still alone

my god!
i am so sorry!
i went to bed last night
with ‘i want’ screaming out from me
i kept looking to the door
i slept

when i woke
i heard that you had sent
everyone away so that
could be alone together!
and in my ignorance i had ignored you
oh please forgive me!
how foolish!

and yet i am foolish even still
for this morning i write this lament
and pretend i am still alone


“when you are alone
remind yourself that God has sent
everyone else away, so that
there is only you him” -Rumi

The prompt for Global Poetry Writing Month today April 23 is to write a poem based off another. i heard this quote from Rumi this morning, and it illuminated something so the above words had to come out of me. and then i laughed at my own foolishness. Thank you for your patience.


lovecolored light

there are no bounds upon my heart
sunlight is the only blanket i need
love the only word i need
our first gentle foray into other worlds
supplied by exquisite plumbing
knowing my children will need this
illuminating with lovecolored light


the next in a series. these poems are all built as a response to a previous poem, where the first line is an answer to the last line, the second line a response to the secondtolast line, etc. it’s a neat trick and produced some intriguing results. If you give it a try, please put a link to your work in the comments. Details of the mechanics are here:

if you want to follow the series:


Ode to keyboard

10 Formal Underwood

20 Stiff and mechanical

30 Needed a lever and linkage

40 To do what you do with the press of a button

50 As our lines of text or code

60 Spill across the screen

70 In ordered sequential rows

80 You bring me back

90 To begin again.

100 All the other letters

110 Have their keys here

120 Between your endless repetition

130 And escape.

20200430 Asks us to return Calls for a praise poem.

Four Walls, Montclair State

collegiate lit rag
Four Walls
tiny office, inside
the newspapers office.
you’re not finding this by accident.

in the belly of the student center.
below ground, of course.
that seventies architecture
you were told was ‘style’
made possible by innovative new materials
which happen to be cheaper

its hard to imagine that architect
was ever inside a building.
not for any length of time at least.
cold, hard uniform square blocks
shaped into uniform square rooms
industrial wall-to-wall
or uniform square tiles

but oh the words that we assembled!
in those four walls
such a delicious contrast to the building
where we were housed



churning through Global Poetry Writing Month

and looking back to my college years for the Poem-A-Day challenge

and let me take you there for the D’Verse Poets prompt today.

The back alley off Madison ave

The oppression of atrocious concrete gray building
Rising up out of ancient once-plowed food producing fields
Rising up beyond the peripheral field,
just enough to prevent us from wanting to look up
Clamping down on those who try
punishing those that remember sky
Jaded and dejected like zombies who forgot
what it was to be alive
The oppression becomes normal,
like the passing L train rumbling
Screaming we ignore and push from brain
Till we cannot see the extent of our current misery
The atrocious wall no longer garish enough
Spray paint can infant rattle vomits riotous color
Feeble defiance of the bleak industrial complex
(Heh, complex, indeed)
Denys the function, the structure, ignores the doors
Lays the letters of a fake name across as much as an arm can reach
Like lake effect snow outside the window
Lands on lawn and street alike,
A larger than life claim to a made up name
A desperate plea to be, to leave a mark
Like a surgeon scar or at least a tattooist or random
carefulnesslessness with broken glass (thievery b&e or cleaning up)
As hollow and empty as the statementless architecture it defaces
Equally desperate to be unignorable
An garish enamel scream shocking only for an instant
Before being assimilated into the pervasive background radiation
A muffled dream of an invented me, a feeble plea to Be, to matter
To proclaim an artificial self in spray paint splatter
A busy contrived riot for eyes rubbed
too raw to find value in plain, homogenous, subtlety
One more step in the arms race for attention

Have you noticed what I haven’t said,
how I’m circling it like a dead backward buzzard would a living hearted stag
Black marks deface white purity
The pen and the spray can are the same
These silent words, dead text becomes that woeful cry that desperate scream
Bourne of desperate craving to be seen, heard amid the speaking throng
The utterance of which will rend
Any chance of belonging…

Silence descends (I am)
like a virus
(I am)
Like a heartbeat
(I am)
(I am)
(I am)
(I am)

Missing online

i’ve spent so long online
grasping at some semblance of connection
zoom for work, zoom for social
online shopping cart for stuff
that shows up after i’ve forgotten
what i ordered…

there is something
missing here.

no, i don’t mean any of that.
so much of those things i thought were vital
aren’t even missed anymore.

what about that spark that leaps
between our nearing skin

what about reaching
into another human being

oh there are things that
the internet cannot replace

but perhaps, just perhaps
that isn’t it, either
and there is nothing
in my heart. In my heart.

Your dove-hair

Today the prompt at NaPoWriMo is to Find a poem in a language that you don’t know, and perform a “homophonic translation” on it, that is, to try to translate the poem simply based on how it sounds.

So I found a poem in Romansh, titled Fida’t in Dieu.  It has a great sound. Here is the text of it:

Fida’t in Dieu ! —
Fo Tieu dovair —
Allur’ non Tmair!


so here is my homophonic translation:

Fighting in two
for your dove-hair
the allure will be gone tomorrow!



ten years old and not done yet
didn’t make it for a wedding gift
a stitch or two here or there
while watching tv with dad
some had to be ripped out
she didn’t work on it much
after he fell. and not at all
since, well….

So now with
everything being different
she picked up the thread again
decided it wasn’t long enough
so she’s adding another row
didn’t make it for the 50th.
ten more years gone
and not done yet.



the NaPoWriMo prompt, a handmade gift.  this is one i didn’t get.  yet.  its not about the object realy, in fact its a gift for her.