There's no longer time for 13 ways of looking at anything anymore, so let that blackbird fly free and kick the stone back to soil, and maybe put this poem down and get out there to work the world into a place where we can spend our days looking at it all over again in 13 ways, or more

There was never anything so delicate as the frosting on the cake my mother used to make — hand-whipping the cream in the big metal bowl, the sound of the kitchen tools banging out a birthday song, us watching from the edge of the door opening, hoping for an invitation to taste before anything went to waste

for #openwrite

Tossing the Magic 9 Ball into Poem

We're never quite happy with the word, this slow rolling spontaneity of motion that makes it so hard for us to be heard out here in the noise of electronic ether, digital space where every post is hummingbird, and letters, treasures lost from thought, so that meaning becomes strange and absurd as like stragglers returning starfish to ocean, we poets release these poems, obscured

for #openwrite

Three Poems for Three Lost Days of #OpenWrite

3. How easy has it been for you to turn your head from two hundred thousand dead, and instead, push full steam ahead with your lies?

(Theme: The News)

2. You'd think I'd know what to write when I sit down to write but that isn't nearly ever the case - All I know is that the space before me should be filled with something, and so here I go again, wondering how I found my way to the end.

(Theme: Ego and Homage)

1. It's doubt that I remember the most, the way he huddled in the corner with such silent clenched fury at his own family, but took it out on me, his classroom teacher, and how every single second seemed to last forever in the shadow of his anguish and my own worry about what it is I needed to do and how to get it done.

(theme: Decisions)

All praise to the shortened pencil, the powerless point with which to write, scratching small poems and stories, essays and plays, sticking words on white

All praise to the worn eraser, telling time of thoughts, such lost angles and false prophets of ideas, shifting compass of directions; reconvene, writer, when lost

All praise to the empty page, playground of the possible, and pause before its wonder, for where nothing was now something is, move the rock to find what's under

for #openwrite

It's not too much, unions demand, to review options in the plan, even if we don't understand the twist turns of this fragile land

I am ready/ I'm not ready

of masking up, of space between, of anxious teachers, broken dreams, of quiet fret; we're not machines; the unknown becoming routine

I am ready/ I'm not ready

for #openwrite


Power switch conductor brings me 'round, I'm awake again, midnight listening in surround sound

to music from the window fan, such noise in the soft signal of deep summer, around sound

like faint music, and if this were the wire, the Net, the stream, the dream, what found sound

would you be, in the night, with me as my mind's making melody, unbound sound

for #openwrite

Ode to an Empty School Hallway

Hallway, I still remember you as you left me, as I left you, all bustle and chatter, and dropped books and erasers, my door opening into shared space on the lost Friday afternoon

Oh, Hallway, how much silence you have swallowed, since then, since March, when the last of the metal doors slammed shut; there's something close to sound still reverberating

They tell me they've adorned you with arrows, directions, paths, signs for our feet to follow, movement we must take, and in my mind, at times, we're all masked wanderers now, anxious passengers on a train with walls barren of art

Hallway, someday, you will shout again, and I promise to stand at the end, like a fly on the telescope, yelling one thing but holding the other; my heart remembers

for #openwrite

Someone wrapped me up in Rondeau Told me the rules, then let me go But I'm not a poet like that I see a rule; I break it, for laughs Add a syllable or a line to the old weathered crow and return to the rhyme when I want, like so

But now I think maybe I know the path these words of poem must flow I start at the top and end, last; Words in motion

For what is a poem but a show walker on wire; fallen domino; or a rabbit pulled from a hat form and function and all of that I push myself in, take it slow, consider constraints, let go; Words in motion

for #openwrite


Expended, to the point of exhaustion

Drowsy, near the edge of consciousness

Languid, on the border of liquid

Listless by the boundary of activity

Hopeful with the prospect of rejuvenation