The Big Picture

thru sigh-lenses
blurs edges
convexes centers
like funhouse mirrors
bloated without context
It would be kinder
taking the long view
as you
despite protestations do
Maybe try
a wide angle lens

Music day in the Imaginary Garden: LITTLE TINY by Brandi Ediss


Hoodie Heart

I pulled on
your blue sweatshirt.
Zipped up, it fit well!
I wish I could capture
forever your reaction,
beaming at me, recognizing
yourself in grown-up me,
           your mother
beaming back at you,
           wishing this would last.

Late entry for Kerry’s Micro-Poetry prompt in The Garden.


Bobby the Lip

All day Facebook admonished me to help celebrate my friend Robert Lipton’s birthday, so I share this poem written in his memory. It was published in Silkworm, the annual review of Florence Poets Society, last year.

Sharing this makes me think about a lot of things, including (1) I wrote a poem with a word I can barely pronounce (paean) in Bob's honor (guffaw), (2) I hear his words in my head "Death, the great poetry prompt" as I listen to this, and (3) I miss Bob.

I pulled this fortune
the day you died:
  What is the distance
  between the eyes and the soul?
You know the answer.
How did you learn to pronounce
the hard words, which goddesses
are whom, the rhythm of line breaks?
We all listened. Did you know?
Your paean to women made me wish
such words were strung together
and hung on my limbs.
Now you travel that distance,
somehow we expect you to report back.
We will miss your soul, your lip.



When a space opens
in your heart
myriad soul-squatters

rush to occupy
Sorrow’s muse deploys
a kitten-topped roomba

spreading distraction
to every corner
No room for reflecting

when every imagining
is an exercise
in deft deflection

Hiding in shadows
real memories hole up
joined by assessments

in emotional siege
It’s no wonder
you are easily convinced

of an alternate world
with dusk-brimmed battles
waged behind your eyes

Read & share poetry today at The Tuesday Platform in the Imaginary Garden!


On Holiday

looks good
on summer
unplanned sorrow
twining like garland
round the solidest pine
deciduously backward
engorged with acid-twinkly light
whitewashed birdbath needs little water
in end times no one sings Christmas carols