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
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
way out beyond the buoyline,
or at the murky bottom
with no hope of reclamation,
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.



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
       (like you)
Your likeness stashed
with my hope
I’ll prick you with my hope pin
straight thru your pilling

Words Count with Mama Zen at Real Toads: EIGHT
Get your voodoo dolls at Marie Laveau's House of Voodoo.



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

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
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-

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.