Monday, April 28, 2014

Poetry still life

Perched on an antique footstool
from my great-grandmother's house
that was refurbished many years ago,
a pink flower-embossed
spiral brown notebook
has its virgin first page decorated with
prosy words from a
blue-ink pen,
recording new beginnings.
The Pomeranian presides
serenely over the proceedings as the
first faded fuschsia petals
slip noiselessly out of the
coffee table bouquet to
nestle on the wood with a
purple and silver belly-dancing scarf.

(Posted for the NaPoWriMo Facebook Prompt for Day 28, "Grab five things from around your house and write an ode to one of them/that includes these items." 04/28/14)

Friday, April 25, 2014

Dreaming, meaning

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The dream of the house
was different this time.
For so long, it was a dingy,
dirty, scary place full of
relics, broken furniture, ghosts
in the corners, webs on the
ceilings, basement blanketed
in damp, cracked and missing
windows and molding, molded,
unidentifiable greasy lumps of fear
and dusty indescribable terror.
The crumbling interior walls were now torn
out and fresh wall board was installed,
tape and texture underway.
The garbage and grime were gone.
I walked in and out of newly
framed doors on hardwood floors,
up and down freshly refurbished stairs,
wondering at all the rooms and
levels  and light
that had appeared, built by
my mind in anticipation of what?
Ladders and tools and raw materials
were neatly arrayed, though no
workers were present during my
walk through.
I wondered how soon the raw walls
would be painted, then peered out a
window at the yard yet to be
landscaped that was brightly free of
weeds, skeletons, dead trees, sink holes -
just reinvigorated dirt, waiting for
a green thumb and creative hands.
Relief slowly soaked my mind that
the past, the ruined, the disappointments,
the hurts had been cleared out.
The remodel, the restoration wasn't done
but it was well underway.
I could see the hope of fresh wood,
smell the dreams of fresh paint,
feel the safety of new walls and
boundaries and the shape of
the longed-for, slowly revealed.
Around every corner, I heard her
voice, but couldn't quite see her.
She hadn't been there before,
but her spirit was near now and
I sensed her physical presence
wasn't far away.
I listened, wondering, deciding.

(Posted for Day 25, NaPoWriMo, 04/24/14. I ignored the prompt because this idea was crowding my mind!)

Thursday, April 24, 2014

See you later

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He smiled and nodded his head
chatting about our same-age daughters,
their divergent educational and career paths.
We laughed about the girls' quirks and
their now-occasional hurricane-like presences
in our respective lives.
"See you later. Have a good weekend."
I wished him the same and watched him
slowly shuffle out the door, knowing his
mind was as full of images of his daughter
as a blond, singing, dancing child
as mine was bursting with pictures
of my hyper, brunette, gaming, reading
child, who never looked back as she
joyfully ran full tilt into her life,
rarely saying
'see you later',
never realizing that
one of those times might be
the last time
she would hear it or
I would say it.

Written using the NaPo Facebook prompt, "Write a poem using the last thing you remember someone saying to you.", Day 24, 04/24/14


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Brick by brick
bucket by bucket
of mortar
my life is being reconstructed.
For once, it is really all mine
to create.
I carefully chose the location
the supplies, the design
the tools, the attitude, and
the timing.
Each stone is gently, carefully
slotted into place and lovingly
but firmly
patted and smoothed with mortar.
The walls rise from the rubble
of my former life.
The shape is emerging,
classic arches and fanciful
Gothic touches, but no
ugly, scary gargoyles.
A cathedral
never before seen
of who I really am and
how I want to live and
what I want to do.
It's a basilica of beauty.
And it is me.

Written and posted for NaPoWriMo Day 24, "Write a poem that features walls, bricks, stones, arches, or the like", 04/24/2014

Wednesday, April 23, 2014


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Love my life.
Love my last name (Lee).
Lilacs, lilies, lace, ladybugs, lakes.
Looking, living, lighting, laboring,
launching, and laughing!
A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, K...L!!!

