How the Sun

How did I make it
stalwart and clear
through a five night
hospital stay, through
a burst and a fever,
a night-watch brigade
and circle of steaming
doubt. How did I sail
one full moon to the next,
one full sink of dirty
dishes to the next. How
did I plant the seeds
on time and water the annuals
so the leaves wouldn’t fail
the spring. How did the same
sun that ripens sweet peas,
tulips, and zucchinis,
melts M&Ms to the car seat
and makes my front porch bake,
place a small, warm kiss
on my cheek as if it were sentient
and knew need. How is it
that just then I could
not stop crying. One morning
in April when all was clearly
so much better than good enough.

Granted, this is more like a journal entry than a poem, but I’ve included it in April’s collection of attempts at poetry because there is some core here I may want to revise later. Thank you for reading.

Old Wives’ Tale

It is raining on Boat Street.
The tempo leaves a soft grey residue
around thoughts I’d rather have.

A quiet angel has landed
on the shingled roof of my storage shed.
We share the same view: crab grass
splurging triumphantly, baby slugs
like tiny bruises between raindrops.

Running a trowel through stringy roots
I catch myself clenching my teeth
looking for buried dish towels,
unearthing things I have yet to dismiss.

sacred aside

Daffodils seem careless
clustered alongside
gravel strewn tracks
where the only other green
is a pile of broken glass
half buried in coals.


heartwood stands, hard
unwrung, inner wisdom
of a fortress undone.

a child’s flannel nighshirt
billows close to the hearth, and two-
handed warriors grit teeth hard won.

someone’s small house
on the outskirts of town, burns
with desire and gusts overblown
to smell the green forest
before it is down.


In the mocking blue ice cave under her skin
she forages for dry white sticks. Fingers
of a flame gone blind, she counts

thirty-nine tics on the greyleaf willow.
Her belly is dropping. This is her child’s
asclepieia. Sutures dissolve.

She does not blame greed
for a fuming and finite earth. Buried
alive, dusty bulbs find their way.
Deepest roots drink from a dying sun.


In the Open

A silver tip tetra sky
spits out clouds like smoke.

Night phantoms dissolve. Suspended
droplets glaze the red-leafed maple branch
catching back their light. Raptors perch here,
meadow frogs croak. I can not hear

you anymore. The landscape is awake,
and its vapor has loosened your hold.

some sense of peace

starless sands, hands
at your sides.

your face
flame center blue
thin as day.

your silent nod
a feather
for my pocket.

PRISM international

Contemporary writing from Canada and around the world


Poets love to cry


aflutter with poise

Oran's Well

Voyages down under

The Hip Grandmother

There's a hip grandparent in all of us!

The Boynton Blog

community creativity from Whatcom County, Washington...and beyond

The Mockingbird Sings

poems and prose by Mark Kerstetter


"We're all out there, somewhere, waiting to happen."

The Furious Gazelle

Literary as hell.

Sunflower Poetry

Just another site


an international collective fostering peace, proximity and healing through our love of the arts and humanities

Racing Through My Life

My Race Reports

Gotta Find a Home

The plight of the homeless

body divine yoga

unlock your kundalini power, ignite your third eye, awaken your inner oracle


Environmental News, Commentary, Advice

turtle memoirs

say you had to give up the story of your life so far - would you do it?

Joyous Woman! with Sukhvinder Sircar

Leadership of the Divine Feminine

Pandamoniumcat's Blog

Artist and writer -


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 158 other followers