Sevenling (Sloppy, Slobbery Horse Kisses)

Sloppy, slobbery horse kisses smeared on a white t-shirt;
jumping puppy paws crusted with mud;
a cat curled in the sun.

Espresso sipped slowly on frosted mornings;
crusty bread cooling on the kitchen counter;
cabernet swirled as the sun sets.

Escape from cities, cement and cocktail parties.

Prompt: Poetic Bloomings memoir project: what is your passion? and Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads for the form: Sevenling.


Bring It On

The rain raged all night
bundled in wild waves,
bringing ash white streaks,
bolts and bangs
that struck and shook;
smoldering tree husks,
and trapped mice huddled
in the damp corners
of downed debris.

we climbed the canyon trail
into dappled mist kissed

Prompt: Sunday Wordle

Garden Fence

At first glance,
it was a simple
iron fence,
defining the garden walkway,
with its rake marks
on crushed granite.
It held the pomegranite
bush behind its barrier,
the fruit heavy, hiding
bursting sweet red seeds
nestled in white blankets within.
Further down the path,
the fence became a sculpture;
a support for twining and climbing
vines with painted leaves
and marble size metal grapes.
A beautiful blend of definition,
function and art;
all found on a fence.

Prompts: Trifextra for something that is three things at the same time; Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads for Fences.


The first time I saw
my stoic mother
was when our Basset hound,
Hermione, died.
The dog was tri-colored:
milk and dark chocolate,
with splashes of coconut white.
Her ears were chocolate ganache;
crusty at the ends,
where she dragged them
through her food bowl.
She traveled with us
from California to Tanzania
and back.
The night she died,
I layed in my bed
listening to memory’s
soundtrack play back
my mother calling
(out the back door
and up the street);
until stumpy hound legs
brought warm bright eyes

Prompt: Poetic Bloomings memoir project — first exposure to death.

I Want

When you are 52,
you tell yourself
that you are not like
your grandmother,
and her mother too,
who died young
of stomach cancer.
No, you are like Grammie
who lived to be 92
with the same
pear shaped body
and varicose veins
that you wear while you
are cooking your organic
garden greens
and walking the dog.
Then your neighbors,
two at the same time,
have cancer.
They start counting their lives
in months,
not years.
You watch the leaves float
and fall from the sycamore.

Prompts: Believe it or not, this started out with Margo’s prompt to make a list of “I want…” things.  Long life and health were on the list and they took over the poem.  It’s been a hard week for me, coming to terms with the illness of these neighbors — one quite young, the other certainly not old.