Written and posted for Day 23 NaPoWriMo prompt, "Write an ode to your favorite letter of the alphabet", 04/23/14.

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Why? why ? why?

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Like an incessantly curious three year old
I question relentlessly:
why do babies have to grow up?
where is my deceased mother really, now?
why can't I just transport to Sweden to visit a friend?
what the heck is my friend thinking, enabling her druggie son?
how do I know all the things I do?
when will I reach the end of my therapeutic journey?
Why do I have to have all these damn 'isms'?
Why indeed.

(Written and posted for NaPoWriMo, Day 14, "Write a question poem", 04/14/14)

Sunday, April 13, 2014


You glare at us, oh
noble fellow,
your sneer revealing
the not-so compassionate,
maleness apparent
in the splay hipped stance.
Just what are you
attempting to kindly master?
A cat head-butts your thigh
revealing a camaraderie of
presence, if not intimacy of
acquaintance, affable bloke
tenuously staring down
the viewer of circuses.

(Inspired by and posted for Day 14 prompt, NaPoWriMo, "Write a poem using a kenning", 04/13/14)
(Also posted for MagPie Tales - the source of the image - Mag215, 04/13/14.)

Hell on wheels

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Rage is a two or three wheeled 
motor vehicle.
Rage design varies greatly to suit
a range of different purposes.
In the developed world,
rage is mainly a luxury good,
used mostly for recreation,
as a lifestyle accessory,
or a symbol of personal identity,
while in developing countries
rage is overwhelmingly utilitarian.
The role of rage is changing 
from a transport necessity to
a leisure activity, and
rage is changing from 
a family's primary motor vehicle 
to a second or third vehicle.
There are three major types of rage:
street, off-road, and dual purpose.
Rage has a higher rate of fatal accidents
than automobiles or trucks and buses.

(Written for the Day 12 Prompt from NaPoWriMo, "Replacement poem", 04/12/14 - I chose 'motorcycle' and 'rage' - with a very interesting result! Sentences on motorcycles cribbed from this Wikipedia article: "Motorcycles" Enjoy!)

Friday, April 11, 2014

Opaquely transparent

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The motes in the light - one
almost touches the ephemeral
reality yet uncapturable, a metaphor -
fleeting images and events that seem
so tangible, yet when grasped
melt away between fingers
while whispering warmly on 
skin and hair.
The light itself is visible
evanescent emissary of life.
It seems more real, 
though no less evasive.
So much is present undetected.
Some believe, though they have not seen.
Others demand to touch the stigmata.
Which is more?
(Image and inspiration from Magpie Tales, Mag 214, posted 04/11/14)


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I loved romantic love
I loved wine
Neither are part of my journey
these days

Wine turned from being my partner
in crime to being
a crime
against health and family and future
and so
despite all the seemingly good times,
I had to part ways with it
ten sober years ago.

Romantic love has never
really been my friend either,
though even now, I am ever
hopeful that it will get its shit
together and meet my
Disney-ish, courtly love expectations.
On the other hand, my heart
is locked tight against love's
blandishments, because such
enticements always seem to cloak
sweet talk dripping with poisonous dishonesty.

Wine and love belong to my past,
the ago years when I believed in
the cultural lies that this unholy duo
would make my life better, my heart
happy, my brain seams smooth out.
They certainly have not improved with
age, their vinegary sting bitter on my tongue.
It's easier now to crochet and write poetry -
now those are dogmas I can get behind.

Inspired by the prompt at NaPoWriMo, Day Eleven, to write a poem a la Anacreon about "Love and Wine", 04/11/2014

Thursday, April 10, 2014

Available almost immediately

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One slightly used
but very delicately aged female with
sarcastic mouth and quick wit.
Self-supporting, good hygiene.
Number-crunching romantic
who owns her home and car.
Not house broken to take care of men
though totally goofy when it comes to dogs.
Excellent cook, crafter, and gardener.
Does spend much of her time curled
up with a book to read or
a pen and paper to write.
Adamantly unwilling to raise
any additional children or to referee
fights with the ex.
Slow to warm up to a new relationship,
though unfailingly loyal once her
trust is earned.
Inquiries may be sent to...

