Tag Archives: poetry



face obscured

I fall to my knees

wanting nothing more than to press
my face to her cool, sepia skin and weep for shame


A friend pointed me in the direction of this photo on Flickr. This Fibonacci (which I expanded to a seventh, thirteen syllable line)–a form I was led to by Grace on her blog–is what happened. Marian also wrote a Fibonacci today. Hers is better.


driven to madness

when the hour arrived
in which she chased the leftover curry
with caramel sauce straight from the jar–

the rugs were still rolled up
because she couldn’t bear to put them down
with the awful sofa still in the room,
which turned out to be a blessing
because the dog took the moment
of her planned departure
to vomit copiously on the living room floor.

get the fuck out!
her angry finger pointing to the yard
and retreating between-legs tail

then the damn dog wouldn’t come back in,
and she had to pee
so bad
just a trickle was beginning to soak her panties

which were the shifty ones
that always ended up slipping down
pooling below her ass cheeks
unless her jeans were too tight–

she maybe lost her mind a little.

New Babies Mean it’s Time for Sexy Haiku, Right?

A Diary of a Mad WomanOf course.

My dear friend the Mad Woman has a new baby boy. Welcome, Sam!

While she’s basking in new maternal glow and learning the two-child shuffle, she’s got a parade of amazing guest posters, and me, too!

So, go, preferably with a glass of wine and someone whose bones you’d like to jump, and read.

One Could Do Worse

I have an old copy of A Swinger of Birches: Poems of Robert Frost for Young People.

Before Felix was born, I filled the bookshelf my father built for me when I was a child with all of my childhood books. Lovingly arranged with the Sandra Boynton board books I got at my baby shower and Guess How Much I Love You are my copies of The Dark Is Rising and A Wrinkle in Time. Miss Rumphius, Bread and Jam for Frances. A Swinger of Birches.

So, every now and again, from between his many favorite stories, he pulls out a memory, pages slightly yellowed and musty with age.

Two nights ago he pulled out the Frost. I read him Birches, The Oven Bird, and Canis Major, before moving on to his current favorite, Katy and the Big Snow by Virginia Lee Burton.

Last night he pulled it out again,we read The Road Not Taken and The Drumlin Woodchuck. Then it was on to Dumpy the Dump Truck (a very sweet story by the incomparable Julie Andrews).

Tonight for a third time he pulled it out. I opened it to Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening. He said, “No, Mama. I want the Birches one.”

No, Mama. I want the Birches one.

One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

the fourteenth

we say I-love-you every day
who needs a Hallmark holiday?
the fourteenth can come and go

Mama's Losin' ItPrompt #3: A poem for my special Valentine.

Two Little Poems


my heart’s home
smells like snow in the air
and manure in the spring
a month of mud at the equinoxes

To the Music Snobs

poo to that
I am a magpie
I like every shiny song I’ve ever heard
and the ones I don’t?
I just ignore