Frida Kahlo
Frida Kahlo

It’s a controlled randomness

How we travel…….

We twist and bend

In an array of paths

Through snarls,

Through touching,

Through communication.

We cover the ground

With our wanders.

The land listens

To our voice,

We say everything to it

Yet, it asks

For meaning

Or at least we ask it

For meanings

Causing us to name it

To name all

So we can measure

The array

From the smallest

To the largest value

We ask the land

Not to change

Through tectonic plates

Through temperatures

Through civilization

To wear the same array

For endless days

“When I see your face, I recognize it is you, but you have changed. I need to hear your voice.

Some seeds sprout


Travel within the array

Of paths


Funny Kind Of Heaven

Giulietta Masina in Fellini's La Strada
Giulietta Masina in Fellini’s La Strada

You know,

when I look at you

I laugh

Not because you’re a fool

Although you can be foolish.

Not because you’re a clown You juggle just fine.

Not because you tell good jokes

Sometimes you get lucky.

Not because you’re silly

There’s a bit of a child in you.

Not because you can’t match socks

(I’ll let that one slide).

It’s because I love

The hell out of you!

Funny kind of heaven

We’ve got going on between us.

Faded Blouse


Photo by Abbie Pegler
Photo by Abbie Pegler

We take the blouse

(Forbidden by mothers

Unknown by fathers)

From out our school backpacks


Tucking our slimness,

Or the semblance of slimness

Into the new shell

Over naïve shoulders

Behind the large shade

of the neglected tree

In case someone’s looking

Knowing that everyone’s looking

Hoping for someone to notice

Which is different than looking.

This hunger evolves into

The secret tattoo,


Off-center, upon the upper arm

Back shoulder, above the ankle

Only to find out after

We have been well-fed

There still resides the wish

For the blouse to remain forbidden,

And the secret tattoo

Kept from fading


Fauna Lost Her Ears


Image by Katrina Sesum
Image by Katrina Sesum

You are circling, circling

High above us

In partial slivers of light.

You have lost your chariot

And are so silent.

Sing to me Selene, though

The music doesn’t sound the same.

It doesn’t reverberate

As it once did.

It trails off into nothing.

Now, is a time of faces.

Maybe, it doesn’t matter, for

We are all writing love into corners.

Lyrics have the fates repeating

An endless, victorious tragedy.

Our bodies hold no melody.

I have no bones,

Easily trampled upon

Playing among ferns

In the shrinking forest.

If only I could hear your voice

Once more, my love.

I know that’s what you’re trying to do




Interior Design

Wood Engraving by Howard  Phipps
Wood Engraving by Howard Phipps

I adorn my interior

With sticks of wood furniture

I like better than other

Sticks of wood furniture.

I decorate with images

Carefully copied printed

or freehanded,

Upon canvas and paper

Meeting my criteria of

What images should look like…..splattered

Upon canvas, prints, and paper.

I meticulously vacuum rugs

Placed into squared perfection,

In line with walls and molding

While other rooms contain

Wall-to-wall carpet,


Every space of the naked floor.

The desk is situated

Where desks belong,

Until the harebrained scheme

Moves it to another location.

It returns to its former self, later.

Refrigerators and ovens

Never move. They’re boring.

I chase televisions

Throughout the house,

They constantly move.

They can’t be trusted.

I use the backdoor

As my front door,

Until someone knocks,

Then, I became confused.

I place the bookcase

Where all can see it.

Collectables of varying worth,

Placed strategically, as if

is a self-determination,

Not influenced by

Past events

But, there is the residue

From old price tags

Handwritten, typed

Word processed upon

The surface of all

The objects of décor

I, willingly, decorate with