Written and posted for Day Five NaPoWriMo prompt, "Write an advertisement poem", 04/10/14

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

Musical Poetry

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Scenes from an Italian Restaurant
Sister Golden Hair
Ride like the wind
It don't come easy
Mother and child reunion

(Written and posted for NaPoWriMo Day Five prompt, "Use a five song titles from a random playlist to make a poem", 04/09/2014)
(Playlist taken from SiriusXM channel, "The Bridge")

Tuesday, April 8, 2014

How do I...

I don't know how to dance
I don't know how to dress
I don't know how to deploy
I don't know how to design
I don't know how to die
I don't know how to diagnose
I don't know how to decide
...what to write about...

Oh, but I'm a digresser, a delegator,
a daughter, and a diplomat.

How do you...?

Posted for NaPoWriMo Day 8, 04/08/2014
Writing prompt from Google Poetics.

Monday, April 7, 2014

Transgender logic

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Didn't we have a good life?
You have been a perfect wife.
I don't understand why you are so mad.
Not understanding makes me so sad.
I am still me - nothing has changed.
I just want to get my genitals rearranged
Hetero sex isn't everything, you know.
I love you more than you will let me show.
I am sure you could be a lesbian with me
if you tried; sexuality is fluid, you see.
I gave you everything you ever desired
Yet despite all that, your anger is still fired
because I decided to become my true self.
Please don't put our marriage on a shelf!
I really didn't lie before we were wed,
just some creative truth telling that night in bed.
Why did you leave me and pull everything apart?
All of this is just breaking my heart
though I wouldn't change one iota of what I chosen,
so why is your face and heart so frozen
when I try to court you, talk to you, and win you back?
I just know if you were willing we could get things on track
and have the life we both dreamed of once upon a time
Before I dragged our lives into what you say is the grime
and tawdry efforts to change my male self to woman.
I can't stand it when you pucker your lips like a lemon!
I let you be who you are in every way.
It's beyond me why you can't at least meet me half way
Please let me be and become my truest self, a girl.
Come on, baby, let's give it a whirl
though you would have to give up everything
you ever wanted or dreamed of, perishing
the thought that I could be that selfish.
I really don't get why you think I am childish.
My love, you don't believe I ruined everything
with what you say are lies and manipulating?
You just couldn't accept me, I get it, your story.
I beg you to accept me now, despite our history.
I don't perceive our marriage in the same fashion.
I refuse to accept your version of what happened.
Can't you try to trust me and let me move back in?
You have turned this into a misunderstanding again.
I'm being honest now, I swear I am.
What - you are still telling me to scram?

Inspired by and posted for the Day 6 NaPoWriMo prompt on Facebook, 

Sunday, April 6, 2014

Precious moments

My thumb and pinkie fingers
curl one each around her front paws,
her wet, cool nose microscopically touches
the back of my hand,
her relaxed body warm along my
blanket-wrapped thigh,
back paws crossed and jutting out,
relaxed as she naps.
Studying her tightly shut eyes,
her breath warm on my skin
I listen to the sounds of water from the
bubble bar in the fish tank
and the humidifier's soft moisture laden hiss.

Posted for  NaPoWriMo, Day 5, "Write using what you see around you." 

