further off, the second bank of trees just shadows, hints in mists, the next bank, only shapes of fog, and beyond that, the unvaried dense of gray. But, even gray, the grass is greener, rain polished clean of drought, it shines, and flowers glow with rubies, golds and blues beside slate paths, bright in the … Continue reading Even Green is Gray
Studying the Navigator – a Fantasy
for Ann Darr I bought your book, the one featuring pictures and your poems about women flying airplanes, and scanned for you in each foggy photo until your thunder storm poem— its fear sucked me five miles up in a machine with— unlike you, the woman who flew it— a propensity for falling apart in … Continue reading Studying the Navigator – a Fantasy
Long walk, looking for the muse Home at last! “Take your shoes off!” She is mopping floors. In response to the RDP word prompt fungible
All morning I wait— blank paper, no poems—on the window are moths, waiting too. In response to the Ragtag Community daily prompt contact
wind-play bows whole groves, but today, just one grass stem dips— zephyr? grasshopper?
Buddha Sits
Today's to-do list— But the wild mustard, so yellow, This sunny chair, warm.
All Abide
Droop of August grass ants’ pheromone rush— cricket chirp In response to the Ragtag Community Daily Prompt: Abide
Don’t Laugh Until the Chili has Run its Course
Princess Jean made chili with raspberry pie and ice cream for desert, then laughed all day at our borborygami. Until around midnight, when the rumbles in that yurt preluded our mad unison flight, lead by the good Princess Jean, for the small, one holer latrine.
Truth is Not a Good Plot
Vardis Huntre was settling on the plot for his new historic romance. The setting would be a mining camp in the Tobacco Root Mountains of Montana in the nineteen twenties. The idea came to him as he was downing a beer in Darcy’s, a dive at the intersection of U.S 287 and Meadow Creek Road. … Continue reading Truth is Not a Good Plot
A Man Who Reads Poetry
she says, is my kinda macho -- eyes coursing the bellowing plains of the page like Sythian horsemen, and when I lean to be near, his voice growls wild honey, clenching thought sure as fists on rope, pommel or rose, a wrestler with joy, I’d plunge the tunnels down to hell, for those hands to … Continue reading A Man Who Reads Poetry
