abstract side of all that.


Who were we, once
upon another spring,
wearing smooth masks,
eating chocolate cake
on the city’s roof?
Years were heavy boots
to wear, flights were grounded,
children born. Change,
death’s hippie sister.
Have we become more
or less ourselves? I don’t
remember my mask—whether

I fit it on, or peeled it off.

Monday, April 3, 2017


The prompt for Sunday was a "recipe" poem. I did a "place" recipe.

Recipe for FD

Shake railroad ties in a bag
with gypsum dust, then drop
haphazardly on an uneven surface.
Repeat with potholed streets.
Number them, but not in order.
Add round-abouts at awkward junctures.
Pepper with little square houses
and little square bars.
Drop in rogues and cads,
church ladies and writers,
disheveled men to pick up the cans,
by the teaspoonful.
Marinate in Natty Light and rainwater.

Welcome home.

Sunday, April 2, 2017


Today's prompt urged us to write a "Kay Ryan-esque" poem, with short, tight lines, interwoven rhyme, a little philosophy, and maybe an animal. If you want a primer, a couple of my favorite poems by Kay Ryan are ""A Certain Kind of Eden" and "A Hundred Bolts of Satin."  Enjoy!

Lizard Memory

Reptilian impulse—slanted sunlight
cues the past with precision out
of my control. Lower brain runs
the course of habit. You rise whole
out of ten years’ thick honey.
We once sat in the sun
on a western Nebraska
butte, resting our hiking boots.
We watched a lizard bask
on a rock, still as a church. Clouds
built arches to everywhere, and
in that moment, we could not be touched.
And we still cannot—not the we
we were, that day. Cornfields and miles
and mis-numbered days push out
from that butte. Even so, when the sun
overshoots its mark, and
a certain breeze doubles back
to pick up what has fallen,
something primal scrabbles in

to scratch on the present.

Saturday, April 1, 2017

Earlybird poem

Let it begin.

As I have in the past, I'll be loosely following the prompts on the official NaPoWriMo site ( ). This poem is in response to yesterday's "earlybird" prompt to write a haibun (a prose poem that ends in a haiku)--and, quite unintentionally, it contains an actual early bird.

Cold Spring, 2017

Winter keeps the tail of March between forefinger and thumb. The snow is gone, but we can’t shake the habit: boots and coats, chili and heated van seats. Watery sky is crisscrossed with sycamore skeletons and flocks of starlings that turn on a dime. The crocuses are bullets waiting to fire. As usual, the housecats don’t care. Dawn is pale blue; coffee, at least, is hot. Outside

one bird scratches the

fat glossy silence, early

for choir practice.

Friday, March 31, 2017

NaPoWriMo 2017, Incoming!

Poem-a-day for 30 days starts tomorrow!  (Maybe today!) Stay tuned! Life happened and I fell off the poetry wagon last year after one day. Let's give this another go.