Pressed Words Between Pages


Pressed Words Between Pages

His old sea-worn, speechless heart
Mined the ocean for coolness of salt.
Warm wet expression, fluid as gold,
He searched for words. Star-tossed.
To treasure and keep like pressed
Flowers that lived in his memory.
‘Give me words!’ he shouted long
At the sea but nothing came to mind.






Sunday Wordle words miner, ocean, heart, keep, gold, searching, expression, mind, give, crossed, old, live.


Behind Those Old Red Bricks


Behind Those Old Red Bricks

The bricks sang out, and the windows
rattled. We keyed every note and soaked
faith into our scrawny bones. It was Sunday.
Money in the plate, grape juice in a cup,
soda crackers on doylies, pulling at hang-
nails and scratching scabs off our knees.
That’s what we did on Sunday.
But tomorrow was another day.




Written for Miz Quickly’s Day 21: Images



A Pretty Little Flower


A Pretty Little Flower

There’s a young girl sitting on the bed,
propped like an easel on a background,
all braids and curls, pink painted
nails and slicked lips, matched-up
likes shoes and a handbag –
a pretty little flower
with a stony full pout.


This prompt asked that we write about ourselves. I couldn’t find my voice for it. Tried and tried, but this little person all in pink, a colour I really try to avoid at all costs, kept popping into my head. Written for Miz Quickly’s Day 20, Image Captions,  Words taken from Flower Beetle and inspired by the link below it.




The Red Brick House


The Red Brick House

I live at the top of a knoll,
just above the small of your back,
where ripples of water o’r rocks
spill music through my house.
A trickled creek when the weather’s
dry. An ornery torrent when it rains.
It’s a dictionary spilling words,
fleeing verbs and adjectives,
flooding and floating and framing
the footbridge. It’s all happening
at the bottom of the hill.

But I live at the top of the knoll.





Photo: WikiCommons (That’s not my house!)
Written for Miz Quickly’s Day 19: Negative Space

A Sleeping Glint

The Ceryneian Hind: Labour 3

A Sleeping Glint

Chaste an arrow, narrow
sleeping glint. Golden antlers
chased and full outrun. Sacred
net into a trap, a deer dipped
while it slept. Long penance
promised he foregave, a turn
upon the sun itself. Mercy rises,
this hind, and runs. A stag
made doe swift into sprint.



Found poetry from Wikipedia article of Hercules 12 Labours, and the Ceryneian Hind. “Herkules und die kerynitische Hirschkuh (1550, San Francisco)” by Heinrich Aldegrever – Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, search: 1963.30.55. Licensed under Public domain via Wikimedia Commons. Written to Margo’s Prompt


The Slow Turn of the Clock


The Slow Turn of the Clock

And there it is again. That slice
Of early sun that creeps around
The edge of blinds. Just enough
Light to make out the numbers
On my watch. 6 in the morning.
And there. Again. That twinge
In the hip, that slow burn that
Churns like a screw in the joint,
And wakes me with a snap.
And I smell coffee! Bitter black.
And bacon. The air’s a sizzle.
Someone’s in the kitchen, pots
And pans, they clatter and clang.
A song, he singing. Time to rise,
Another day. One more year.
Yes, happy birthday to me!


Miz Quickly Day 18: a Life of Roses


A Turned Spindle

Two Totem poems


A Turned Spindle

I’m quite easy to understand; I don’t talk much.
I think a lot, and then assume everyone thinks
like me.  That’s put me deep in it a few times,
which is why Mother says I’m Teflon. Why I’m
not burnt by my stupidity, she can’t figure, but
I’ve never thought of myself as slick or slippery
or even carcinogenic.  I’m more like black ice.

Like a clear cold morning, I reckon. Unexpected.
I could knock you off centre, and I’m apt to melt
with a bit of warmth. Drippy, yes, I’m a bit drippy.
And I’m a tad stiff. Unbending.
I’m a bit of a turned spindle.
I’m not as malleable as I used to be though.
I’m a bit wiser now. Thank god…

.~ ~ ~

An Odd Mix and Match

I am flour by winter. Or perhaps salt.
White and pasty, and I sit out the greys
and wets those ‘ruary months, crinkled
and wrinkled and webbed from damp.
And I am gummy boots in puddles, such
an odd sort smell. Rubbery and footy
and creasing against skin. And age
colours the back of my hands, mottled
marble holds nothing on them. Doughy,
but genetically slim, taller than most,
but never higher than I should. Jeans
and tops and comfort in shoes, jumpers
and sweaters and scarves in draperies.
An odd mix and match, I am.





Written for Miz Quickly Day 17: Totems . Image from WikiCommons