Trick or Treat

At Halloween, you wax poetic
on roaming packs of kids frenetic
trick or treating, gorging chocolate,
razor blades be damned. You'd walk
and run and roam the streets,
bands of ghouls on tireless feet,
laughing, shrieking, no cell phone
so no one told you to come home.

Now you watch your kids. No daring,
urging them to please be caring.
Don’t slip & fall! Please & thank-you
no matter what those people gave you,
thanks for pencils, teensy toys--
act like you are overjoyed.
Be polite, please, and be safe.
On sidewalks, parents congregate

Hovering over progeny,
protecting them from everything.
Meet your neighbors on Halloween!
Friendly chatter, then never seen
again until this time next year.
You’ll re-introduce then, never fear.
Retreat into your house again,
reflect on childhood now, and then.

Re-sharing this truthy poem from a couple years back. Happy Halloween!


Spock Just Read Your Work


Forgive Me

But I am not finished thanking Anita Hill.

I remember standing in the student lounge
in a crowd
my first year of law school.
I remember her suit,
her posture,
her clear voice,
the wave of heat flooding my face
as I thought that's what it’s called?

I remember the wave of shame,
and righteous indignation.
I remember my senator,
Arlen Specter,
who interrogated her and mocked her.
They confirmed him anyway,
threw her away.

She was disposable,
as I had been.
I remember being young and bright,
just out of college,
but I was disposable,
used and thrown away for another's pleasure.
Oh, Thurgood Marshall,
that was the year of my going crazy.

Re-worked and reprised older poem that seems topical. I think it’s new and improved! Am sharing with the Real Toads on the Tuesday Platform... on Wednesday, naturally.


GAWF 2016!

Last night at the Greenfield Annual Word Festival: 6 stages of spoken word wonderfulness, presented by Paul Richmond of Human Error Publishing. The goodness!


A Girl's Life

A girl’s life
     is lived
        in clouds
           like mountains
         behind mountains
  in browns
         behind reds
                used to be
  on rungs
atop stairs
  to catwalks
      run by dogs
      hands up
                  her skirts
                      her mouth


Reading in Emily's House

I was privileged to read my poems for an audience in Emily Dickinson’s house last night.

Yes, that Emily Dickinson.

Still pinching myself this morning. Which resulted in this:

And this:

So much love for my Florence Poets Society comrades.

Thank you to the Emily Dickinson Museum for the opportunity to read.

And much love to wonderful poet and friend Maggie Butler, from whom I received quite a shock (as I thought she was across the ocean from Amherst, at home in Dublin) and several hugs.


Hot Water

that poem in the trash
the one that makes your lip curl
like it actually stinks
rancid words radiating
off you so intensely
just from spending a little time
with that damn poem
that you’re compelled to strip down
and launder its words
in hot water
which is where that poem came from

Flash 55 Plus for Real Toads!