Red Bud, before dusk

After her Mom died I guess you could say she experienced
what you might call post-tramautic growth syndrome,-
All I know is that she wanted to enter a demolition derby

But first came the warm up golf cart ride she whipped me
around on at a broken bike track socked into the eye of the
idle cottonwood trees on the north side of Red Bud Lake

It should have come as no surprise when she looked at me
for a reaction, because we’d been simultaneously craning
our necks towards heaven for years; making eye contact

She locked her foot down on the pedal, and both of us
were shrieking so hard I could barely hear my heart
bleating, go faster, go faster! you know what I mean?

If her cart turned up as a boat a of beat-up Chevy
I’d spray paint ‘Fortuity’ or ‘Recoil’ across the hood
(Either/or, I’m definitely putting all bets on Michele)


she’s the picture of resilience & strength ❤ 🏁
submitted to Tuesday Platform at Imaginary Toads

If you’re into that sort of thing

Bees & Trees

via Photo Challenge: A Good Match [California Central Valley bee boxes under trees]

Act II in four parts

When they say come a little closer

It means pallid butter rum
Cake served with black coffee, – a
Deciduous destruction
A falling

Nervy girl

I strike a match anyway,
Ignoring all the kindling
I know…

I adopt a saloon girl’s name

A certain dark spice, because I’m
A black mark match, and even if a
Spade’s an outright spade, and his
Tongue’s lapping up the dregs,
My heart is gone

It’s turning red-white

My heart I keep to myself; no one believes me
I’m going to marry the preacher man

Poets are stage managers

trying to figure out how to deal with
a marooned sky by using a boom light,
a spot line, or a cue card with the words
‘load in’ written in black marker real big.
So it would seem, if a poet put in just the
right amount of a sudden stream of a half-
way believable illumination, that nobody
would deny its sure stroke of genius, its
technical sign of hope on a playground set
previously devoid of a stage swing, squeals,
laughter, or small feet running on blacktop.

Sunday wordle

I’m completely

over this
backlit peach
silhouetted by
a blushing moon

what is this world
that i should
be in it?


Imaginary Garden

All cheshire cats in the world feel the wind on their wire-slicked whiskers,

don’t let ’em tell you any different…

‘cept you ought to know they drink starlight

through their coats, and prowl the night

under a rare & remarkable guiltless moon.


a ‘lil ditty for RT
(somebody stop me)


stars know
my secret note
i asked the moon
to float you
~ did you get it?
please respond


micropoetry for RT

This is my heart then

Alone without a red balloon

Unable to lift itself
Without the help of helium

There is this fledgling bird

Or tassels on a spellbound string
I stretch across my window

A readied room


playing it again for Kerry
eternally inspired by Mac ❤🎈


when i move in
i want the room
with the window
with an upward slant

with brassiere hooks,
or erector set slats
that’ll take me
a while to finagle

i want a new open
that’ll stay open
when i push the pane
into flying squirrels &trees

when i move in
i want no sidewalks,
stairs, mailboxes,
no directional hemispheres

will you honor me
with a slant
window? if so, i’ll jump
swiftly into the bay

which always lingers
like a lost lilly
under the moon, –
oddly tilt towards me


for dVerse poets