Category Archives: Poem

Mother’s Pocket, For RDP “Oasis”, Mar 30, 2025

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Mother’s Pocket

“Not your average peddler,” my mom was heard to say,
as she paid him for the prism that she promptly tucked away—
her pocket an oasis where my hand would go to play
when other things went wrong or on a sunless, rainy day.

In her pocket I found magic things—smooth stones that were magnetic.
Pulling them apart calmed hands otherwise frenetic.
Cherry-flavored Lifesavers and pretzels clothed in salt.
If they vanished from her pocket, it never seemed a fault.

Words written on grains of rice, hankies trimmed in lace
that I liked to hold against my lips and arms and face.
Tiny detached doll heads to put upon one’s fingers.
The memory of their spirited dialogues still lingers.

But that magic prism was the best of all her treasure.
Once I drew it from her pocket, I kept it for my pleasure.
Still it sits upon my shelf where it invites my gaze,
still transmitting mother’s light on sunless rainy days.

For RDP the prompt is Oasis

Goblins for RDP Saturday Prompt: Tiptoe, Mar 29, 2025

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Goblins

They steal into town to pillage and croon,
Invading on tiptoe, every third moon.
With fiery red hair and warts on their noses,
they cut all the tulips and pee on the roses.
Venting belches that reek of porter and scallions,
they chase all the ladies in randy battalions
and press scaly lips on unwilling misses
who scamper away to wipe off their kisses.
But still the next morning, their sickly taste lingers
on unlucky lips and unfortunate fingers
of girls who’ve attempted to purge these advances
that with lecherous hobgoblins pass for romances.
So all ye young maidens take heed of this warning.
Put off your wanderings until the morning!

For RDP Saturday Prompt: Tiptoe

Awesome, For SOCS

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Awesome

There was a time when awesome really meant ”inspiring awe”—
events like the moon landing that made one drop one’s jaw,
sights of numbing beauty or achievements of great skill,
art pieces by the masters or achievements of great will.

Yosemite is awesome and so is Everest.
Those climbing it are “awesome.” I admit they are the best.
But today the word has fallen into widespread use—
ubiquitous right to the point where it’s become abuse.

Rap music is awesome, as is that way-cool blouse.
You drive an awesome car and live inside an awesome house.
My neighbor’s beau is awesome. So are her dog and cat.
Her garden blooms are awesome, like her new purse and hat.

You might have guessed by now that awesome’s not my favorite word.
I think the overuse of it is frankly quite absurd.
This pizza is not awesome, though you may find me petty
for saying it is merely good, and so is the spaghetti.

Your child is lovely, so’s your dress, your silverware and smile.
But none of them are awesome—that word brings up my bile.
Please use some other word for it—some adjectival jaw full.
Because in my opinion, using awesome’s simply awwful!!

Not Awesome

Since the SOCS prompt is awe/aww! I believe it justifies running this poem by you one more time.

The Visitor for dVerse Poets “Personifying the Abstract,” Mar 26, 2025

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The Visitor
(In a Time of Covid)

My day is a guest who arrives too early,
starting the party without me to the insistent drumbeat
of a distant all-night party not yet over.
Its music sketches a portrait of my distant past:
wild nights, the sharp bite of tequila,
casual passion draped across my back.

Kukla the girl cat’s clever claws push me from my bed. 
Other than her insistent cries for desayuno,
this new day written across my life
comes with invisible directions. 
It smells like fresh-blooming plumeria
and tastes like Nescafé with Coffee-Mate and stevia.

It is too tame, this safe life with so many hand-washings
that they rise to my tongue and foam as I speak to myself in the mirror,
keeping six feet of distance even with myself
as I wait for the arrival and my capture
by this distant threat creeping ever closer.

“Sangre de Cristo,” mutters Jesus the water vendor,
taking his own name in both vein and vain as he
reminds me to keep my distance—
La señora, no matter how generous a tipper, now a threat.
I sweep his footsteps from the doorway,
set them on fire and gather their ashes for a poem.

The birds sing their way into my verses,
as does the snake that lies coiled in my kitchen sink.
I taste the language of all of them,
real life as surreal as any dream—
this world a wasp nest,
each of us sealed up in our individual cell.

