Reanimated Lavender Granola Switchblade Nun rides again.

Saturday, April 16, 2022


 And now comes my fetch in the mist by the slough
unnoticed by the sheep who eat the bursting sloes.
An unwelcome messenger, my double pale and blue,

to snap the stem that holds my soul and reap what doesn't rot.
I'm an altered, repetitious hag, with just the grave for new,
my breakfast made of river stones and set on plates of ice.

The horse may shed its harness, the ship may shed its crew.
I likewise shed this life entire, and no more question pose,
then--like the laurel root--decay, dissolving where it grew.

for Word Garden Word List #19 (at The Sunday Muse.) 

this poem is a "Magic 9" poem, with rhyme scheme aba cad aba, or "abracadabra" minus the two r's. 

when laurel grows in a swampy area, or "slough", the roots will rot. 

Friday, April 15, 2022

Delaying The Immortals (an American Sentence)

 Mercury gets a job as a NYC bike messenger but some idiot doors him, delaying Athena's bolts.

The American Sentence is an invention by the late Allen Ginsberg, who felt that haiku did not suit American expression. It is simply a single sentence of 17 syllables. 

Thursday, April 14, 2022

Wild Garlic

 First thing in the spring I see the sprigs of wild garlic
and should mine seem a giant's hand that reaches down to harm it,
remember how the neighbor's legions grew to five feet tall
and how I itched to yank and pitch each one of them to Hell,

You'll then indulge me as I hover murd'rously above it
to kill it quick and understand that I shall never love it.
Unchecked, you'll find the stinking stuff takes over every garden,
so if I windmill arms to pull, I do not beg your pardon.

Saturday, April 9, 2022

The Blind Doves


We are the blind doves
as bright as bells in our tree made of moonlight.

In the morning,
children find silver apples which redden with the rise of the sun.

The old priest comes out with his broom,
and the church steps stay still like ponies for the currycomb.

A young woman comes in the evening.
She holds an apple in her hand and cries because she has no child.

There is a pie cooling in a window.
We can feel stars appearing and hear the howl of the lonely dogs.

We are the blind doves in our tree made of moonlight,
silent as spirits, and bright as brides.

for Sunday Muse #206. Birds are the theme.

I was keen to use the painting "Moon Over Harvest Village" by Amy Scholten, but it is copyright protected. You can see it HERE.

Tuesday, April 5, 2022

Vagabond Ball

 You can lose the colored ball that rolls under the fence and into the weeds.
You can lose the puppy you slept with, the blanket, the bed, the parents as well.
You can lose your shoes when the roommate stretches them,
lose your virginity and barely remember it,
lose your bestie, your internship, your single room, your shine.

You can lose a husband or wife, that bastard, that bitch.
You can lose your tolerance, your keys, your court case, your kids.
You can lose yourself and wonder how in the hell.
You can lose and not be able to let it go.
You can lose your shit, or sigh and say, "oh well."
You can lose your composure when you see how far you fell.

You can lose the booze, the dope, the sex, the waste.
You can lose the name you started with and choose another one
that doesn't have the sting and shame, the stopper and the bung.
You can lose the demon and shame the devil.
You can lose who you weren't and gain who you are,
no matter how unexpected, how hard, how glorious, how far.

Your soul's the same, untouched after all,
waiting in the weeds with the vagabond ball.

my attempt at "a little repetition" for dverse. 

Monday, April 4, 2022

7 banal lines

 That spring the sky stayed gray, 
a grandfather dozing in a worn chair.
Our tongues turned to cotton,
our hearts ran out like tea from an upset cup.

It was the season of the broken brick,
the crushed bloom,
and the stunned child, gaping.

for Dverse quadrille: "season"

Saturday, April 2, 2022

Donne Like Dinner


Consider the plight of old food.
The congealed egg gesticulates, spilling her ninth glass of wine, 
claiming she could have been a chicken, soaring majestically over all you dumb motherfuckers.

This is not just lies.
She was hot, desired, asked for, and surrounded with warm companions.
Somehow, though, time skittered by, friends departed,
turning her yolk cold, her edges hard, and her future bleak.
Now there is nothing left but the scrub pad, the spray nozzle and the disposal.

Uneaten bacon sighs, recalling mobility, corn cobs and enticing sows!
Where is yesterday's jolly sun and days spreading out ahead like the world's most magnificent wallow?
The young roll their eyes as bacon's eyes light up,
warming to his subject, reliving the glory!

Like an old actor in a shuttered theater,
bacon has no stage but the walk-in cooler,
no mark but the edge of its cardboard box,
no applause but the hum of the refrigeration unit.
Imagine having an expiry date stamped on your skin!
Imagine that it has already passed!

Consider the plight of old food,
the muffin, the corn flake, the butter pat, scorned and forgotten!
Hash browns have feelings.
If you prick a pancake does it not bleed (syrup)?
Does the orange (juice) fall far from the tree?
Ask not for whom the busboy's bell tolls; it tolls for thee.