this ash hill

this ash hill
in my drive way
is rich, is black,
is beautiful,
&possibly volcanic

this ash hill
whispers
“beauty for ashes,”
like a stop wall for
rape in elevators

this ash hill
is a ministering,
a form-fitting tanya
tucker mini skirt
pressed right on

this ash hill
is a mother
too beautiful
with hands
because of love

this ash hill
maps a footing
which is impossible
you say to ascend,
until you’ve climbed it

this ash hill
peaks at the top
of your house
so you can toe tap
that corner piece of pie

this ash hill
is a chance
to decipher coming down
like any normal would do
without using elevators

::

for Real Toads

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

A Confusing Light Rain at Point Blank Range

Trump took top banana
Oath, – but it’s difficult
Wordsmithing a hard sell
Using hatchet phrases &
Derivations on buckets
That won’t hold water.
Don’t worry kids, human
Kindness patches up leaks
But darn if his words aren’t
Punching more holes
In our puny pails.
I’m three sheets to the wind
On a busload of nuns.

::

for Real Toads

January 18 :: Girl at Leaky Window

i’m a dope dealing girl –
but we can risk it
on account of your chest
not feeling so right

got any pockets darlin, –
so i can spill some sugar
from the honey pot bear
i keep atop the fridge

candy explained is
compassion, and don’t
nobody feel like coloring
in the lines today

no judgment sweetie,
just this raw sugar metaphor
to prove you can lick the lion, –
ain’t got no other choice

::

QKJ #18

Sending Flowers

How many times was I wishing
I was home during tornado season?
But what’s the point if a twister
can’t lift me over all of blasted Arizona,
if it can’t hurtle me long past the Rockies
to land on your side porch at 304 Charles,
sad & empty, Road? I’m sorry for myself
& shamefully sit in California’s sun
sending flowers in your name. “Ilene”
What a beautiful name, I mean.

Someone from Kingston, Canada phoned
to inform me there aren’t any roses
at this time, but that’s okay. Really okay.
I instructed the daisies to be your sunshine,
from me, from the Rockies, from the Mojave,
where I’ll sit slack-jawed today near I-5 which
looks an awful lot like I-70’s good old belt
in Kansas that stretches &holds on, &on
near the Enterprise cemetery they’ll bury you in,
our blessed, our beautiful Ilene. “Ilene.”

for Blogging University &Grandma Ross

Try to See It My Way

FullSizeRender-13

i’m yellow i blast
to which you snort
stop being difficult

then ho as all hum
you barter for blue
apparently because
it matches the sofa

[inspired by Mama Zen to show my signature color for Real Toads]
reminds me of The Beatles song “We Can Work It Out”

The Sky Is

The sky is a coffin today
With sandpaper lining

Instead of yesterdays royal sateen
And my eyes are gravel-

Blind to the blue trimmed rooflines
To birds swimming in the soup

And I keep quitting on breathing
Blasé about the heaven

Which suspiciously licks a blue-gray lip
Chomping at a brighter bit

Written for Blogging U

5:58 am

photo-6

The sea

was soft

before the sun

came up

a cotton whisper

a green apple

rising

on land

forgetting

its bitterness

and i was the first

to taste

its sweetness.