The sunset sky with dusky violet swirls of candy-heart love and blunt, orange brushstrokes of miss-you-more-than-summer lifted her up, up and away— the parachuted girl who should have come down far earlier than she did. Looking up from the sidewalk, he waited while tapping one sensibly shoed foot, with its earth-hold-me-down steel-toed boots, and pushing his black wire glasses up, up the...
Apple Wine Weekend
Fancy meeting you here on a Wednesday after… well, you know and all that— now sit down before you fall down. I’d rather not call the doctor this early in the morning.
Bored? Buy a book... →
Even mine will do ;)
In the fields, pondering
What spies that come down from Valhalla, the mountain to bless me and kiss me and call me their own? There’s risk in this intrigue and damned if I don’t think that no one can lie like a man on a throne.
The Seven Year Itch
Oh smash it down smash that reflection with a shatter and clamor she ran from bad luck on fair weather feet.
What they found in Jericho
He and she, both foreheads together bent over that picture book like there were dusty, cobwebbed prophesies spun from one scripted edge to the next, and she had two sets of keys and a thing for sevens like Joshua or the days of the week and he had a makeshift will of too many days without sleep and the eyes to make connections between river valleys and ancient Aramaic— or Latin at...
Give it your best shot
Ascertain the names of our dinner guests and arrange the table accordingly. No brunettes on the far side and no old men to my right. I have a headache and can’t be expected to entertain tonight.
…I don’t know that I’ll ever get...
Take care, my love. That savors strongly of bitterness.– Mrs. Gardiner to Lizzie (Pride and Prejudice). And my mother’s favorite quote to me.
Pretty Little Things
Broken bits of sand dollars wrapped over macrame—mention this to your mother, why don’t you? Not everything that glitters is gold. Not everything that rusts is silver. And not everyone wants, either.
Jane said, and I’ve never seen a man like that. Who knew what came next? In their Pentecostal romance, too much is left to the last half. This is slipshod resolution and nobody’s buying the ending.
Notes on the Bathroom Mirror
Needless to say… they’re private.
Through a Glass, Grimly
There’s this feeling I have that when they finally tell me to walk that gangplank, false friends behind me, lapping, shark-infested waters beneath… I’ll be relieved.
My and I Only
Nobody says that anymore you cheat and he knew the whole time— I had a thought but too too much gets lost in translation.
Can’t help myself. Born too late on a Sunday I guess, or too early in the week with a summer-sun gypsy soul and violet skirts for dancing.
Calling out the old-fashioned way to my way to your way— this not being the best idea in a house of dusty moldings, rotten pillars and a front door that won’t shut tightly.
May It Be - A Titanic Story →
Again with the self-promotion. Shameless.
With Flowers in my Hair
I just want to live quietly and make quiet wishes. But when I sleep and when I dream, you visit and bring electric guitars and beat poetry, sunshine daisy dandelions and passionate kisses. You bastard.
Green House Special Effects
Warm my soul, you sweet carbon-based lover, you scented oil of crude six-note perfume. I gave my faith over to you and expect a kick ass show for the price I’m paying…
This Boy I Know
He plucks those guitar strings and my heartstrings with equally nimble fingers.
There isn’t one of us without our Achilles’ heel and yours is men,...– From “Falling For a Dancer”
Growing up isn't hard to do
You wake up one morning and can’t get out the door fast enough.
Damn sensibility traps you like a whirling dervish (whatever that is) and spins you silly, under and beneath a crimson brocaded sheet of well-intentioned bloodshed (if there is such a thing) for a moral cause with two or three acts of mayhem (that running around the house you seem so fond of) thrown in like sugar and salt in frosted cupcake disasters (disasters, do you hear?) and...
We are made out in molds of dust and mud and flesh and blood but cry ocean tears from waters cold, sing pick-a-tune from tight-stretched drums, laugh some… we muddle through from when we woke our heavy burdens laden more and more with half-smiles and sighs— even in the best of times, we die like wisps of smoke.
May All Good Men Find Solace In Death
That’s what he said about weddings.
Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won’t...– Louise Erdrich, The Painted Drum (via bookmania)
I wish I was a thousand miles away— a hundred thousand miles away— wrapped up in an afghan on an eastward facing porch step, sun warm on my face, breeze mild in my honey-colored hair, black coffee in my hands steaming, birds singing, grass swaying and you sitting on the step beside me, elbows on your knees, chin in your hands, your lips smirking because we ran away and got away with...
Words in a Box
Stark words in a well-made box (with flower accents and iron locks) jumped out and made a scene saying, “No, we will not get back in! No matter how you scream!”
Titanic Story →
~Ongoing and mostly shameless self-promotion~
Small Town Morning
Never you mind, Mary they burned his house down and the sky fell upon us as the clock stopped at three a lackluster evening no longer paraded the newspaper headline ran over two pages.
Raising a Clatter
She was a bright girl. Knew too much about too many things, but not enough to get noticed by anyone who really mattered. Maybe that was the problem. Then again, maybe there was no problem at all. She loved him. It was inexplicable and mostly platonic, though he would have slept with her given the chance. She was pretty and men are usually willing. And she had moments of weakness and...
Oh Neil Gaiman...you're adorable →
neil-gaiman: As requested by too many people: making the last post rebloggable birdartpoetry asked: Mister Gaiman, you’re kickass. I was just wondering, what do you think is the best way to seduce a writer? I figured your answer would be pretty spectacular. In my experience, writers tend to be really good at the inside of their own heads and imaginary people, and a lot less good at the...