Roadsigns to a Better Day — a poem

sky magic

Snapped on the day in question.


It’s probably a good thing I walk
through an empty courtyard in the morning.
Nobody hears me as I talk to the sky.
An empty, expectant blue, I say,
“Show me the magic!”

Clouds appear — a long loop of altocumulus,
two layers of cirrus filaments, crosswise.

I set my lunch bag and travel mug of Panamanian
down on a bench and snap
a picture on my phone.

Gathering my stuff, I know
it’s going to be a good day.

Then Harbinger, the crow, flies
over me bare feet above me — laughing.

Ah, yes!  I think, this is going to be a better day.


* * *


Sarah is behind the bar at dVerse Poets Pub, hosting Poetics.  The magic word tonight is, “Harbinger.”



Quadrille: Better a Stroll Through That Lonesome Valley Than a Fall From Grace — a poem




A steeplejack a-once was I.
And lucky t’was I didn’t die.
I hung from steeples, chimneys
clung quite steeply… dear.

A jack can climb,



descend –
for we cannot fly.

Now wander I
through steeplebush
deep; my tea nicely….


* * *

It’s Quadrille Night at dVerse Poet’s Pub, and Mish, our barkeep, bids us go “steep.”

Taking It to the Shed — a poem

Somehow I received
a shed mark —
one side of me that rolls
skyward, down stratified
heavens from a chasmed

My blessed dichotomy, illumined
by the wicked sun and darkens
in the shadowed
love of home-Earth.

“Love that darkens”
sheds bloodlight flowing
down upon castoff

* * *

Lillian is hosting Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub. Tonight she asks us to shed our inhibitions — writing a poem that features “shed” as the magic word.

Da capo aria: Notes Written On the Occasion of the Eclipse of the Full Wolf Moon, January 20, 2019 — a poem

Taken from our back deck.

Spectacularly cold is relative; I suppose
that others are observing in parkas, shivering
in winds more wicked, and snow tormented
by northwesterlies, an assist to the dropping
ambient temperature, well past discomfort.

But there it is — low forties with windchill
sub-thirty in Florida — it feels, to thin-blooded
me, especially cold as I watch the shadow
of Earth consume the disc of a full wolf
moon.  Bit by mile, the brightness is snuffed.

I never fully learned musical notation,
never mastered painting, acting (Intermedio:
musical work between acts) or dance.
Now I fight, pressing myself to attainment
of something beyond novice, accomplishing
some slight recognition of craftsmanship
at the art of written communication.  I flail
my back and shoulders, donn a hair shirt,
hoping to produce art before my eclipse.

Nothing much to say long ago; fearful
of saying nothing relevant in the couda.

The night sky is sumptuous, gems strewn
on a Scotch Blue cloth, the center a blood
ruby moon — all light devoured, fearfully…
wonderfully quiet.  (Coda is from Latin,
couda, meaning tail)The north wind pierces.

Branches of our oaks rattle; we silently
applaud the once-only viewing, wordless.

Inside, the port and the blanket warmed
in the dryer, do little to revive me — undone
by cold and exhaustion, and the moon.

* * *

Scotch Blue —

Now In Gold – A Sonnet

An excellent sonnet. Jilly brings us to the cold truth of the grave, the break with a loved one, and the truth that there really is no successful avoidance.


My mother’s grave is covered now in gold
and yellows mums; I never visit there.
The wind in winter blows too rough and cold;
I lack the strength to stand the frigid air
against my face; my hands would only ache.
Sucking in the chill my lungs burn dry,
I’d gasp and clutch a tree against the break-
neck speed of gales and squalls that singe my eye.
No, I remain deep in the south where warm,
the sun can only do me good, and think
of how the snow drifts round the stone in storms;
where frozen mums are waiting roses pink
to kiss the face of God when time is done
and scatter blossoms all about in sun.

Image Source

Breaking with the strictest rules of the English Sonnet, I have chosen the following aberrations:
The first eight lines are broken, not into two quatrains, but into syntactical…

View original post 143 more words

Staring Into the Cup — a poem

Life is a cold brew — a sign
in the cafe that lists
options, suddenly becomes

Most of the time we allow
life to pour over us — steaming
hot messes, one follows
another — we await
stream to lessen to a drip.

The weight of the current
situation pulls us to the ground…

and the best we can hope for is decent coffee.