November PAD 2013: Day 3


I know that stain, a ruined landmark
erected in honor of nameless strong,
but its monument is fading, like stacks
of clenched fists bleached white
with the draining of blood.


2013 November Poem-A-Day Chapbook Challenge


November PAD 2013: Day 2


I smile to make this skin
feel at home on my bones,
but it remembers the other.

We come together to cover
new spaces left behind
by rejections and empty faces.


2013 November Poem-A-Day Chapbook Challenge

November PAD 2013: Day 1

Objects in mirror

I am closer
than I appear
because you only see
yourself when you look
at me


2013 November Poem-A-Day Chapbook Challenge

Life is a Beach – Day 1

Thanks to Walt and Marie at Poetic Bloomings for providing a month of beach-related prompts.


Sea of Glass

I made revelations here,
standing with my toes
burrowed in the burn
of crystal sands. Waters
muddy like my eyes
hid treasures made
of scales and claws.
This is where I cast
off my own hard shell
for something soft
enough to cradle
the echo of years.
It is where I return
to see a softer
face in the glass
look back at me.

April Poem-A-Day: Day 17

Doll Maker

Girls line up to join
an assembly line
of blank faces eager
for the red stain
of blushes and lips.

April Poem-A-Day: Day 15


Doubt is an ant
that carries more than
its weight and craves
the sweeter crumbs.

Doubt is a bite
that stings at first,
then craves to be itched
before making you bleed.

Doubt is a swarm
that leaves enough
green things to live on
but not enough to thrive.

April Poem-A-Day: Day 14

The Potter (Italian Sonnet)

His dripping hands reach for the formless lump
he pulls from a cool hollow in the earth
as if he can already see its worth.
But it is only clay, a filthy clump
of dirt, and still his hands begin to pump
the slab, reviving hands around its girth.
Each push is a resuscitating birth
of shapes creating shapes inside the jump
start of a fading pulse and dying heart.
The spinning whirr is silent as the wings
of little hummingbirds and humming flies.
The pressure of his fingers leave a mark
upon the clay and other softer things.
The artist’s touch is where its value lies.

April Poem-A-Day: Day 13

Yellow Girl

They sit in neat rows,
each pair of light eyes,
painted on by the deft
hand of a factory, framed
in perfect halos of gold hair.
I am the other, without
a fabricated piece of me
to cherish because the me’s
on the shelf don’t look like me.
I was made of darker things,
made rare by living
close to the light.

April Poem-A-Day: Day 12


She bends at the waste
to pick up shards, small
bits of color scattered
like forgotten ashes
of the dead resurrected
into tesserae. She sees
where each broken edge
should join another to
make something new.

April Poem-A-Day: Day 11

In Case of Emergency

Run, do not walk,
to the nearest escape.
Row far from the undertow
that is sure to follow this wreckage.
Don’t scan the other rafts
because I won’t be there.
Don’t pretend to call out my name,
I know it tastes wrong on your tongue
like everything else about me.
You will get out alive.
That is why you sleep so close
to the deck, so far from me–
in case of emergency.
I will not leave a vessel
that we built together
and filled with wide berths
of promises, even though
they are empty now.
I will go down with the ship.

April Poem-A-Day: Day 9


His hands are tied,
caught in threads
invisible to naked eyes.

She knocks her
bowed fingers against
the taught strings.

They move together
in a lissom dance
of marionette hearts.

April Poem-A-Day: Day 8

How to Grow Roses

Throw away the gloves
and get used to the feel
of dirt in your wounds.
There will be blood.
Why else would
you plant roses?

You need the thorns
to make your toil worthy,
to mark your very skin
with piercing significance.
The beauty of the bloom
is birthed in the sting.

April Poem-A-Day: Day 7


Her face is a display case
of curio smiles and other
porcelain knick-knacks.

Behind the peerless glass
is a stationary parade
of hand-painted trinkets.

The inscription reads do not touch.

April Poem-A-Day: Day 6

Erm, I wrote this posthaste…

You ask why I am always the first to look away.
I say it is the way of the guilty. We can’t peer too long
into reflective faces because we are spinning tops–
taking a turn on surfaces made of precious things
but faltering without fail until we tilt off the axis.
I look away because I am afraid of falling.

April Poem-A-Day: Day 5


We are scratch paper.
There is no partial
credit for the sincere
scrawls and half
truths that explain
how we arrived
at the wrong answer.

April Poem-A-Day: Day 4

Hold That Pose

In case we don’t make it,
I want to remember
that you were smiling
as we stood at the edge
of something wonderful,
that it was your hands
pushing our love
out of the nest
to see if we
could fly.

April Poem-A-Day: Day 3

Empty Desk
for those who know what it is to pick up the pencil after putting it down

Once, I loved the feel of a pencil in my hand,
how it coaxed callouses like wrinkles
following lines of old laughter,
how every Tin Man i who ever
wished for a heart, got one.

Those days were replaced by erasers
earnest to remove every mistake,
but letters and words leave impressions
on the page even after the black
is rubbed away.

Now the pencil is too sharp.
It accuses me with points straight
as gallows raised in rows of perfection.
They watch me with the beady eyes
of dolls left too long in the package–
never to hold, never to play–
only collected.

April Poem-A-Day: Day 2


We spin faster
to separate
our blood
into denser
making room
for light
and lighter
to float.
We bend
to skim
into our