My birdfeeder’s empty
but for your song. Mouths to feed,
to nurture, each encouraged to sing
   her own song--
Love’s cost no discouragement, only
keep returning, singing
your glad song.

photo by Kelly Letky

The Imaginary Garden is featuring the art of Kelly Letky. Please visit Kelly’s website, The Blue Muse, and her Etsy store: Blue Muse Fine Art.


Flying V

A flock of geese flew over
at dawn in late August, honking
as if to herald their departure,
making a big stink about it.

You and I threw a rollicking
gaggle of a going-away party
once, and then we came back home,
relieved & subdued, a year later.

The geese will be back next
season, the falcon pair will nest
on the library rooftop again, & we
like they will be another year

closer to that heralding that fades
as it makes its way across the sky.


See You in September

These are the days of watched pots,
minced words, eggshell skulls.

Take copious notes, log on,
tune out. Everybody’s going pro.

No bake sales, no library. Only stacks
of back-to-school-style circulars.

Chopped liver. These are the days
when even your Muse gets weird.

For Words Count with Mama Zen: WEIRD


Hurricane Season

summer breeze blows hostile,
cycloning around the wishing grove
like a freight train bent on reckoning
   ancient debts,
ransacking forests thick with wonder
from distant daydreaming,
charging straight on.


She Referenced "The News From Up North"

We are all
simply unprepared.
So we bury our burdened heads
in quicksand of our own making,
   avoid the news hour.
But terror plays out in our dreams,
minute by minute,

Upbeat weekend fibonacci for Margaret in the Garden.



Every day,
the incessant beating
against eggshell membrane,
   pulled up taut,
freed, loosed, tightened again
   with earthy Resonance,
occasional crash punctuation,
the Heart hammers to out
from its trap.


Town Crier

Stone angel
watches over our Town,
no alms for the Irish or the Poor,
stricken by poverty of checkbook
   or of Heart,
wilting in mid-August sun, temper
short & patience shorter--
Bless us, please.

Kerry has introduced the Real Toads to a form new to me and right up my alley, yippee! It’s the TRIQUAIN.


Another Bulb Blown

I haven’t been writing. The explanation
is I’ve been living. But what is living
without writing? And also, how many
brilliant lights must be extinguished
before we give a collective fuck? I mean
an actual fuck, not a flowery, pining
wish-it-weren’t-so sigh, glorifying death
all glittery & shit, strung with quotes
and the most flattering photos
of the actor in his prime or your friend
when he wasn’t completely wasted.

I actually caught myself thinking
comedians have it the worst, as though
morbid six-foot-deep depression were just
another station on the track of life
if you’re unlucky enough to board the C train.
Lucky for the rest of us, I guess, until
or maybe including the moment of our loss
when we rally, circle round holding hands,
light some candles, fetishizing death
intoning you’re always in our hearts as though
it’s true. But it’s not. Mostly we keep
our totems squirrelled away in a box
under the bed, reduced to trivia in a game
where the prize is another beer. I haven’t been
writing. Maybe he had stopped telling jokes.


Maybe I'm Just a Fool

It’s like when someone says you’re too emotional
& at first you believe it, breathe in those words,
burp them for a tight seal, hold them close

to the bone of you. You exhale the rest upon learning
about your unappreciated dramatic element, unable to stop
the lid from clamping down firm & strong, not allowing

any light in. No wasting time poking air holes
in that thing. What could you do but write it all down
& wait for hope to germinate? Hope sprouts the slenderest

shoots, breaks the seal, births one slight ray of sun,
light enough to locate the chamber closest to your breast
& revive all you knew. Even Tupperware has its limits.

After all, those who call you Other have their own crosses
to bear, their own little wars. The disposer can take
those words. Just be sure to let the water run, and believe.

For Imaginary Garden with Real Toads: JERUSALEM