What About the Low Moon, Swollen Like a Belly

What about the low moon
swollen like a belly?

What about a belly
swollen like the low moon?

A swollen low moon?
What about it? A belly!

What belly

What moon

Low about a belly,
low about the moon.


The low moon
swollen like a belly?

Love this prompt from Kim in the Imaginary Garden:



Rub until
the red rises
then moisturize
to perfect patina
approaching verdigris
easy to routinize
rub till red again

Just One Word in the Imaginary Garden: BURNISHED


Walking Away

They say no trees touch the sky
but my feet scrape as I walk
starting to understand my place
in the order of things

The sky 
regularly celebrates itself
with showy flashes as should I
but they don’t last
that is the definition of sunset

Those trees
are firmly rooted here
no one has to tell me
they thrive despite neglect 
and even outright hostility

As a girl
I was told to pick up my feet
when I walked
but the sky makes its own rules
and no one tells trees what to do

Which is all fine and good
except I know
what happens to trees
when we humans assert our place
in the order of things

Still the sun
will rise and set tomorrow
in flames or mostly unnoticed
my feet
a bellwether for what’s to come

Sylvia Plath would have been 87 years old today.


Where There's Smoke

I hope the sun
warming my respite
ignites infinite 
dormant fuses
that have waited 
their turn to burn
everything down
including the smolder
in me

For Just One Word in the Imaginary Garden: DYNAMITE


This Week's Share


There’s lettuce in my coffee
as I navigate a volume
of produce from this week’s share
seven pounds to be exact

In a break from chopping kale
I learn that Donald Hall has died

Guess it’s not so surprising
I just then had been thinking
about what aging feels like
in the extremities to be exact

So let me raise this cucumber
to farms and poets and living

Honored that one of my poems is included in Silkworm 12, the annual review 
of Florence Poets Society. What a gorgeous volume, full of gorgeous poems! 

Florence Poets Society is such a warm and generous group, full of support and talent 
and inspiration. I'm grateful to our members, and to have a role in publishing Silkworm. 
(I'm the producer, behind the scenes.) Bravo for poetry!


No Further

As nights 
               are darker
  the hollow 
 between my hips
         grows sharper
    tastes bitter
              sounds minor
and I find
    I cannot write 
about the moon
your hands 
 any longer

Commissioned Piece (Untitled) @mc__monster
Used with Permission

For Kerry’s Art Flash prompt: McMONSTER
I was trying for a 55 but got this done in 30.



I leave
my night-window
to let
my dream-demon
Otherwise --

My son Jack drew my dream-demon.
Inktober prompt: CRACK 



Found a scrap 
on which I had scribbled

    We must find
    your cheek color
    before the sun explodes
    so your shoes don’t melt

Color rises 
and my heart melts a little
with the earnestness

Maybe, MAYBE I’ll participate in Inktober this year!
My daughter is doing it. No promises, but this is for the prompt: MELT


On Poetry

My dear friend Sherry interviewed Susie Clevenger and me
about writing poetry and blogging over at Poets United! 
Wonderful, here:



autumn equinox
since you arrived
on a leafy breeze
warming my vision
from blue
to shades of pink

Happy 16th birthday to my son Jack. I can hardly believe it!


Uphill Battles

wisping round
the mountain’s shoulders
like a pashmina
snuggling her
against September chill
I pull my sweater tighter
and begin to climb



Before the hurricane winds,
small voices whirling in--
Day or night? It’s all right.
Whispered window observation:
The sky is orangey.

Orangey sky in the morning--
A warning or your kiss?
Missives, kids and popular songs,
all reflecting on that same sky,
yours now to apply.

Kiss blown to you,
claiming our song for me--
If only to hear you once again:
Bye, bye love.

I’m devastated at the news that Ric Ocasek has passed away. 
Anyone who knows me knows my favorite band is and always 
has been The Cars and Ric Ocasek my favorite poet. Love, fun 
music, and inspiration for a lifetime. Since 1978!

This poem appears in my book SUPERPOWERS or: More Poems About Flying


Slow Down

All these years
I’ve held on to a memory
of being 15 
standing alone in a room
practicing singing
the 59th Street Bridge Song
groovy a cappella
over and over until
I could sing it just right
    whatcha knowin’
but I have no memory
of actually performing it
for anyone
maybe I should take a lesson
and sing it now
as the morningtime drops
all its petals on me
here in my kitchen
for myself

Just One Word in the Imaginary Garden: GROOVY
(With gratitude and apologies to Paul Simon)


Kitchen Muse

I had a poem
worked out in my head
while I washed dishes
but it disappeared
by the time I was finished
and I want to think
Sylvia Plath
had this problem too


You Are Loved

The hard part
is not only 
noticing messages
but opening up
to receive them

Micro poetry to fill the empty parts in the Garden!


Back to School Show 'n' Tell

I spent summer
feeding the cat
memorizing rhymes
counting misgivings
sharpening my teeth

Bridge of Flowers, Shelburne Falls, MA (photo by Marian Kent)

Sharing on the last Tuesday Platform in the Imaginary Garden, with a deep sigh


Erecting Barriers to... Pretty Much Everything

How many fences
do you need?

fortified with stockade

and balkanized
by chain link,

nary a gate.
Who or what

are you keeping out
or keeping in?

For Just One Word in the Garden: HALVED


Blame It On the Beach

The beach was weird
sassy breeze pushing waves
to throw rocks at our shins
rain and lifeguards
clearing the water
because of marine life
All this in bathing suits
never my favorite
but we pranced and played
sat our fine asses in the sand
for waves to wash over
flicked our hair 
    (caught glances)
bleated like goats
pronounced the ocean female
laughed and laughed and laughed
cried hey sister ocean 
here we are
sassy and strong and shining


Music prompt in the Garden: JUICE