Monday, December 19, 2011

Iced decaf breve

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Exiting the chaotic
coffee shop, I slip into the
frigid silence of my suburban.
As I shut the door, my sweater
sleeves slip over my arms and
release orgasmic waves of
rich, deep coffee
scent into the cold neutral air.
I close my eyes as I turn
the key in the ignition,
and my hair brushes my
cheek, stroking my skin
with yet more java scents.
I drive home, half drowsy
with the sensual aroma
swaddling me in comfort.
Is there any smell so satisfying
as freshly ground, dark roasted
coffee permeating the
air and skin
after an hour of lurking and
talking in the
atmosphere of chattering baristas,
aspiring artists and 'cool' teens?
I could sleep on a mattress
stuffed with freshly roasted
coffee beans, stroke strongly brewed
mocha lotion over my skin, shower in
steamy clouds of cappuccino,
apply a facial mask of cafe 'mud',
and never grow weary of
the exhilarating balm of
my favorite beverage.
(Posted for Gooseberry Garden Poetry Picnic 18, 
"Snow, December, Winter Vacations and Wildness", 12/19/11)

Thank you, Poetry Palace, for the Perfect Poet Award
for week 58! Merry Christmas, fellow poets!

Friday, December 16, 2011


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The 2011 resolution to write
bountifully was
exceptionally fulfilled.
Is not that exciting?
Blogging frequently,
daily poetry scribbling,
writing two new very rough draft books,
connecting with writers
and poets and communities
all over the world to
my unexpected delight.
Nothing got published,
but that was not really my
heart's desire:
expressing my soul
was the goal.
I am a success!
My heart and treasure lie
in writing.
Not in exercise, food plans,
or other people's goals for
Here's to an even more
literary 2012!
(Posted for Free Write Friday, "New Year's Resolution", 12/16/11)


While others generate
blizzards of protesting signs,
I obsess over the
ramifications of gender
dysphoria and
self perception and
How can this be?
How can this be?
How can this be?
Unacceptable, deceived,
deluded, and compulsive,
I march my solitary declaration
of indecisiveness.
(Posted for Poetry Jam, "Occupy", 12/16/11 and Thursday Poet's Rally Week 58, 12/16/11)


Is this that driven compulsion
or is it a different way of seeing
outside the deadening casket of
environment and expectations?
Imperfection trips the presumption of
if you let it.
(Written for Poets United Think Tank 78, "Off the Cuff", 12/16/11)

Drip drip drop

Dark clouds stress and obscure the
mind and all looks impossible
until the healing rain begins.
It washes down softly
indiscriminately bathing
ducks and dolts alike.
The ducklings play and pester, 
oblivious to bills and
boys and boundaries.
The dolt thinks a phone call
professing love will fix the destructive
flood of dishonest words.
A newly seen miracle of water
and babies and bright colors.
The rainbow comes out,
splashing through puddles,
being the child
simpler and honest.
(Written for BlueBell Books Short Story Slam 16, 12/16/11)

Monday, December 12, 2011

Straight-jacket dreams

So damn close and yet
impossible to reach
trapped by the bullshit
that was peddled as
relaxing and healing,
life as a vacation,
now arms pinned
eyes bugging out with
desperation and anger,
only to stare at the sea and
the boat and the
misty horizon,
longing for
escape and freedom and
The boat bobs lightly,
oars idle.
Already paddling furiously
away in the mind,
if only the arms were free
to pull against the water.
(Posted for Magpie Tales, Mag 95, 12/12/11)

Sunday, December 11, 2011

Confusingly crazy

The wheel spins faster and
he tells me I am unreasonable
because I challenge and
question his fucked version of
reality that he has imbibed and
internalized from exclusively
lurking online with equally
crazed gender anomalies who
insist we must endorse their
Not this girl.

Monday, December 5, 2011

Individual crowd

Don't look
keep your gaze on
your own plate
nibble your sandwich
without an eyelid
flicker to
front or back or
a glance at
your neighbor.
How alone we can
make ourselves in a
world full of
people doing the same.
And why?
I can walk through
the crowds or sit in a
restaurant, carefully
maintaining that bubble
of sovereignty,
that aloofness of self
with a book
to hand or a
daydream to
(Posted for Magpie Tales 94, 12/4/11 and Thursday Poet's Rally 57, 12/4/11)

Sunday, December 4, 2011

The details are in the listening

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The exhaustion of co-existing
with illness and past hurts
makes death's beckoning
curiously sapid.
I understand now
why my mother laid down
and allowed herself to be
taken so young.
Why not?
Cease to struggle and to
fight everyone and
everything; the siren
call of surrender, not
laziness or suicide.
I will likely live through
this, though my languid,
healing body is
for the first time
to that hail.
(Posted for One Single Impression 197, 12/4/11 and 
Gooseberry Garden's Poetry Picnic Week 16, 12/6/11)

Saturday, December 3, 2011

Belief interrupted

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Punishment or
parental tyranny,
inconvenience or
the child perceives illness as
and annoying and
certainly not
Peering through the veil for
the first time
the weary adult,
afflicted by some
random but overwhelming
demon germ,
suddenly glimpses
the other side and a
beckoning Presence and
if this time will be

(Posted for Free Write Friday, 12/3/11, Bluebell Books Short Story Slam 15, 12/3/11
and One Single Impression 196, 12/3/11 and Poetry Pantry 76, 12/3/11)