I Poet


I came out of the canal listening

for my own voice

with my first breath

I heard it as a cry

I found darkness in my eyes

til opened to the light

I was that baby you wanted to be boy

I was made girl

all parts of me to receive touch

to open

to flower



Listening for my own voice

it navigated out of my thoughts

my mind spoke a product of time

of culture of possibilities

of bouquets gathered in spring

it was good to be who I am



Now the voice knows its own cry

weeps into the light and dark

listens with belladonna ears

what hallucinations will arise

I Poet

Dandelion Play

Children play on the hillside

which is yellow and white

colored in dandelions

and daisies

they run and sit and sniff

all those flowers in the sun

there is butter under their chins

there are crowns on heads

chains made long

for whips and necklaces

they wear it unknowingly

the seeds of their potential 

Dandelion Play

My Voice

“My high school speech teacher, critical of my voice, never taught me how to speech just told me what was wrong. I believed him,” said the weak monotonous voice of myself.

“How can that be”, said the strong willed teen, “teach me then, so I can deliver a message of power like there is no other.”

“I sat in that class yearning to speak the sound of my own voice,” said the weak voice.

“Forget it,” said the strong lost voice, “your chance is now.”


NaPoWriMo prompt day 7

My Voice

Keep It Simple

Today I am not flying to Houston but rather I am going to Iowa, the place where I was born. The heartland, the grass plains now in field corn ready to harvest. A simple place where the elms have died out and the Fox have bought back a part of their land and run a casino. I am not flying thru Denver where the airport built on sacred land but rather thru Vegas, the hub of gambling and entertainment, the vision of an eccentric.

My hometown has changed. Where there use to be three grocery stores now there is one. There are still a number of bars that line one street and no shoe store anymore. I remember Buster Brown in the shop window and a number of dress shops. Now there is one. My sister and I walk all day reminiscing childhood, the town’s dramas and a dad who drank too much.  There is already too much extravagance in the world. Time to keep it simple.

Seasons move so fast

We are caught in the middle

How to surrender


dVerse prompt haibun Monday and explain why you write the way you do

Keep It Simple

Me and a Tree

what’s a tree to me

something to climb

or hang from

to see a bird in

hide from another

or take a branch

and run some


what’s a tree to me

watch the sun shine

through in the morning

that bee hives hang from

a high wind could bend it

or crack the wood

when a storm come


that’s what a tree is to me



a prompt from toads – back to childhood



Me and a Tree


Come in from the garden

through the back door

a few steps up

there is grandmother’s kitchen

big room with a huge farmhouse

table and there she

kneads dough

her loose white skin

moving with each punch

Some loaves are already in the oven

the yeasty smell fills the house

baked in the old gas oven

until grandmother knows

exactly when to take it out

slices and serves with strawberry jam

to waiting grandchildren