This is not a nation

This is not a free country

(Never was a democracy)

The eighteenth shows how fickle

The public opinion goes,

How easy it is to foment.

The bison are being driven toward the cliff

And thinking ‘yeah let’s do it!’

This is not a precipice

We need leaders who will allow

Us to flourish, not drive us

To impending doom.

20210112: for the prompt at


What words can doings have?

The drum sings with a touch

The horn with a kiss,

The flute, breath.

Sleeping till noon speaks

Of my labors

And in the dabs of mortar

The wall that I have made

Tells the truth of my work


The day I learned to eat

It had been quite an evening, I put myself in the road, god rushing towards me like a truck, his headlights illuminating everything I did not want to see in myself but was plainly there. At a little after two in the morning, the light had moved on and I was there at the dining room table, with a bowl of organic chicken soup in front of me. I was so sweatsoaked, spent and hungry and that soup was everything my body needed. I couldn’t bear to eat it. I remembered my chickens, imagined this birds life, and I wept into my soupbowl.

Until gratitude

cherryblossomed in my heart-

Thank you little bird

20210104 for the prompt at d’verse

Eater eaten

Sherry at earthweal prompts us to consider the thoughts of animals. I’m not sure the dead in my yard have thoughts, or at least not the wordy thoughts that most people think in. Andbythis I mean they are not chained to words the way we are. Having held their skull in my hands, and their meat in my stomach also gives an interesting perspective though observing them gives a different taste of their life. My challenge then is how to depict the inherently wordless with mere words? I can step in the grass the way they do, and they look at me differently when that happens. Of course there is art, images, but to reduce the vast experience to paints produces different results than reducing it to words. With that in mind here (and there! Lol) are my words:

Lettuce among the grasses

Garden fence, asparagus

Tasty liriope seeds

Fallen fruit of apple trees

Thumb-monkey opens door!

Moves from box to box,

Ok uninterested in us

Neither our eater nor eaten.


Please read the challenge as well:


There is an urgency

A mustness

To this agency

These resolutions.

It lays upon the peace

The quiet of the longest night

Rent only by the silent

Crescent moon sickle slice like snow:

Those tiny individuals

Sixfold symmetrists weaving

Blankets for streets and fields

Rubbish heaps and cemeteries

Can you get to sleep under that blanket?

Where each flake screams for your blood

Your dignity, your heart? Your vote?

I don’t blame you for drowning in that flood.

I asked him,

How much can we endure?

The answer:


What’s called for is … is …

What? What choice is there?

My strength is dead. Writing this,

Exhausting. What the bed offers

Cannot soothe this. The church’s

Balm is empty. The only thing left

Showing in my fellow humans, is


Averted, Beaten and downtrodden

Or frantic with desperate longing

Searching for connection. Thank god for those

Tiny beacons in the vast sea

Lighthouse perched on the rocky shore

Whatever happens here

Whatever we endure

Those eyes close at the end either way.

So then I asked,

How much can we love?

The answer:



For the solstice and the prompt at earthweal


An aging ship.
St nick.
Sticks bare,
Save thorns and hips.
Brown leaves.
Frail stones
Stink of baking
Empty atonement.
Sirens getting louder
Harder to deny
Unreliable rudder lies.
Sharp stem sickles slice skin
Spill red petals within
The baby forms, and drips from
The spilling of her hips.
Melasma cracks alabaster.
Reeds. Flute, nej. Basket.
Burned cookies.
Open bilco.
Cold sea pours in
Deep behind the eyes
Last breath

For the prompt ‘endings’ at http://www.diverse