Reanimated Lavender Granola Switchblade Nun rides again.

Sunday, January 31, 2021

The Pines

I made my skin call itself snow,

and wrapped that body around my heart.

There was no sound except the groaning of the pines.

The world has died, I said.

I have died, there is no sound except the pines.

There was still the sun, 91 million miles away,

dribbling through the branches of the groaning pines. 

There was still my skin of snow.

There was still my heart, a stunned bird fallen from the pines.

Hear the song of the snow falling from the pines,

falling on itself, increasing itself

in thrall to its remote Master,

saying, we are small white suns without heat,

bright, blinding.

I made my skin call itself cold,

and wrapped myself around my heart. 

I said, idiot pines, here is peace, here is stillness.

The pines stood groaning, green day and night,

oblivious to the Master's moods, saying glory glory.

All the while, my heart stirred, brown and puny,

whispering itself out as friable desire

for light, for voice, for the pines that sway

in the unseen, unending movement

of the empty, restless sky.


for Sunday Muse #145.

Saturday, January 23, 2021

Pool Party

Olympic freestyle w/ jungle animals was an instant hit.

The world's top swimmers, driven by ambition and terror, amused the crowd with feats of athletic derring-do.

Behold the gentle panda

blocking lane three

and the gnu in two

basking elegantly.

It was indeed unfortunate about the hungry tigers

diving in and disturbing the plastic markers.

Next, we offer soccer w/ lion pride.

Test audiences loved it, sponsorships galore!

That's tonight at ten.

Gymnastics w/ wolverines tomorrow at four.


for Sunday Muse #144

Saturday, January 16, 2021

While The Devil Sleeps


Even the devil has to sleep some time,

dozing by the inferno, daring a red-lipped smile.

Let's dance, though the downstairs neighbors bang the broomstick.

Let's wear sequins and furs, hats as big as platters,

and take the train with our big brown bags.

Put an air on, try an accent, we're beautiful don't you see?

We will land like birds on a fountain in a square

to sing ourselves as Whitman would, while the devil sleeps. 


for Sunday Muse #143, where I am hosting. Join us!