THE WOMEN gather under the trees.
They bring gifts, food, and chairs.
They are gypsies and queens, oracles, saints,
Jezebels and jesters, healers, sages, and warriors.
And when the circle is complete, the magic begins.
Shyly, with dainty movements, they take turns,
shifting aside their robes to expose
missing limbs and gaping wounds.
The others gather close and peer, heads cocked,
eyes straining, and they chant,
"That is lovely, that is good,"
and the wounds stop weeping,
and they melt into scars,
silvery and light and beautiful.
Then the women lean back and laugh,
and they stretch, sensual and fierce,
like cats in the sun.

Sunday, June 22, 2014


Time and more time
This precious time
Surrounding me
Swirling in delicious designs
Lapping at the edges of my day
Lightly touching my cheek and bare arms
Stroking, tickling
Drawing me forward
So softly
This time is all mine
To do with as I please
No decisions to make
No requests to deny
My life stretches out before me
Time and more time
This precious time

Saturday, June 14, 2014

Faking It

I'll tell you my story
with downcast eyes
My voice is an echo
My words are all lies

I'm just a faker
I know this because
what I did never happened
where I've been, never was

My poem is a bubble
a small puff of air
a net to hold feelings 
that never were there

So let's shed a tear
and sigh all our sighs
and forget that we know
My words are all lies

Thursday, January 23, 2014

Who is Sylvia?

We recently received a message from Sylvia, a reader of our blog, who made kind remarks about our poetry. One of our members immediately began quoting Shakespeare's "Who is Silvia?" (see below), and others of us almost as immediately began riffing on Shakespeare's verses (see even farther below). We don't know Sylvia personally, but we thank her for her inspiration.

Who is Silvia? what is she,
        That all our swains commend her?
Holy, fair, and wise is she;
        The heaven such grace did lend her,
That she might admirèd be.

Is she kind as she is fair?
        For beauty lives with kindness.
Love doth to her eyes repair,
        To help him of his blindness,
And, being helped, inhabits there.

Then to Silvia let us sing,
        That Silvia is excelling;
She excels each mortal thing
        Upon the dull earth dwelling:
To her let us garlands bring.
                        --William Shakespeare
"Sylvia, the Catalyst"

Who is Sylvia? What is she,
        That all our hearts commend her?
Holy, fair, and wise is she!
        To say our poems mend her
And we admiréd of her be.
('Though none of us has met her.)

Is she kind and she is fair?
        For beauty lives with kindness.
Do spectacles her eyes repair,
        To help her with near-sighted-ness?
Or contact lenses her eyes inhabit?
(She reads our stuff, regardless.)

Although we know her not, we dare
       To hope she likes our verses.
We'll write, we'll post, we'll blog them here
       For Sylvia, best and worstest.

Then to Sylvia let us sing,
        It's Sylvia we're extolling;
She excels each mortal thing
        Upon the dull earth dwelling!
To her let us our poems bring
(But first, let's check our spelling.)
"Where is Sylvia?"

Who is Sylvia? Where is she 

        that all we poets seek her?
Mysterious, anonymous
        is our poetry peeker.
"A Love Poem for the Mysterious Sylvia"

You come
without memories,
no chains of hope
trailing behind
You are
All your unspoken words
are ripe
with promise
every stilled gesture, 
and meaningful glances
in your closed eyes.

Monday, January 20, 2014

High Wire

Balanced on a high-wire
My life far below
I make my way carefully
Toe to heel
Heel to toe

I watch where I'm going
I reap what I sew
I walk with my head up
Toe to heel
Heel to toe

I know I can do this
If I just move slow
Make every step matter
Toe to heel
Heel to toe

Looking up, you may see me
As I sway to and fro
Dancing on a high-wire
Toe to heel
Heel to toe

Tuesday, March 12, 2013

Poetry should be written the way adultery is committed: 
on the run, on the sly, during the time not accounted for. 
And then, you come home, as if nothing ever happened.  
          --Vera Pavlova, poet
          (Contributed by Lucretia)

Monday, March 11, 2013

What Little Girls Are Made Of

My hands are made of colored glass
and glue and lumps of clay.
My hair of fabric remnants
and white papier maché.

My feet are sawdust, sticks, and grass,
a splash of paint for toes.
My head is full of photographs
and poetry and prose.

My breasts are two maracas,
my tongue a treble clef.
My thighs are made of sourdough
shaped by a drunken chef.

So, dunk me in your water
and form me in your hand.
Whip me smooth like batter
or rough me up with sand.

Bake me in your oven
Shape me with a swirl.
But, remember when you break me
I’m just a little girl.

Sunday, March 10, 2013

Mountain Lion

Prompt: "What animal are you?"

I wouldn't mind being a mountain lion
beautifully grey-tawny

my scent so strong
it summons a mate
from another mountain.

Stretched on my high stone ledge
I survey the valley
watch for intruders
choose the object
of dinner to stalk.

Mostly alone
in the Spring, my cubs gambol around me
I play-snarl, roll them over
rough them against smooth rocks
looking forward to the day they'll leave me.

An eagle swoops overhead
I lift my furry face to the sun
press my eyes closed
against the heat
and purr.

When at long last the hunter
comes with his gun
I'll spring forward to meet him.