my egg machine.
what it does yet.
Gee! How I hate that Charles!I just can’t stand him.He’s too fresh.
Sophia said today that Charlesis going back to her again.Maybe he won’t bother me any more.
We went to seeAmerica’s only Siamese twins,Daisy & Violet Hilton, at the Aldine.
I like someone else now, butI’m afraid to say it because I’m afraidhe’ll just be like the rest.
I’ve found out that Frances likes Wayne.Oh, well, she can have him.(If she can get him.)
Am writing a story in my spare moments.It’s rotten. I just do itfor lack of something better.
I don’t like any boyin particular now, but I think Billis a pretty nice kid.
I guess Bill isn’t so wonderful after all.The only really nice boy I knew,I never expect to see again.
Have been sending to movie starsfor their pictures.Norma Talmadge sent me one.
Linking up with Kerry's weekend prompt to the Real Toads: April, Come She Will
On a sunnier day, I’d sitout on that benchwith my notebook, penning a poem,hawk soaring overhead,hunting breakfast for his babies.I’m no falconerbut can appreciate his good looksand care of his nest,zeroing in on his prey--Oops. Maybe I’d better go in now.
50 words on the scary shit outside my office window for Words Count With Mama Zen in the Imaginary Garden.
I’ll just confessthat I don’t gethow someone can saythey love another person,and in the same breathsay that personshould not be able to marry.Here’s what I say,not very poetically or originally:Love those you love,joyfully.Greet your neighborswith kindness.Fly your freak flagproudly.And live by the golden rule.
I have learnedthat splitting logs,cultivating body hair,even watering the gardenwith an infusion of stream waterand menstrual blooddoesn’t make you a Wild Woman.Steady is the new Wild:The radical actof raising up the next generationto best the mistakes of this one,a need requiring quantitiesof Wild mixed with Resilienceand not a small amount of Belief.Steady on, Wild Woman.
We all rely on you.
Sherry Blue Sky asked the Real Toads to release our inner Wild Woman, no small task.
I'm pleased and proud to announce that I'm part of the cast for Listen To Your Mother Providence! On May 4, I'll be headed to Providence Public Library with poems and a microphone. More details to come!
Please click HERE for more information and the cast announcement.
Spring knows all her lines.Ready to bloom with nerves,she lingers behind the curtain,costumed in shades of green,yellow, forsythia on the breeze.For three acts we’ve tunedto the gusty baritone of snow.When Winter finally calls in sick,tracking mud across the stage,Spring’s aria will steal the show.
Susan asked the Real Toads to write an extended simile or metaphor.
I care a lot for Bill Rush now.I like him better than anyone else.We don’t even speak, though.The same old “gang” is stillgoing strong, although not quiteso strong as it was a year ago.When I came back from the vacationI learned that Bill Rush had goneto Colorado for his health. Oh!The third period seems lonelywithout Bill.Floyd, his special pal, looks lonely too.The season is very late this year.The blossoms aren’t out on the peach trees,and the violets haven’t come up.
Serves you right for poking around
where you have no business.
Now you suffer, inflamed & ugly,
from unbearable itch,
the phantom prick from too much picking,
and oh, the scarring.
The antidote is right nearby,
so plentiful as to be considered invasive
with its succulent hues,
love of half-light & kiss of coral,
so much so that you’ve weeded it bare.
You’ll have to live with the burn.
|(c)2006 Derek Ramsey (Ram-Man) via Wikimedia Commons|
draws my attention
to the bee balm cluster--
crush a leaf
between thumb & index finger
raise fingers to my lips--
brings me right back to you
De Jackson challenged the Real Toads with a botanical word list including the words bergamot and cluster.
Friends and gentle readers! It is your lucky day! NEW POETRY by three incredible women, known to many of you as Fireblossom, Mama Zen, and Hedgewitch!
ALL CAPS PUBLISHING announces a triple-treat: Gemini/Scorpio/Capricorn, a full-length collection of poems by Shay Caroline, Kelli Simpson, and Joy Ann Jones.
"A rippling triple vision through the heart's crystal, both light and dark; riddles of needles and glass, demons and gypsies, love for men, love for other women, love for our children, love that damns and love that redeems, all of these motifs and more twine like scarlet threads through a little black dress in this triad of women building alternate universes with words."
Click here to purchase in paperback or for your Kindle!
"Three American women poets combine in one volume with poems about everything from a succubus goddess and the girl who claims she struck out Babe Ruth and was with Poe when he died, to motherhood and Norse myths."
You know you cannot resist. Click here to go over to ALL CAPS and learn more about Shay, Kelli, and Joy.
If only love could be attained
by shuffling under a birdless sky
as the cafeteria tray of clouds
presses closer to the sidewalk
and the weeded quarter-acre
on which you’ve staked your claim,
hanging your only shingle.
If only one could mark years
on rice paper with edible ink,
discarding poisoned moments
and supping heartily on the rest.
Cloudward in home’s direction
pestilence falls away like sorrow--
If only love could be attained.
Take some hot dogs, cut them small,
and brown them in a cast-iron skillet.
Add a can of baked beans.
Meanwhile, make some Kraft mac & cheese.
(The kind with elbows you have to boil,
not the shells & Velveeta kind.)
Mix it all together
and serve it up without comment,
in a bowl, with ketchup on the side.
Sit with me at the dining-room table.
As you eat your meatloaf,
please tell me about your day
and listen when I tell you about mine.
Grace asked the Real Toads to use food imagery in a poem.
Day after every day
you consider, then reject
and consider all over again,
like searching for the crocuses
you put in last year
as an investment
in the color of the sun.
Finally locating buds
peeking amber through the snow,
they’re no insurance
against the coming of the dark,
so it snows again.
As with searching and repeating,
the black is a constant--
There’s no hedge against the dark
upon which to retire.
Izy asked the Real Toads to create a list of three words or phrases specific to the worst job we ever had, and craft a poem using them that has nothing to do with work. My words are investment, insurance, and retire, and my title counts, too.
After a husband kills his wife
and then shoots himself,
the newspapers report his death
as a tragic ending to a fine life.
When a woman is strangled
to death in her own basement
in front of her three-year-old,
her murder is called mysterious.
Blackened eyes never meet yours
when she says he tried to kill me;
there is no way to comfort children
whose mothers are forever absent.
Nothing mysterious about it,
nothing at all fine about a life wasted.
|click here to reach Woman Scream|
Susie Clevenger has asked the Real Toads to raise our voices in condemnation of violence against women. In memory of Annamarie Cochrane Rintala and countless other women who lived with violence and whose lives were ultimately wasted. We remember and honor you.
With your promise
of melt and mud and maple
to be followed by primrose
and crocus, the red tulip
bursting from the earth
You’ll be here soon,
regular as rain
or the phases of the moon.
You arrive, like clockwork,
and yet our routine
is to tire of snow
and bemoan your lateness.
the first sign of spring.
|primroses ready for dirt, photo by Marian Kent|
If what I love
is really what you hate,
then how do I know
I’ve built my world
on your sepal-covered buds,
and now the ants
forcing me to the ground.
to that time
when we knew how to love,
before the interloping
This poem is inspired by the music of Tim Easton, the (wonderful) subject of today's music/writing prompt over at Real Toads.