Just the end of something

storm sunset very saturated

It is not bitterness
that runs through the deepening sky,
wind and water braided,
shot with the palette of infinity;
the black is not death
or ulterior motive
and behind, always
the night ocean swells


petals fall
torn by end of summer wind,
white, red, pink
piled beneath shadows,
and the moon that soars
in the bird’s egg blue of the sky
will always hatch
another winged spring.

Bird word mother

For the dverse prompt.

There is the desk and the words
that clip clop, a trotting horse
(blue probably),
on a paper trail of stories and I seated,
creator or transmitter, who knows?
Wrapped in silence and the swaying of trees,
I pour out the trop-plein of images, sailboats into
green and blue seas beyond the window

~lapping shores where a hundred birds call~

is where I walk, leaving footprints
for those who choose to look,
a mother with a hundred worries muttering,
yet catching clouds and stars,
drifting where the wind blows,
and at her heels a tall dog, a cat sometimes,
and in her head, hands, heart, blood,
the one who understands it all, always.

The summers I remember

For the dverse prompt. Hoping this new editor is going to behave itself. And will it keep the formatting? I should make a book… Fifth try. Sixth.


I remember when we could enjoy the heat

and savoured cool beneath the trees,

the running stream.

I remember when the blackbird sang

all summer long a summer song,

and we lazed, pink-skinned

beneath the hedge where berries hung,


~but that was before~


the rains came rare and late

or early and too hard too much,

and now the trees hang dying heads,

and rattle dry-leafed branches

where no bird sings, throats too parched,

no strength to waste in beauty,

and we wonder what the spring will bring.

Poem in the Ekphrastic Review

I have a poem up in the latest Ekphrastic challenge. The painting was this Berthe Morisot. Thanks to Alarie Tennille for choosing Weeds.


You can read all of the selected poems here.

This is the second poem I wrote to the prompt.


The name for despair is widow


More is lost than a lover, a father,

a way through the teaming city

built for men,


I lose a shield against misery,

a future for a girl child,

a cushion against cold pavement stone.


River flows golden in the evening sun,

pours over grey slate, colour of pigeons

in the soft light,


and I wish for wings to follow you,

watch the shoulder blades of the child

for their fledging.


Perhaps there will be more,

something of a life to be lived in this golden air,

not simply the dull dragging of the gutter.


The city of men laughs,

bright even beneath the clouds,

full of your absence.

Why blue?

I asked the Oracle, why so much blue? This is what she replied.



Joy is in colour,

the red of mornings,

the slow glint of silver fish scales in the stream,

ice dazzle, and the cool steel glitter of stars,

in the milky coffee of storm clouds

tinged with flame at sunset,


~but blue is day and night~


at the earth’s heart,

veining watercourses and dead marble,

filling the sky, pooling in cupped flowers;

it is the wild voices of the birds,

the colour of oceans, and, when we sleep,

of sailboats full of dreams.

Ripe peaches

The Oracle’s message is melancholic (as it often is) and completely appropriate.


Beneath the crushing heat

of torpid walled nights

far from the forest languor of pooled shade

moon-petaled lakes mirror smooth

dreams whisper of rain from skies

pale blue washed sweetly

of clinging clouds of sweat


~I beat grey wings~


soar light as pigeon feathers

as morning mist on a southern sea

woman of water wading

treading distant air with phantom steps

girl quick and eager as memories

shining like the ripe peach

just out of reach.

After the rain


After the rain

morning and swallows skim

dripping meadow grass

butterflies dance among flowers

hidden beneath raindrops


~a shot rings out~


swallows skim

butterflies dance between raindrops

morning swells.

When did we learn

to live with such violence?


The other side of day


Beneath the mimosa tree


and the quiet agitation of birds

the air is warm and sweet

the breath of spring growing

a whisper of pure comfort

soft as the touch

of a mother’s hands


~in the uneasy night~


we walk the dark lane

beneath muttering boughs

and listen deeper to the words

(a bird settles)

the silent patterning of the stars

smell honeysuckle over the wall

and know the night

is just the other side of day.