It's Still Life

  Just Suppose That hurricane. It’s real. Lost in a traveller’s roam. What if, it was alive with a face etched haze-white, a beard stretched like the wind’s tail, and hair tangled like spun-sugar. And what if that hurricane was a child, a livid anger and wayward rejection. With a look. A slap. It would…

A Conversation Over Tea Leaves I’m having tea with Dad, which is weird because he hates tea, and even more weird because Dad is dead, but that’s dreams for you, and he sips from a teacup thinner than a grub’s spun gauze, and eyes me square on, and says, What’s troubling you, my girl. And…

  A Calculation Sometime between light and dark we climbed the sky. There were echoes, an imprint on water. Today belongs to wise old owls with beards and pillars of fire.     AprPAD Day 14: write a report poem Image is from Unsplash It’s National Poetry Writing Month, which explains the surge in activity.…

  Ants They string. In file. Piggyback into the base of sycamores. Roots. Hard as foot prints. Roots. Wedged between the here and there. Leaves underfoot. The soft smell of crushed autumn and ants.     for NaPoWriMo Day 13: Up-end common phrases and AprPAD Day 13: Insects   It’s National Poetry Writing Month, which…

  The Future is Sunny I’m geared for Thursday. Sunny, says the weatherman. Bright as primroses. Just get me past noon, I say. Past this dirge of rain that sops the bark on trees, and drips like a toddler’s nose. Sun at noon, beams the weatherman. What a joker, wearing sunglasses. I see that our…