Tuesday, September 29, 2020

Beginnings and Endings and Beginnings

In my heart, October

screams a calming

tale of rebirth,

pages and pages of lived endings
whispering that death will be just
a different beginning.


click HERE, if you wish to see a few photos of the stitched blackout process.

 for Poets and Storytellers United (Weekly Scribblings #39: October Thrills).


Saturday, September 26, 2020

My City in the Time of COVID

I love random walks in forests made of pavement and shops. There is wonder to be found—and reimagined in ink—in spots where the wildest creature is human. But people watching while wandering New York City streets is not the safest of pleasures, in the time of COVID. Still, on cool days when my hospital dates end before the sun settles for the night, I delight in sightseeing The Bronx.

My city is an un-stilled picture of our never-ending fight for social justice,

a crystal canvas where we write and paint our brightest thoughts and feels.

My city is a haunting glimpse into doing what one can to survive—

some of the doing is splattered with feathers, rotting mud, and fouler things.

In the wilderness of bricks and hopes that is my city, zinnias bloom.

of disquieting times,
my city

for Poets and Storytellers United (Writers’ Pantry #39: Plums and feathers).


Wednesday, September 23, 2020

Good Uni-boob Support Is Hard to Find

I hate brassieres and other corporal restraints. No, it is not just because the word brassiere sounds a lot like brazier—which always makes me think of chest meat slow cooking to tender discomfort—but also because brassieres have a you-hate-me-so-I-shall-torture-you relationship with most of the nerves in my back.

Thankfully, the universe in all her wisdom and hunger for balance found it proper to bless my chest with forever 16-year-old boobs. Until I started dancing with my 40s. After that, fate and (one of her cancer goons) trapped me in a dark alley, and loud-whispered in my face, “Your life or your double-boobness, dearie. Which will it be?”

I kept my life and a boob. No, my hatred of brassieres wasn’t reduced by half. It was increased by gazillions, in the sports bra department: good uni-boob support is just so freaking hard to find.    


“Single Mastectomy”, by Lissy Love

for Poets and Storytellers United (Weekly Scribblings #38: A Helping String, where Rommy asks us to write while thinking of “things meant only as a temporary or hidden support.”).

Saturday, September 19, 2020

Inked Out of Soil and Sky

my garden blushes
in the most delicious shades

of ripening fruit

summer looks
much like autumn
springing before nature changes

when trees burn,
the world grows darkly


the wee notes

- the new Blogger and I are currently in the I-sincerely-detest-its-guts stage. I can never understand why some platforms take something that works just fine, and turn it into an unnecessary nightmare. I can’t think of a single Blogger “improvement” I like, but I can tell you which I really loathe: not being able to post clear photos.  

- to see the photos that inspired these poem bits, click here, here, and here.

- for Poets and Storytellers United (Writers’ Pantry #38: Ominous Times).

Tuesday, September 15, 2020

I Am

“No one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away, until the clock wound up winds down, until the wine she made has finished its ferment, until the crop they planted is harvested. The span of someone’s life is only the core of their actual existence.” – Terry Pratchett

If you’ve read me for a while, you might’ve noticed that I’ve shared the quote above more times than it’s probably decent. I can’t help itwhenever the topic of “last words” enters the conversation, that particular bit of Pratchett wisdom finds its way into my skull. So... when Rosemary asked for writing which considered what our final message to the world would be, the quote spilled into my muse’s ink and inspired her to stitch the following American Sentence:

Weep—when goodbye hurts—but remember I lived and loved, therefore I am.

another wee note

- while I was searching for the wee poem, I found myself wishing the page had contained the word “wrote” instead of “loved”. Then, after I was done, I was glad that it didn’t. For I thought, Yes, “I lived and wrote” would’ve been cool. But “I lived and loved (to laugh, to run, to cook, to garden, to write, to read, to love…) is accurate.

- for Poets and Storytellers United (Weekly Scribblings #37: Last Messages)

Wednesday, September 9, 2020

So Much Ash

they tell me, is so much ash
in delusion’s mouth.
I say nothing, but wonder
why their phoenix stopped burning.

photo by Volodymyr Hryshchenko, on Unsplash

Sunday, September 6, 2020

Patience Is a Defense Mechanism

I practice patience
in self-defense, protection
against burning all
the world’s bridges
while standing on the wrong side
of the forest that grows
hope on trees;

patience is what keeps
feet and wit from fleeing
at the sight of a lion draped around a tree,
without ever wondering if

wild beasts are in the way, never letting me
move forward—reach a leaf of hope—
or if lions only climb trees to escape the heat.     


the wee notes…

- in the wise (and creatively spelled) words of Granny Weatherwax, “I Ate’nt Dead”. I’ve just had a gazillion appointments. Mostly follow ups and a wee surgery here and there. So, yeah… the red funeral clothes you ordered are a bit premature 😜

- after seeing the photo of a lion on a tree, when I was very young, I was convinced the majestic beast was waiting to jump on its prey. Then I heard somewhere—The Animal Planet, I think—that lions climb trees to escape bugs and the savanna heat. Yeah, I was disappointed too *cough*
- linked to Poets and Storytellers United (Writers’ Pantry #36: Change of Season), The Sunday Muse #124, and Kerry O’Connor’s Skylover Word List