1.21.2020

Sorrowing


I am a mourning dove
considering what to do
about a day grey with worry
and consternation
Have I saved enough
studied taught enough am I
what is enough?
Uncertainty
like pigeon milk
roiled in morning’s belly
sunrise swaddled but I am
erect
perched with coo
It is up to me to decide
no permission required
sovran and innate
so I am
bragging my old wings today

1.07.2020

Conflagration


We’ll require
more helicopters 
to enforce compliance
with the national curfew
and ensure that nothing
gets out of hand
during our regular
celebratory bookburnings


Weekly challenge at Earthweal: FIRE

1.05.2020

Circular Logic


Listen 
for the sooted canaries
springing from rain grey
January days
concomitant moonless nights
as they
reveal the consequence
of unrestrained might
sustained disregard
for their faux-winter song
right in front of our earthworn 
weary and solitary faces
they are trying to warn us
if only we would 
listen


For Kerry’s January word list @skyloverpoetry on Instagram

1.04.2020

Ever-Rising Star



My Sister-Poet Kerry O’Connor created this precious gem for me
in response to my last music prompt in the Imaginary Garden
and in honor of our friendship, for which I am always grateful
and may it last forever. I had to share to kick off the new year.
Love, love you, dear Kerry! Here’s to a creative 2020 xoxo

12.30.2019

Retrospection


Half-deaf
wearing bleakness like a blanket
at the end of a belligerent year
I’d like to yell don’t let the door
smack yer ass on the way out
or better yet good riddance loser
get the hell outta here already
Even the threatened ice storm
has fizzled to a bitter rain
and I’m sitting here over-maudlin
drinking coffee from all my beans
ground in case of power outage
cotton ball my new uniform
reading outright awful old poems
and writing new ones with titles
cribbed from word-a-day emails
Pathetic really
but at least the cat’s still on my lap
and it’s true I will miss our Garden 
of Promethean inspiration
mostly gentle critique
even the occasional melodrama
that gave fodder to salty poetry
This is beyond truth
more like canon the awkward feeling
that a part of me is about
to go missing with warning beforehand
A weird sensation
but apparently months of knowledge 
about end-of-year transitioning
has not inspired adaptation in my case 
and anyway I don’t know what to do
except to stay right here drinking coffee
scribbling doggerel and hyperbole
Wait
what did you say again?


Doing my salty best for the last prompt in our Imaginary Garden.
This is for Susie’s prompt featuring poems by Amber Rose Tamblyn
featured in Kerry’s Play It Again today.
Upon reviewing today’s offerings I’m a little sad to note a number
of these terrific prompts to which I haven’t already responded. 
But, I guess that means plenty of inspiration going forward.

**Long Live the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads**

12.29.2019

Big Deal, It Looks Bleak


I struggle
to muster hopeful words
about joy in resilience
collective concern
and youth action
but I do believe

Kids 
can see our gifts 
for the burdens they are 
and will demand more
as they know 
rules of society 
are our own making

So let us 
raise a global cheer
that they refuse 
to follow 
the rules
of previous generations

 
For Sherry’s last prompt in the Imaginary Garden: WILD WOMAN

12.24.2019

Overloved


Let’s celebrate
this dog named Bear
who bounds to greet us
breathlessly
wagging it’s always 
so good to see you


"Bear" by Toril Fisher


For Margaret’s final Artistic Interpretations prompt in the Garden

12.21.2019

Winter Solstice


It’s easy to imagine
the coming darkness
that seems somehow closer
in bone season

Brittle like stones
or reaching branches
dunked in ice
praying for a little light

But imagine 
if we had the power
to breathe in darkness
breathe out light

Every
one


For Just One Last Word in the Imaginary Garden: IMAGINE
and also inspired by this: 

12.16.2019

Look At What I've Done


The truth
that weighs me down
like a stone pashmina
when I want to be
free
as wild horses
in a sundown distance
or an afternoon
tucked off the grid
is so heavy
and rock-hard
as to imbalance 
the rest of it
even all my stolen time 
with you


Inspired by Bruce Springsteen
My last music prompt in the Imaginary Garden

*sob*

12.15.2019

Breathing While We Still Can


I hold my 
breath and the future
arrives just 
as water rushes in

We knew we could
only hold for so
long as earthly containers
fill 

To brim with
other matters
more when considering
roses and thorns

There’s no fixing 
any of this
the world just starting
to bleed out


For POETIC BITS OF KERRY in the Imaginary Garden xoxo

12.14.2019

Mirage


All these missed dances
got me thinking
our love is illusory
a curiosity
scrawled in sand
or invisible ink
developing slowly 
as fog clears to reveal
a lambent almost-flicker
beckoning
at an event horizon
we can never really reach


For Kerry’s December word list @skyloverpoetry on Instagram

12.10.2019

The World Writes Back




Collaboration with my daughter Anne 
for Emily Dickinson's birthday! 

Emily was born December 10, 1830. 
To celebrate, The Emily Dickinson Museum invited 
"The World Writes Back: Postcards to Emily Dickinson." 

Anne drew this gorgeous portrait for our card 
and my poem is on the back.

Happy birthday, Emily!

Portrait of Emily Dickinson by @kanglinnuriko

11.29.2019

What About the Low Moon, Swollen Like a Belly


What about the low moon
swollen like a belly?

What about a belly
swollen like the low moon?

A swollen low moon?
What about it? A belly!

What belly
swollen--

What moon
low?

Low about a belly,
low about the moon.

What
about

The low moon
swollen like a belly?


Love this prompt from Kim in the Imaginary Garden:

11.10.2019

Itch


Rub until
the red rises
then moisturize
hydrolycize
to perfect patina
approaching verdigris
easy to routinize
rub till red again
repeat


Just One Word in the Imaginary Garden: BURNISHED

10.27.2019

Walking Away


They say no trees touch the sky
but my feet scrape as I walk
slowly
starting to understand my place
in the order of things

The sky 
regularly celebrates itself
with showy flashes as should I
but they don’t last
that is the definition of sunset

Those trees
are firmly rooted here
no one has to tell me
they thrive despite neglect 
and even outright hostility

As a girl
I was told to pick up my feet
when I walked
but the sky makes its own rules
and no one tells trees what to do

Which is all fine and good
except I know
what happens to trees
when we humans assert our place
in the order of things

Still the sun
will rise and set tomorrow
in flames or mostly unnoticed
my feet
a bellwether for what’s to come


Sylvia Plath would have been 87 years old today.