I think I was about 9 or 10
and it had been a very bad year
with the retching death of my always
and favorite cat Sunshine named
during my John Denver phase who
lived freely and ran like a cat
with his tail on fire until ingesting
rat poison at the lumber mill out back
the yard and it was decided that cats
were too much risk of heartbreak
for a young cat-girl to bear so
I was alone
until one day the VW trundled along
country roads apparently directionless
pulled into the driveway of an unfamiliar
house and I was admonished to head
right up there into the garage where
a surprise awaited and sure enough
here tumbled a fluffy puppy all tongue
and tail with the stubbiest legs
for jumping a white stripe up her nose
to her brow I named her Jinx and loved
that day and that dog until well forever

A joyful childhood memory for Magaly in the Garden


Holy Bound

father embraces
with pride
a glimmer of himself
      -- revelatory --
in his son
who simply loves
those same qualities
in another man

REVELATION in the Imaginary Garden



One stubborn apple
frozen to a branch
of the lone wizened tree
in a clover meadow browned
fractalled under frost cover

-- this path slants romance --

Hazed-vantage horizon
painted from a dirt road
of an almost forgotten
cheap & ramshackle adventure
in may-as-well-be solitude

Playing with PUENTE in the Imaginary Garden


Sunday Night Tanka

& scratch ticket
indulging fantasies
last cash til payday
    pizza’s a winner


Subject to Change

Our little ecosystem
is subject to seasonal impacts
as we become heated
risk of contamination strong
but feels irreversible
this feeling
this bloated feeling
seems new normal for our environs
in a warmer taxonomy

MONO NO AWARE in the Imaginary Garden


Maybe It's Just Me

settled in my chest
flutters like a bird
struggling to get out

It could be me
but I think you know
this fluttering
inside of you too

It could just be me
but maybe
this is how we are bound
in the post-world

When the bird
of despair
catches in our throats
let’s struggle together

I hope it’s not just me

Giving thanks with love poems in the Imaginary Garden


Backyard in November

I should rake leaves

but I decide
to do something else

when thinking about
leaves and wind
and justice

photo by Marian Kent

Night Descent

My belly

rockets for the ceiling
as though hung by the moon

towing the rest of me
hips and shoulders limp
fingers brushing the floor

Playing with the CHERITA in the Imaginary Garden!


Any Friday Afternoon

What would happen
if I spent this hour
watching my clock
like it might sprout wings
latch on to my mousing wrist
with its desk-clock feet
and launch us both
out the sixth floor window
over the YMCA rooftop
and three tenement high-rises
to I don’t even know what’s
beyond those
beyond my imagination
far beyond my expectations
for a clock-watching Friday
at the office
wishing to fly



I confessed to tears
at news of slaughter
from my old neighborhood
but in reality didn’t cry

I stopped crying years ago

Now I store suffering
behind my eyelids
and wonder
when the storage will be full

And what will happen then

Meanwhile I realize
it would take real courage
to admit being unable to cry
or ask for help

So that’s not what I’m doing here


Satire, Truth, Life, Death

Jostled from morning dreaming
with sing-song chanting
bouncing around in my brain
charlie hebdo
charlie hebdo
bouncing through the morning
in a rhythm from the dream
jostling coffee mugs & such
charlie hebdo
charlie hebdo
cat jumps abruptly in my lap
meows her cat-breath in my face
all as if to remonstrate
charlie hebdo
charlie hebdo
against opening the daily news
bouncing bone saws in the consulate
& accidental dismemberment
charlie hebdo
but we accept your explanation
& this will all blow over soon
it’s normal & entirely credible
jamal khashoggi
jamal khashoggi
jamal khashoggi
jamal khashoggi


October Tanka

An autumn archway
of just-so bending branches
crowned with chimney smoke
rising on cold air
through star-frosted windows

Notebook poetry for Kerry in the Imaginary Garden!


The Eleventh Hour

One of my poems appears in this gorgeous volume, Silkworm 11: The Eleventh Hour. Silkworm is the annual review of my beloved Florence Poets Society. I am so proud of this book and our group, the members of which I am endlessly grateful to and inspired by, wonderful poets, each and every one. Here’s my poem from Silkworm 11
 “Just a Few Small Things I Like”
I like the way
you open windows
in any kind of weather
as if to say hello morning air
thank you for visiting

I like the way
your fingers
navigate a messy ponytail
on weekday evenings
when you let your hair down

I like the way
you say you love me
even when you’re pissed off


Skulks Amongst Us

Skulks have claimed this land of ours,
infiltrating amongst us so we cannot see
them tracking our pain to its anxious end,

as though there ever whiffed an end
to the gaudy display of our
collective skulkishness. When all we see

is today, not tomorrow, we refuse to see
the consequences of our anxiety, ending
as it will when we skulks celebrate our

pain. It will be our loss to see in the end.

Trying TRITINA in the Imaginary Garden!


The Floating World

When despair
fills your body so fully
that breathing
becomes a focal point
bringing memories
of floating near ceilings
like a quirky witch
observing reality
from relative distance
you realize
that the upside-down
is actually quite familiar
and you possess the tools
to move through even this
in power


The Building Shakes When Trains Go By

It’s hard to understand
dreams from which screaming
I must be shaken awake
but have no memory

And what about
this waking nightmare
we are all walking alongside
in broad daylight

The nights are getting longer
as horrors grow bolder
lying outright
under penalty of perjury

Shakily I wonder
when the trains start running


For Now

drape the mountain
like a blanket
us valley dwellers
who peek
with one eye open
as from under covers
relatively safe
from the incredulities
to come tomorrow

Music prompt in the Imaginary Garden: MADE FOR NOW


Contrary to Popular Belief

Blue sky is but the underbelly
of human collective darkness
a crucible within which
sinnings like cymbals crash
brightening stormclouds
cornfield drummer’s
rap rings out
like a

Trying NONET in the Imaginary Garden



three over
on urgent-gravitational
case for revolution against

For Toni's prompt in the Garden: STEP INTO THE VOID