if you look real close

holy is the white frost on grass
drowsily melting into yellow
winter tatter, – bit by tragic bit
playing a phantom “we were here” 
game. a monumental dew.
— is it me? is it you?


get listed for RT
submitted to Daily Post


To Say My Story, Is To Tell Theirs

It’s the one mom still knows–
because Alzheimer’s can’t steal it.
She starts &finishes with gusto–
same cadence, same inflection,
same certain laugh. Every time.
About a minute or two after the punch
line, she loops back around with,
“You know our story, don’t you?”

Daddy didn’t like him. Thought
he’d amount to nothing. Mom went
&told the justice of the peace not
to marry us before we came walking in,
but that justice said he couldn’t
legally stop anyone from marrying
if they were of age, and we were,
and that made daddy hotter than hell

Comes knocking on my apartment door
telling your dad there are four ways
out of this town– take any one of them.
But plenty of times I didn’t listen.
How I convinced your Dad was something else.
He got clear out to Colorado before he
turned around, wondering how I dug my claws
into him– “You know that one, don’t you?”

for the Daily Post
& Real Toads


Let me, O’ let me bathe my soul in colors; let me swallow the sunset and drink the rainbow.” ― Khalil Gibran


Color therapy for Winter &the Daily Post

I Never Miss a Beat

Free Internet Radio in my kitchen? Yes, please. I’m a sucker for it, even if it is sporadically punctuated with commercials about ‘epic’ nail polish, acne cream, or something so ultra youth-oriented I openly mock it as I rinse off dirty dishes.

My shuffle goes from Bach to the Beatles, Coldplay to Johnny Cash while I wrap my cocktail smokies in Pillsbury Crescent rolls. I know it’s a lame dinner, but at least I try.  My twelve-year-old will eat it, but she can’t stomach my music.

She says I need some new music and changes the channel to YouTube, which I have no patience for because after every video the music stops.

I interpret YouTube as an all-request version of MTV which I danced to in the 80’s in Christy’s basement. I remember breaking down Janet Jackson’s moves, in our colorful Reebok high-tops.

That was then, and this is now. My tweener daughter kicks me off weenie duty, while I throw some leftover chicken into a blender to make some adult filling for the second can of rolls I pop open like the ol’ can of trick snakes.

Girl pop is now blasting while me and my girl get dinner done.  She keeps pushing play in between Meghan Trainor and Ariana Grande, until Taylor Swift begs me to slide over our hand-scraped laminate floor in my socks to get an eye and earful of her catchy song, “Shake it Off.”

“Yes, haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate…baby, I’m just gonna shake, shake, shake, shake, shake. Shake it off! Shake it off!”

How is it her lyrics resonate with me?! I think of that ridiculously rude student in fourth period today– I’m over it. How about my eye-rolling stiff-backed teenager– I’m gonna keep on grooving. I can’t stop, won’t stop (enjoying this video).

Swift’s aerial leaps and lifts are astounding, and I am in love with the dude in the red chino pants! He’s a beautiful spasm of elbows and knees. “It’s like I got this music in my mind saying, It’s gonna be alright.”  When the music ends after 4 minutes, 2 seconds of reckless abandon, I push repeat, because I’m lightning on my feet!

My daughter chides once again, “You need some new music.”

I wag my finger and hips in unison emphatically, because I don’t even care, mmm-mmm. No, I don’t even care. Yeah, ohhh.

Grateful and Guilty prompt at The Daily Post

Snapshot Story

Boy meets girl. It is 1989.  We make things up.


We pose for a picture.  Kansas wheat fields wave and hay is rolled. I’m bleach blonde, your hair pitch-black, our shirts tucked in.

It’s back to school without you.

No cell phones, email, texts, GPS; but we are here. Sending letters of love across 1,500 miles until those California Santa Ana winds catch me.

It’s clear. Our family begins on a hay bale beneath a big blue sky. From here on out, we make up more stuff, un-tuck our shirts, stop fussing with our hair so much.


[Open the first photo album you can find — real or virtual, your call — and stop at the first picture of yourself you see there . Tell us the story of that photo.] http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/snapshot-stories/

A Tanka

You say you watched me
As I lay sleeping last night
And you were thankful
Having me there beside you
Helping regulate the moon

Weekly Writing Challenge: Haiku Catchoo!

Governor of Light

governor of light!
you have passed through the darkness
lifted up mine head

Weekly Writing Challenge: Haiku Catchoo!

Hard Pressed

leaves litter the ground
en route to the hospital
sky hangs out pale cloth

shake it off, baby
Saturday is a fever
sure to blow over

spiny puffer fish inflate
in waiting room tank

Sunday cracks the bone~
doctor delivers the news
of leukemia

hard pressed but not crushed
carnations in glass vases
transfuse window light

Weekly Writing Challenge: Haiku Catchoo!