Tag Archives: poetry


As I fall fitfully into nirvana,

the lead of my extremities becomes weightless.

I drift and hover

Above my covers,

Not a single nerve pinched,

Not a single muscle twitched.

Euphoria as my goal is me.

The sting, the jab, the prick

On the soft flesh of my arm

Intending no real harm

Causes my brows to knit,

My teeth to grit,

My lungs to spasm.

And then, the calm ensues,

The lovely warmth and total relaxation,

The humming drumming of

Inner peace and gratification,

A soul at rest.

But if I stir, do I dare,

Do I care,

That the stings will come again?

The needles so gentle,

So firm and loving,

So sharp and stinging,

Almost to make me weep.

Kitty, why don’t you let me sleep?



The Other Side of the Pillow

Awoke, disturbed, an unsettling dream

penetrating my sleep, a recurring theme.

The heat radiates on my neck and my head.

Just can’t get comfortable in my own bed.

Too cool without covers, too hot with them on,

flat-out like bread, or curled up as a prawn.

Turn up the a/c, turn down the heat.

Pull my hair back, take the socks off my feet.

Drink some more water, get up to pee,

Lie down again, hope the nightmares flee.

But worry I will not, nor weep as a willow,

I’ve reached out to grab,

To flip,

To smooth,

To rest again…

And I’m cooler than the other side of the pillow.


Citrus Blossoms

Spring’s desert perfume, strong and penetrating,
Almost burning the nostrils,
Intoxicates as it wafts o’er the ground and the grasses.

All of nature drinks happily
Of this generous olfactory celebration.
This is life that smells so beautiful.



Quietly I sit getting drunk,
A victim of choices, both recent and long-forgotten.
My blood, heavy with wine,
Weighs down my muscles and my nerves and my cares.
The tightness in my shoulders is gone,
The sharp blade, formerly implanted and unmoving in my back, slips away.
The anger, the frustration, the stress and fear…all have been replaced
By my beloved burgundy melancholy.

My eyes feel a velvet purple, soft and blurry, not sharp…
My lips taste a hint of grape.
My head, heavy now, leans to one side,
My shoulders, relaxed, sit lower on my frame,
My legs are like detached stilts, carrying me around without feeling.
My fingers, ever the free spirits, fly with unfettered abandon over the keys.
My heart is rhythmic, unclenched and at rest.
And my mind, free from bondage,
Wanders the cosmos.



I picked a tick off poor, wet Levi,

Yanked it out with tufts of his hair.

Squeezed the thing so hard with my fingers

til it popped and blood sprayed everywhere.

I saw a tick crawling on the ground,

From Jake’s awful infestation.

I grabbed the hammer I had lying ‘round,

Pounded it to bloody obliteration.

But poor Bubba is his own bloodsucker,

Scratching and biting at his own skin.

A miserably itchy, raw condition,

Manifesting without

from his misery within.

No amount of bathing nor of brushing,

No amount of costly elixir

Will take away his pain and suffering,

There exists for him no quick fixer.

I’m fearing, hoping not, that Karma is cruel

And biting Bubba instead of me—

If it is so, I’m such a fool

For murdering ticks thinking I’d be free.


Val Wolf

It was a sad day when Val Wolf was shot. My sister loved him. He had the coolest-blue color of eyes one had ever seen, and his hair was blonde and wind-swept and teased at his face. She was instantly smitten.

He had put a ring on her finger—or really, it was the string of the yo-yo she was tossing when she met him. He had taken her yo-yo and was demonstrating his lack of prowess with the toy before returning it back to her, placing it on her finger like a ring. He asked her name, and then he told her his, “Val Wolf”.

She came home and regaled me, her younger sister, with the entire romantic story. She wrote her first name with his last all over her notebook. She knew where he worked, had met him outside his shop as she and our other sister were walking home. She would go by there again tomorrow and the next day and the next and talk to him and visit with him.

We heard a short while later that he was killed in a hunting accident—he was not wearing the conspicuous, brightly colored clothing that would inhibit an anxious hunter and was shot by mistake and died by the time he reached the hospital.

And so my sister’s last name is not Wolf. I wonder if she ever thinks of him. I wonder if she still has that yo-yo.

What I’m Meant

I’m sitting in the dark

and I can see a spark

as I swallow another gulp

of my semi-sweet red.


The stress I’ve had to park

from another day off the mark.

It’s almost Friday,

I keep repeating in my head.


I like to watch the energy,

I like to watch the atoms

make my eyes go crossy

as they spin up in the bright blue.


Segmented worms I see

dancing about with glee

following my pupils

as they roll around without focus.


Living in my glass

with the utmost of liquid class

indulging in the freeing

and the opening of mind,


I wonder if I’m meant

to stay a little bent

cause this ordinary, square, confining, restricting, box with a lid

doesn’t let me thrive.