At My Funeral

Harmonica will screech

as a depressed troupe

of anthropomorphized candy

bears me to the cemetery

in my pop-tart coffin;

a murder of crows will drop

promissory-note confetti

on the solemn heads

of the temporarily grieving

who, once they get home,

will pop corks and dance jigs.

Maybe Next Time A Postcard Will Do

When you start having to replace

the broken stuff you bought

to replace the shit you lost

when she left you

It’s appropriate to notice

and not comment upon

but you’ve never stayed silent

just because it keeps the peace.

For the Real Toads weekend prompt: The World’s End

Grove

Whispery zephyr

across my line of vision

sets leaves to rattling,

shivering bones a message

both longing and redemptive.

For Hannah’s prompt to the Real Toads: BAMBOO FOREST

Good Advice

If You Must Know

Haiku for Christmas:
Holiday melancholy
sets in, gets comfy.

Holiday haiku for Mama Zen.

Christmas Eves of Yore

The whole family

would gather for ham dinner

with scalloped potatoes,

beer & vodka slushies

to beat the snow.

You sprang

for shrimp cocktail;

someone probably brought

deer sausage.

Children of all ages sat,

coloring. You can see us

grow up

in those coloring book pages.

I never won anything

from my scratch-ticket prizes,

and don’t buy them now.

But I feel lucky
because I still see you laughing.

Luminance

Starshine

and twinkly lites,

licking sugar on air,

drum cacophony celebrates

Christmas.

King of the Hill, six episodes

later and you’re ready.

No mistletoe,

but kiss.

Sharing this older holiday poem today in the Imaginary Garden, where it’s Open Link Monday. This poem is from my first book, Responsive Pleading.

Untitled Drive

Sun shines through a slush-

speckled windshield, rendering

her heart warmed, wool-wrapped.

Earlier, unraveling

skeins soaked in a frigid rain.

Tanka for Real Toads!

Summer Street, as Winter Solstice Approaches

Flame-pink sky

framed

by a lane

of pastel cottages:

Why am I wearing black?

Christmas Recess

Full

moon,

twinkly

lites eclipsed

by Santa’s shadow

boozing down the Chimney tonite--

For Peggy’s prompt to the Real Toads: Holiday Memories

Bundle Up

pinking-sheared road hems
cut crystal-frozen cornfields
into ice quarters

my freedom song

by Tom (Twilite) Clark

do not expect fancy words

there is nothing pretty here

when they slam shut my cage

my jailers keep looking at me

watching me piss

watching me sleep

the air a stale sweat

of urine and shit

the floor so cold

every morning I clean the buckets

I feel no shame

for I am a man

I am just a man

my captors torment me

they torture my friends

I forgive them all

I will stand

I will not bend

they will not break me

I cannot see the sun

or feel it on my face

the wind a memory of time and space

yet just beyond these walls

dazzled birds sing my freedom song

brilliant jewels in plumage fine

colors so vivid so bright

I see them now

I hear them sing

Rolihlahla Rolihlahla

troublemaker

pulling the branch of the tree

Rolihlahla Rolihlahla

sing for me

sing my freedom song

Mediba, Mediba

our brother, our son

our family all together

we must live as one

Tata father grandfather

teach us how

mother sister daughter

we must live together

work together love together

laugh and dance and sing

together now as one

I am not this island

barren and bleak

I am not this outpost of hatred and fear

I am not

always and forever

I am the captain of my soul

glowing with spirit light

but in this prison

groaning heavy with footsteps

a clamor of screams

and a clang clank of voices

there is nothing to do but wait

27 years I wait

my whole life I wait

and tomorrow is the same today as the day before

broken like my fate upon these stones

and my lips are the lips of birds

lonely and alone

singing my freedom song

Rolihlahla Rolihlahla

troublemaker

pulling the branch of the tree

Rolihlahla Rolihlahla

sing for me

sing my freedom song

we are together here

my comrades and I

we rot here in this prison

but we do not die

because we believe

we will fight and endure

we will be free

Rolihlahla Rolihlahla

troublemaker

pulling the branch of the tree

Rolihlahla Rolihlahla

sing my freedom song

sing for me

and the brilliant plumage like jewels I see

and the dazzled birds

now they sing for me

my freedom song

Tom Clark, aka Tommy Twilite, is the founding co-director of Florence Poets Society and is my friend. I was lucky to have the opportunity to hear Tommy read his poem for Nelson Mandela aloud this past week--so incredibly powerful. I am thrilled to share Tommy’s words with my blog readers and with the Real Toads, where Kerry has posted a moving tribute to Madiba. If you have comments about Tommy's poem, I will be pleased to share them with him.

If Cats Could Talk

The cat took a piss

in my tall boots.

What is she trying to say?

Previously, she pissed

in my pink scuff slippers

& two perfectly good

unmatched Converse sneakers.

Apparently, I haven’t

gotten the message yet.

It must be aggravating

to express yourself

again & again,

yet not be understood.

Wait, I know how that feels.

Dinner With A Ghost

The ghost is eating pizza,

nodding silently

as if he approves

of our conversation.

I wish he’d say something,

anything--

but he chooses not to,

stays mum & sullen.

It’s hard not to assume

you’re responsible

in the face

of the silent treatment--

But I’ll brush it off,

focus my attention elsewhere

& hope that, in time,

he comes around.

My ten-year-old son gave me the first line, and approves of the resulting poem, though says he thinks it’s rather sad. This is for Corey’s prompt to the Real Toads: ALL IN THE FAMILY

47 Miles

through ether

passing repeated landmarks

to wind up

in this rocking chair

with you

This Time Of Year

Pain piles on

distracted Hope

What does it mean to Praise

I can’t even hear

the Music

Kim has the Real Toads singing praise: Hallelujah

Coffee With Leonard Cohen

Friends, I can’t tell you how excited I am about this announcement from ALL CAPS PUBLISHING:

ALL CAPS PUBLISHING is pleased to announce publication of a very special collection of poetry--Coffee With Leonard Cohen by our favorite entomologist-poet, Joy S Grape.

I’ve long been a follower of Joy S Grape’s blog; perhaps you have, too. I find Joy’s poetry intriguing and enveloping, creative and quirky, sometimes like an object you come across and attempt to find a name for, other times familiar like a childhood friend. I’m so excited about Joy having collected these poems, and many illustrations, too, into a volume that I can hold in my hands and ingest as a whole. It’s really a treat, and I can’t wait for my copy to arrive. Get yours now!

Here’s how Joy describes herself, hah:

Joy S Grape is interested in lots of things. She looks under rocks for a living. Her favorite literary romance is Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock. She would love it if you would stop by her little blog: Coffee With Leonard Cohen

You know you want to read it. Click here to purchase a copy from Amazon. You might also like to read the announcement over at ALL CAPS and/or browse our authors and titles. And visit Joy’s blog, too. Trust me on this!

Unsleeping, or Freezing, or Treading Water

for Mark Kelliher

Funny, your stitch

in my side now aches

under my breast

as your leprechaun voice

chills to eskimo breath

& washes out like sand

on Popponesset Beach.

Death comes so early

this time of year--

Linking up with Izy’s prompt to the Real Toads: ESKIMO

Walk Like A Cat

Just a reminder that I have a very lovely new book out! Here's a sneak peek. Click here to get it via Amazon or let me know by email (runawaysentence at gmail) if you want to buy a signed copy directly from me. Meanwhile, I’m giving myself a break for a day or two after the frenzy that was 30 Poems In November.