Tag: photography

Submit to Me

submit to me - uncle toms cabin at had dam neck fair
April 7 Poem

How do you like my new boots?
I’ll bet it is quite easy to smell the
Hide shine from your vantage,
Sole pressing into your throat.

I’ve heard you have thoughts.
How interesting. When did that
Start happening? It’s all so
Untidy however. Sweep up.

Tonight we’re having roast.
You know how to do that right?
If you could, as well, mash the
‘Tatoes with the skin on.

Later, after you’ve washed up,
Perhaps we can go for a walk. You can
Carry me, if you wouldn’t mind. I’m so
Exhausted from mattering.

I am jealous. Who would not be? You
Sleep so soundly. I’ve been watching you win at
Slumber, mouth slack and wet.
In darkness seething: I am not you.

Dogs are the best — small stone


Dogs are the best
At saying “I’ve got
All I need thanks”
Lounging in the
Hardwood sun.
Although they’ll gladly
Get up for
You.


— part of the 2013 Mindful Writing Challenge on “Writing Our Way Home”

Two logs – small stone

Two logs from
Different trees lay
Across each other
Above the pile of ash.
One blue flame,
One heat
Rising.


— part of the 2013 Mindful Writing Challenge on “Writing Our Way Home”

Meltaway Island



Last bit of
Snow on that
Surreal green patch.

Sun’s out.

We all live on
Meltaway Island.

— part of the 2013 Mindful Writing Challenge on “Writing Our Way Home”

No Point in Being Mad


No point in being mad at the
Lilypad. It has no idea what it is doing.

It’s not her fault she grows up
Out of the water, surrounding herself.

No point getting bent out of shape when you
Notice you are stuck there.

On that beautiful island, staring into the
Not too distant forest, trees obscured.

Now I’m ready to catch my dinner and after that,
I’ll just hang out, shredding this blame.

It’s not the lilypad’s problem. It’s not the
Fault of unreachable sky, or aloof forest

Or even the placid pond’s coldness. No one else
Owns this greenness,

But me
And the air right here.

Where did you go?


One minute there was four of us
Together in the cold white room.
You cradled in daddy’s arms,
So foggy from the pain
Meds, but rumbling still
Your recognition.

Then two vials of liquid into
Your leg and
You are gone.
He holds his hand on your
Breast as if to insist you
Stay in this place but
It doesn’t work.

The doctor nods and whispers
You are gone but, already
I heard it. The dead silence.
The ceiling comes down.

The doctor takes you from
Us and I see your
Tail hanging from the
Green fleece.
No faith abides in
Anything beyond that
Vision.

Where did you go?