King Alfred

daffodil dance

We lost her in late spring a few weeks

after my daughter was born, so busy with

the newness of parenthood, too caught up in

jaundice, diapers and feeding schedules that

we barely noticed her fading in our backyard, fur

grown coarse and shaggy, eyes sunken as her

days ran out, just as our child’s were beginning.

On the last day, she didn’t want to go, lingering

by my chair as I held the baby, shaking her collar

for a final time as she trotted out the door. That night

I heard her tags jingle in the empty space and knew.

Come fall I planted bulbs on top the grave by her

vacant doghouse, big and showy daffodils next

to the leather collar and tags, her favorite toys, all

trumpeting a dog’s loyalty within the king’s burial mound.

NaPoWriMo #23

I’m writing a poem every day in April as part of NaPoWriMo’s celebration of National Poetry Month. Won’t you join me in poetry?

Notes from a treehouse

Squirrel world

(for earth day) 

From up here

it’s a mess man

roads spreading

like varicose

veins waterways

disappear under

spells of filmy

amnesia forgetting

their source drought

and icy apathy

when trees fall

cutting off our food

supply while below

neighbors’ cats

want kickbacks

every week we

hear a thump on

the street and

one of us doesn’t

come back

I just want to

stay inside my

penthouse rustling

leaves chattering

with woodpeckers

but still I will

come down if

there’s a chance

that all can

be saved.

NaPoWriMo #22

I’m writing a poem every day in April as part of NaPoWriMo’s celebration of National Poetry Month. Won’t you join me in poetry?

Spring Cleaning Confession

Reflective dusting

Please forgive me for I have

not washed the one-way windows or

vacuumed up my petty crimes or

rinsed off all the hard winter stains

on a dirty daily sink stacked with

unhappy customers waiting for my

repentant service when all I really want

to do is wipe that smug smile off your

face as you run a gloved finger along the

line of condemnation that rests just above

my conscience where I can’t see it but I

know it’s there and you can kiss my cold

leftovers because I’m not sorry at all.

NaPoWriMo #21

*This is my attempt at today’s writing prompt on the NaPoWriMo website assigning us to write a “New York School” poem based on this recipe. My subject matter probably didn’t get too close but at least you know what state my house is in while writing a poem every day.

I’m writing a poem every day in April as part of NaPoWriMo’s celebration of National Poetry Month. Won’t you join me in poetry?

Holiday Christian

Spring's grace
A seldom-worn Easter dress
showing knobby knees, white
cotton gloves stained by last year’s
grassy green, patented Mary
Janes puddled with holey
socks in loose elastic, the stiff
straw boater’s angry band that
choked my trembling chin,
unfamiliar children who pushed
me from their hard-earned
Sunday school wins, while I
hunted for a soft place to belong,
out the door inside sweet meadows
of spring’s grace and nature’s fellows.

NaPoWriMo #20

I’m writing a poem every day in April as part of NaPoWriMo’s celebration of National Poetry Month. Won’t you join me in poetry?

The Buddha Is Sleeping

photo-2

The dog found him in the weeds filthy,
flea-infested, eyes crusted shut, clearly
taking mortification of the flesh a little too
far in this lifetime, he arrived with nothing
but total faith in our reluctant compassion.

He has left us precious gifts, a flightless
bird, some foolish shrews, a greedy
mouse or two, reminders of our brevity
in days, the suffering that comes unbidden
early in the morning to sacrifice’s back door.

Sometime today, I locked him in the closet
accidentally, and he is found waiting like the lotus,
no recrimination, no anger, only enlightenment
from darkness, as sure of his dharma as he knows
he is my teacher, he is the Buddha.

NaPoWriMo #18

I’m writing a poem every day in April as part of NaPoWriMo’s celebration of National Poetry Month. Won’t you join me in poetry?

Fresh Mown

fresh mown

With blades sharpened, they pierce

in perfect time, synchronized to the

tree frog’s peeps, rhizomes unfurling

from their recent brush with burrowed

worms, smelling of dirt beer and toad

spawn, returning by instinct after a long

night outside of emerald city, because

really, who needs a yellow brick road.

NaPoWriMo #17

*Today’s prompt from National Poetry Writing Month encouraged us to very specifically describe something in terms of at least three of the five senses. I hope this poem has incorporated at least three and maybe a “sixth.”

I’m writing a poem every day in April as part of NaPoWriMo’s celebration of National Poetry Month. Won’t you join me in poetry?