Crooked Girl

She was never one to straighten things out.
Her hair was always practically apocalyptic
and her teeth were crooked from eating
cornrows unevenly when she was three.
Three decades later she still gets lost
in forests without pebbles in the afternoon,
and never wakes up knowing what day it is.

(A little something for Twiglet# 12 over here:



I’ve eaten too many moon
pies from the puddles
we romped in before
I knew eclipses were possible
and would leave me hungry for days

(a little moon poem for toads )

For That Icy Heart

She picked away the hours
that became days that
compounded into years.
Picking picking at the icy
wall with the tool they said
was perfect for the job.
Her right hand became skilled
at naming the fault lines and
deftly punching holes at the
weak spots.
But she became tired and gray
and left the wall for good one day.
She should have known
that all it needed was a

(This is for the walls over at imaginary garden with real toads )


“Until we are all free, we are none of us free. ” – Emma Lazarus

I never had to fear couplets
burning in the backyard fire
or my voice chiming out silly
rhymes hushed by a vigilant brother.
I never had to prove that poetry
was a birthright stitched to my fingers
itching for a pencil or a stick in the dirt
hidden in sleeves and a mind trying not to
forget The hungry azure sky swallows another day.
I never had to set myself on fire
because the pen was actually not mightier
than the sword.

I was inspired today after reading robert okaji’s blog entry about the poetry of Afghan women.
I’m also tying this in with the Tuesday platform over at with real toads:

a Haibun


I watch the phosphorescent frenzied flights. This is their brightest star for the night. A nomadic community droning to feed the hunger. I won’t turn off their star tonight. I slip to another galaxy and turn on more stars inside.

We all need a star
burning bright into the night
A place we call home.

For Haibun Monday with Ekphrasis and Haiga over at

Extremophile Heart

My heart not unlike the tardigrade
can survive the vacuum of space
and time and remain solid and warm;
not frozen from wading the past twenty years
in the minus two hundred and seven centigrade
icy drifts of men’s hearts.
Always hoping for the big melt as
it counts the droplets in retrograde
memories captured on microscope slides.
It waits for that perfect droplet to cause it
to dance to life and intergrade
with another heart not unlike a tardigrade.

In this Ministry of Love

we have betrayed each other
in the bright light
without barbed wire, steel doors,
or machine guns.
We laid out cages of boredom, ingratitude,
and dishonesty.
All cages leading to Room 101.
Here in this room my tears are shed
on mirrors, memories, and a dark vault;
Words are spoken that you will never hear.

Prompted by:
Flash 55 PLUS!
Greetings to all poets and friends.
It is time for the Flash 55 Challenge! The rules of this prompt have not changed: Write a piece of poetry or prose on a subject of your choice in precisely 55 WORDS.

The Human Condition

I used to believe in magic. Too
many times. I have watched blood
disappear and reappear into an arm
etched with loneliness. But I
was not a magician.
I have watched skin hold bones
too close, and the bones still
groaned desperately in captivity
as my stomach shrank to give more space.
But I was not a magician.
I have watched two souls merge and
split apart. No blood on the knife
that did the cutting. But I
was not a magician.
I couldn’t bring you back with rocks
and bones, or blood and songs, or
salt and water from my insides.
I am not a magician.
My soul spills out its own spells
in real time offerings of flesh and time.
But I am not a magician.