100,000 Poets For Change

This is what I did yesterday, on a gorgeous, truly incredible early-autumn day here in New England. I am honored to have participated in Meat For Tea Presents 100,000 Poets and Musicians for Change at Art in the Orchard right here in our town.

This event was part of a global happening, One Hundred Thousand Poets For Change.

Our local event was AMAZING. Visit the Meat For Tea YouTube channel to check out the other poets and musicians. And everyone should consider subscribing to Meat For Tea, The Valley Review. 

Puritan Kitchen, Then & Now

Always, the kitchen--

crafted in oak,

bluestone & pewter--

command central,

veritable heart ‘n soul,

where it all went down.

Wide floorboards

softened by generations

of slippers

pacing rag rugs, words

chosen with precision

to make a case.

Whither she goest

or won’t she, will they

say yes or no?

The same kitchen,

same desires, worries,

wonderings & wanderings.

All of which argue in favor

of just curling up by the fire.

Mrs. James Ward Thorne (American, 1882-1966)

Massachusetts Living Room and Kitchen, 1675-1700

from Art Institute of Chicago, Thorne Miniature Rooms

For Margaret’s prompt to the Real Toads: It’s All About Place

Taking the Farm Road

Following a tractor

allows for reflection

on the bigness & slowness

of tractor wheels,

turning like years.

Deliver Us, Derelict

Gazing out

on a nuclear sea

witnessing

zombie stars

snarfing queen-robot

starfish by the pawful,

questions come to mind:

What have we become?

& What are we supposed

to do now?

Answers evade

like so much smoothed-out

flotsam

way out beyond the buoyline,

or at the murky bottom

with no hope of reclamation,

unreachable

undiscoverable

beyond reproach

or repair.

What is this? Hell if I know, but it’s for Izy’s prompt to the Real Toads: Future Sailors

On Reaching Double-Digits

Last day of nine,

first day of autumn--

One day you’ll rake

the leaves of my old age,

but not today.

Tanka for Real Toads. For my son, who turns ten tomorrow.

Under Any Moon (Or No Moon At All)

Our dancing days

seem so long ago & far away,

I’d take the moon, any moon

or just one star, or surf,

bed of leaves, bed of grass--

(But all that’s extra.)

I wanna see you dance again.

Join the Real Toads in being inspired by the Harvest Moon.

Daphne

Rooted here,

not susceptible to decay,

I get to observe human foibles,

from petty weaknesses

to deep and entrenched faults

resulting in outright heartbreak.

Sometimes the view’s a pleasure

as men’s choices

are mostly good for a laugh,

or occasional shocked dismay--

but I’m no weeper

and won’t become entwined

in the pain and foolishness of men.

I remain evergreen,

abundant, your coveted prize.

For Kerry’s prompt to the Real Toads: What has become of the old gods?

Eros, Schmeros

Middle name Trouble?
My middle name's Valentine.
Don't trouble my heart.

Lightning Storm Nemophila

obsidian sky
formed on layers of tear-clouds
deconstructing blue

For Hannah's Hungry & Haunted Friday prompt to the Real Toads.

Trade-In Value

I’m taking a break

from happiness

to remind myself of emptiness,

the color grey,

fields of spent sunflowers,

how the overhead light

stays bright all night

in your attached garage,

neon Miller sign flickering

like butterfly kisses,

and silence.

Street Voodoo

Crossing the street

in my stocking feet

lucky button

    HOPE ’08

presented to me by Fate

herself

       (like you)

Your likeness stashed

with my hope

I’ll prick you with my hope pin

straight thru your pilling

crocheted

heart.

Words Count with Mama Zen at Real Toads: EIGHT

Get your voodoo dolls at Marie Laveau's House of Voodoo.

Hillside

deep within 
your own thoughts
places inaccessible
just woolgathering

Well, That's a Kick in the Gut

A girl’s searing gut

doubles her over, stoking

embers of anguish,

unrelenting churning burn

turns heartache terrifying.

Lolamouse has asked the Real Toads to write poems inspired by her inkblots. She says her analysis of our responses is confidential, ahem.

Autumn in the Air

First

day

musing

about socks,

hot dog aroma

wafts over cusp-of-change mountain,

block after block of manicured, argyle lawns away.

Unexpected Incubus

It’s like

when you go to see a band

& you’re blown away

by the opening act

they transport you

grooving on their ample vibe

letting it wash over you

wishing their set

would never end

You buy their records

listen obsessively

learn all the words

join their fan club

follow their tour

dance

and dance

and dance

catch their eye

meet them backstage

all the makings of a groupie

Time passes

& your focus wanes

they’ve changed their sound

put out a new record

you’ve found someone new

but they’re still there

like background music

always present

& comfortable

because you can tune in

when you want

but mostly you don’t

Until suddenly

without warning

that shit gets turned to 11

& unavoidably

you start tapping your feet

thinking about

getting back on the bus

or at least feeling like

maybe you wanna dance again.

Fireblossom suggested the title. The rest is mine.

breathe. sip. smile. savor.

sharing our secrets
a cuppa c'mon over
grounding our haiku

Rubens Had It Right

Believe me, I appreciate

your appreciation of my lil-

bit-extra-round-the-middle

As if ads are to be believed

scourge of tough belly fat =

perceived horror of womanhood

Bah! Like the three Graces

let’s circle round & celebrate

the full weight we’ve earned

Forget ever having learned

to berate ourselves & carry

our bad selves on already

Hate don’t look good on nobody

Peggy has the Real Toads writing about things we carry.

2. Love Is

Sometimes the distance
between what is & could be
is overwhelming.