for a moment of joy or moments no one pays for, i give myself a ‘jornal’. this makes me rich. try it.

inner cities (a sort of versified haibun, an experiment)


draperies of wrinkled winds the affectations we traded for dawn kisses straining the moon

listen to the children beginning their climb on a spiral of electives we elders concocted out of broken yarn

they’ll string them together with knots we had thought as we waxed the yarn sliding them between our canines

a child bursts into a scream at birth shedding his mother’s blood-coating a slimy red he knew he did not need but by then gurgling through his veins

this evening of attrition it’s blood roiling unseen that drives him to untangle the net he knotted and wove from broken yarn those strands his mother also called blood

we watch out for when he and his siblings scramble up our limbs and bite our tongue and begin to scale the spiral to the moon


a tale of inner cities

…flat lining a wall


March 7, 2015 Posted by | haibun, poetry | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

nightmare (for One Shoot Sunday)

Picture prompt by Rosie Hardy

the last drop of turpentine
stains the moon on the landscape
she conjured

out of yarn that wobbled
like disembodied Adam’s apple
talking to her of a man

she pulled a meadow
where cows wear earrings
and metal buckled boots

they stomp on blue irises
eat white poppies and sneezing
blow balloons from their noses

she draws a woman in a shed
whittling an arrow for a son, but
where’s the boy

a blond head and arms like sticks
legs broken in angles appears
astride on a cow

the moon comes rising
mid spring among the grumbling oaks
their skin brittle as glass crack

the wind is cruel in the meadow
it sweeps in gales and shifts corners

she runs out of turpentine
as the white mice appear in between
the boy and a grinning calf

the spaces she overlooked
now scurrying as swift as the wind
she wallops a blob of blue

as if the sky does not cause
clouds that mutate into white mice
the last of the turpentine drips

to the woman’s lap
where is the man and son ask
the elder berries

the woman leaps to dance
the dance of the moon when crazed
by the giggling stars

not stars but tickling
white mice has the woman stoned
after the dance to shake

her nightmare off
she doesn’t waken even as the man wills
to turn himself into a bearded mouse

the painting clears out
in the dream the woman in the shed
becomes a petulant woman wearing

white breasts and the man-mouse
has multiplied on her

Posted for One Shoot Sunday at One Stop Poetry from a prompt by Rosie Hardy. This inimitable site for poets and artists starts the first Sunday of its second year, winning a Shorty Award for the Arts in its first year. Check out what made it win!

I wish to thank Adam, Chris G, Brian, Pete and Claudia again for having done a wonderful job. NO word is ever enough for what I feel I’ve gained from OSP.

July 18, 2011 Posted by | free verse, poetry | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments