Thursday, September 16, 2021

The Luna Moth Dress


"...Every Morn and every Night
Some are Born to sweet delight.
Some are Born to sweet delight
Some are Born to endless Night..."
~ Augeries of Innocence, William Blake 

 The Luna Moth Dress

In my apple green dress
with my faceted eyes
black as the breeze
from hell's back door
I flutter around
where the blue shadows play,
where my velvet arms
drop the face of the light
deep in a focus
on one bright flame,
no last sweet sip
of the moonflower's wine.

My cheap insect mask
frightens the child.
Dogs bark as I walk
on the edges of bricks
but in my luna moth dress
soft eyebrows all feathers,
I know I'll soon fly on
the breath floating the sky,
welcome at last
in the green wood of life
one with the Fae, one
with the lark, a thing with 
a place, a peace, a time,
a laugh
full of giving past
the slow dance of moon,
free from this exile
in endless Night.
September 2021

posted for Open Link Night
at dVerse Poets 
Note: Luna moths (Actias luna) live 7-10 days and are nocturnal. Adults have no functional mouthparts and live on energy stored as caterpillars.  

Images: Luna-moth © sunelixir   All Rights Reserved   Fair Use
Luna Moth © Jessica Mahan   All Rights Reserved    Fair Use

Saturday, September 11, 2021

Blue Flame


 Blue Flame

I was the woman who
loved you hotter than a sun
hard as a granite gravestone
but time has chosen to
braid me differently, tying years
into grey knots

behind which the crimson
of memory
coagulates and fails
making it seem as if there
is not, never was,
love as stubborn as a pebble in a shoe
piercing every step.

A parody of a woman
rolled in a circus tent, lurches like
a wheelbarrow when she walks,
from the pebble, from the weakness, from the void.
Her flesh sags like a
campfire marshmallow melting
on the stick.

Yet in the mirror gateway
my eyes avoid, sometimes a flash;
the high snow-swept cheekbones of that girl,
the sunburnt hair longer than winter,
the bell glass body moon-rounded, glowing
a blue flame within, feeling
your touch so
fluent in flourishes of stars;
 love as sharp as thirst
September 2021 

posted for
Images via internet, authors unknown    Fair Use

Sunday, September 5, 2021

Dream Trip


 Dream Trip
 After a pipe dream courtship
he married disaster. Six months gone
he woke up to
a quick divorce. He untangled himself
on the road to Vegas, where lies went down

like a cup of strong coffee
fast and black in the tarry night,
lounge tunes bleeding in air 
sharp as snake-eyed desert light, hope
another bad debt to be written off.

The wind's hand shook
like a drunk croupier, fumbling out
aces and eights
before the martinis, sanding the gas tank,
whistling at graves. The car gave out

before he made Tahoe, when
nothing was left but Jack and shit
and Jack left town. Stars sarcastically
 winked when he put his head down
slack on the wheel and slept

dreaming of her, dreaming of then,
dreaming a toffee-striped lizard
and a stand-up owl
laughing their asses off
at punter's luck.


September 2021

posted for
Images: Abandoned Car, author unknown, Fair Use
Lizard © Chernee Sutton-Jurutu  Fair Use

Friday, August 27, 2021






I played in the field of the minotaur's horn.
The rose trees stretched for twenty miles.
His black eye blinked
my slow heart's beat. I danced all day where
the elephant's hip burned blue in the shade,
where I glimpsed the escape the animals made
before the age had been born.
The green grey moor 
was soft as a sponge 
on my cheeks where tears
disappeared in the mist.
I wondered if we'd ever kissed
in the halls behind the labyrinth's door
where the beasts blew their breath on the shadow play.
I saw them come at the end of the day
with all to give and nothing to say. 

Their souls each put in a hazelnut
that sank in ripples of earth's wet heart
covered in time from fire and flood,
from our hands that pull the world apart,
that turn his field from grass to chalk
where roses blow for twenty miles
and the animals at last
have begun to talk.

August 2021




posted for earthweal's













Images: Minotaur Caressing A Sleeping Woman, 1933, © Pablo Picasso  Fair Use
Swans Reflecting Elephants, 1937 © Salvador Dali  Fair Use

Saturday, August 21, 2021



Fill my glass
and let it be. The night 
moves over the unsodded graves
unquiet between
the roadhouse and road,
seventeen mounds
to home seven sins,
my vanities' bones,
my castaway loves, my old
car-killed cats.
Fill my glass
and let it come
at the end of the sky
when the broad brass sun
sets aslant on black apples
wind threw to ground, on
the last summer moths fluttering down,
warming them ripe for the locust's hall
with autumn's endings
packing the rows.
Fill my glass;
half empty is full. Let it be
as I drowse on the lawn,
sweet shattered moths and
brown thrushes for company, my
sore eyes wrapped with
a bandage of stars, peace
spilling into the void
where understanding
has flown.


August 2021

 posted for












Images: Apples, Jug, Irridescent Glass, © Paul Gauguin  Public Domain Manipulated.
Night Hill  © Andrea Kowch All Rights Reserved   Fair Use
Photograph of cat and wineglass from Sunday Muse, artist unknown. Fair Use


Thursday, August 19, 2021

Blue Drown

Blue Drown
I've been too long
in the blue drown
to feel again now
too long under
the mirrorglass glowmoon
that tides me apart
to answer your voice
too many waves
with their concrete hands
on my throat
their sucking salt drench
in my eyes and mouth
to ask who's to blame.
There's no pain left
on this sand 
swirled trashed beach
where I've come to meet
the last falling star,
the hungry crabs.
July 2021 

 posted for Open Link Night at
Images: Looking For Crabs Among The Rocks, 1905 © Joaquin Sorolla  Public Domain
Two Crabs, 1889  © Vincent Van Gogh       Public Domain
I have manipulated both images.

Saturday, August 14, 2021

The Accordion Man


 The Accordion Man

He stands in my head
where the music once lived
like a tongue in a bell
when the ringer is dead,
corroding a little bit more every day.

He came down from the crossroads
with a small spotted dog.
He plays in my ear
til my dreams turn to fog.
The dog wags its tail and then runs away.

His shoes are like blimps.
His face is like claws;
his hands push the buttons
that work the bonesaws,
to slice out a song no one wants him to play.

He won't ever go.
I know that by now.
He plays in my head
and it chirps like a crow
his accordion clatter of skulls on a tray.

He chants all my names. He adds seventy to nine;
but the worst is
his eyes
are sadder than mine.
I could watch them all day.

~August 2021

posted for Fireblossom
Image © Guido Vedovato   Fair Use

Saturday, July 24, 2021

Lightning Tree


 Lightning Tree

When I was a child
pewterblue eyes round
as green walnuts, yellow pigtails
pulled tight in shredded rubber bands
I breathed up a world where I
lived in the storm, thunderheads panting like
mastiffs, tongues lolled over the lake, wind

secret as the monster under the bed
smiling, lightning fairy-dancing
into a forest 
of wild branches;
I didn't blink for the peace of it
covering the screaming, the blows,
cleaning my face
of a toy's tears. 
I breathed it in, petrichor
and the smell of power,
a brew of walking cobwebs
that piggy-backed me away,
a broken-eyed Dorothy doll
searching for Oz.
When I asked you to
kiss me like rain, you took me
up high on the lightning tree.
You had a web there, gunmetal strong
and sticky with grief. On the 
edge of those sudden wires,
one foot already caught
you don't even know you're dead.
When you fight
to run with one eye blind, 
and feel the tremble
coming closer
you learn everything
you lost
you never had
 and that you 
can never trust
a storm.

~July 2021


 posted for Fireblossom
 Note: Comment moderation has been turned on. Apologies for the inconvenience.
 Images: Lightning in West Texas © Ryan Smith Photography   Fair Use
Broken doll, via Sunday Muse   Fair Use

Saturday, June 19, 2021

Driving With The Incubus





Driving With The Incubus
(Incubus VIX) 
When I first saw you, neither man
nor woman, flesh nor fowl,
you'd brought round the car; a wisp
of sulfur fog hung from the grill.
It snaked up your shoe to your 
black and white smile
neither corrupt nor immaculate,
misting my face like tomorrow's shadow.
You held the sedan door wide;
I might have walked away but I was young,
and you were the best chauffeur
the devil could find, with
that changeling's face, the hellpit's flare,
black peacock eyes and velvet hands
for the gears. You put them
over my fog-wet lashes;
 through the holes
in your skin I saw pinpoint stars
as you smoothed the rucked sheets
of my cheek to finger 
the bed of skull so soon to be yours.
It was a black car without a brake
made to run the asphalt years

when the heart 
was a cindered highway,
each crossroads a Celtic knot
the devil my driver
til we stood at journey's end,
neither man nor woman
nor flesh most foul,
incorruptible corruption
tipping at the edge of the wailing abyss
where all I can see
are waning stars,
sulfur skin steaming fog, your

sharp teeth scarlet through
a feral smile.

June 2021

Posted for Fireblossom, at

Process Note: I've written many poems for the incubus over the years. He's always changing his face. You can find them by searching the blog or by clicking on the label "incubus" below.
Images: top via the Sunday Muse Fair Use
Bottom Untitled, © Zdislaw Beksinksi  Fair Use

Saturday, June 12, 2021



I am the witch of dying things
of things that cling
to a life that's passed,
custodian of the broken-wing
who shakes in the bush
and tries to sing.

I soothe the stings
of the white-nosed pup,
his few days left like clay that clings
to the potter's hands when the pot is thrown,
wagging his tail, eyes growing dim
unsure on his feet, afraid of alone.

I was the watcher 
as life leaked away, you
winding off slow as a traveling snake
loose in the snow, slipping into the maw,
dead at first frost like a turnip top,
grey dust on a root both bitter and raw.

There's none left to be
my watcher, my witch, 
to soothe the sting 
when they see me there
remembering the sun, pretending to live,
old knots of love caught in winter's hair.
I am the witch of dying things
learning their ways
while midnight sings.

June 2021

Posted for 
Image via Sunday Muse, Fair Use

Saturday, May 15, 2021

Sun Kiss


Sun Kiss


The sun was on me
that day. 
It came
through the bars
selfless as my
grandmother's kiss;
 clover mead light,
sweet on the lips
of winter's dead dream.

I turned my back
on the itching of buses.
I forgot 
the black lilies
spearing frozen worlds, 
nova'd stars.
Promises overflowed
the bottles of my eyes.
For a moment
I even tasted
the blackberry vintage
of you
decanted before me,
then dust
once again.

May 2021

posted for  Fireblossom

Images: Photo, artist unknown Fair Use
Olive Trees with Yellow Sky and Sun, 1889, © Vincent Van Gogh  Fair Use