Saturday, April 5, 2014


When I'm not there
I long for my humble abode, it is
my safe haven, my heart, an
even tempered sanctuary, where I go each evening,
eagerly awaited five o'clock finally coming.
I race to my car and get in,
drive rapidly across
my little town to get to the
one place that is like fields
of roses and bunnies, the one
space that never
lets me down, always soothing, unseen
peace awaiting my return before
the following morning that
inevitably reappears. Sunrise lights
the southern windows brilliantly, clear jewels, no
need for electric lamps
to push back the silken
darkness that last night enfolded this humble castle fit
for the princess it seems
I am, finally at
long last I am home, a
lifetime of fifty years of homelessness, a distance
of time that is unfathomable to me yet.
Why did I have to wait so long for this, when
desperately I needed my own perfect fit
but now I am here and it is
as impeccable as if I had drawn
the floor plans and location up
myself beforehand, but at last it is over
this long journey and seeking of the
place where I can fall to my knees
and rest with myself and my battered, healing soul and
espy the red breast
of a robin in the backyard, welcoming. It
sings a song just for me and brings
a joy and a belonging that no
person or building or thing ever has. I cherish the comfort
of this space, in my soul, where
there has
never been true contentment until now. It was worth the
long wait, each apple and chokecherry and dwarf cherry tree
in the secluded back yard waving in the slightest breeze. I was just gone
from this home for the first half of my life, I now see, that
I was busy living, locked
into the expectations that certain other riders of Earth
tried to fit on me, to
ground me, when I just wanted to soar into the sky
and never look back at their clutching hands. What
did they expect me to do? It is
beyond understanding why I played for so long, under
the lash of addiction and family, I was my
own worst enemy in their hands.
I am now free from all that.
Just loving me, I
won't be what they want and cannot
have any remorse or feel
guilt over their crazed beliefs. What
should I do to make sure that nothing ever loads
me with heavinesss, clips my wings, clouds my
soul? My own hands
push them away, hugging myself, refusing to feel down.

Inspired by the prompt at and posted for Day Four, NaPoWriMo, "Write a Golden Shovel Poem.", 4/5/14
Inspiration Poem for my Golden Shovel: Philip Larkin, "Going"

Friday, April 4, 2014


The cherished bride mournfully gone,
groom steadfastly waiting
for their journey's next beginning.

Inspired by and posted for the NaPoWriMo prompt, "Write a lune"Day Four, 04/04/14

Thursday, April 3, 2014


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touch your nose.
Sitting down, slowly rise,
prick a thorn, pluck a rose.
Scatter petals, kick a rock
smile one eye shut,  turn again.
Rotate westwards, stop a clock,
skipping lightly, shout amen.
Now your day starts
tracing heart charts.

(Inspired by and posted for NaPoWriMo prompt, "Write a Charm", NaPo Day Three, 04/03/14.)

Wednesday, April 2, 2014

Morning yoga

Beep beep beep
A light comes on in the next room
Soft footfalls
A soft kiss on the head causes
the ears to lift and eyes to open
and the long plume of a tail to
curl with joy at her human's smile.
A gentle, sleepy voice asks,
'ready to go outside?'
The tiny dog slowly stands,
does her downward
dog stretch, then lightly jumps
from her pillow bed on the couch,
and slowly pads to the door.
Mom turns on the outside light
and opens the sliding glass door
just enough to allow her to slip out.
The dog pauses at the patio edge to
examine the night's deep snow fall,
then daintily walks the edge of
the white accumulation, seeking the
ultimate spot to pee, then
gallops friskily into the house
to see if Mom might share her
breakfast, though she never does.
Dog food it is.

(Inspired by the NaPoWriMo prompt for Day Two, "Write from the perspective of an animal.")
(Posted for NaPoWriMo, Day Two, 04/02/14.)

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

The worst bitch ever

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Shame attack
excruciating revelation
cutting looks, twisted mouth
stereo middle fingers extended
shunning, back turned
ignoring, walking away
anger, words, attacking
denial of irrefutable evidence
reluctantly, the meeting of the eyes
defeated acceptance
resigned to the undeniable
humbled admission
freedom to soar
dishonest constraints loosened
joy to be real.

Nothing can change or remove
the presence of
It's all in your perception.

Poem inspired by prompt from the website Bibliomancy Oracle:
"And underneath it all, the truth—the worst bitch ever."(from “The Mpemba Effect” by Jordan Davis)
Posted for Day One of 2014 NaPoWriMo prompt, "Ladies and Gentleman, Start Your Engines", 04-01-2014