Without a life, I write one for myself.
You are invited to join it here on my sanitary screen.
Make your rejoinders more clever than Alexa’s or Siri’s,
so I can dispense with the both of them.
Imagine me touching your words I cannot hear,
and make them less sharp than what you might be feeling.

A stream of family music from below
flows up the mountainside to pool in my ears.
I breathe the perfume of that family.
I savor its taste—tamarind, lime and salt,
the homeyness of bland tortillas—
and hope they are kept safe there.

For dVerse Poets. To read other poems written to this prompt, go HERE.

dVerse Poets Quadrille Challenge #220

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The Lady Doth Protest Too Much

That name engraved across my mind
is of the phantasmic kind.
The one who seems to have carved it there
is one for whom I do not care.
It is not grounded in truth or fact.
It seems my thoughts have just been hacked.

 

 

for dVerse Poets

To see other poems written to this prompt, go HERE.

For Sunday Whirl Wordle, Mar 23, 2025

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The King of Chaos. I was on my way to a local hotel/restaurant to read my Trump poem when I saw a woman selling this pinata beside the road. I braked, turned around and went to buy it. A man, seeing me buying it, stopped to buy one as well. “Does it have anything inside?” He asked. “No, you have to cut it open in back and fill it,” I answered. “What should we fill it with?” asked his female companion. “I’d suggest filling it with baloney,” I answered.

The King of Chaos. I was on my way to a local hotel/restaurant to read my Trump poem when I saw a woman selling this pinata beside the road. I braked, turned around and went to buy it. A man, seeing me buying it, stopped to buy one as well. “Does it have anything inside?” He asked. “No, you have to cut it open in back and fill it,” I answered. “What should we fill it with?” asked his female companion. “I’d suggest filling it with baloney.”

Depression

A chain of glimmering wishes gleams silver as I free
my mind from all its worries of what is or what may be,
but moment by sadder moment, my sorrow flames again,
whipped up from fading embers of a sadness that has been
lingering like a trance that I cannot escape.
Faint shadows of those horrors that assume a larger shape.
I dip into my past to restore wild memories
that I naively hope will bring  depression to its knees.
But they do too little to trim away the fears
That hover all around me, holding pleasure in arrears.

The word prompts for today’s Sunday Whirl are: sorrow dip  chain wild silver free trance glimmer faint trim

(If you can think of a better title for this poem, please suggest it. Company arrived just as I was finishing it and gotta get posted.

Overdone Quinceañera for dVerse Poets, Mar 21, 2025

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ddvers

Overdone Quinceañera

She’s framed in a portrait that’s slightly off-center
wearing a fur stole her sister has lent her.
Her chin on her hand, jewels on finger and wrist,
she’s trying to hide that she’s never been kissed.
Just a teenager, she’s longing for glory,
trying to add romance to her story.
Though she looks mature, she is new to the scene.
Time enough for such glamour when she is sixteen!

 

 

An Ekphrastic poem for dVerse Poets  Open Link

“Simple” for RDP Wednesday, Mar 19, 2025

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img_1774
Trying to keep it simple is harder than you think.
Each time I straighten out my life, fate adds another kink.

Out There

Out There

Back when you were innocent—back when you played the clown,
before your mind was jaded by seeking wide renown,
back before the pomp, the glory and the plaudits,
back before the news reports, the surveys and the audits,
back there when a diary preceded post and tweet,
there were words of innocence, secretive and sweet.

Back when every aspect of life was not for show,
back when information tended to move slow,
was there more than one hushed aspect of your life,
secrets not used against you, as lethal as a knife?
Everything’s now out there in selfies and YouTubes—
your angsts and loves and conquests, not to mention boobs.

What is left to grow inside, to flourish and to bloom?
What secrets left confined to the safety of your room?
Everything’s out spinning in the cruel world.
No way to get it back again, no secret ever curled
safely under the covers of a private book
where even your best friend has never had a look.

Do they still make diaries that aren’t electronic
where words languish on pages, quiet and laconic?
Where little girls confide their thoughts to a much-smudged page,
all their secret passions, their hurts and hopes and rage?
“Dear Diary” the sweetest confidant of all?
One that will never tell on you. One always there on call.

What will happen in a world where everything’s on view
forever to be classified, forever part of you?
Never will we ever leave our pasts behind.
Everything is indexed, simple enough to find.
Your sons and your daughters will peek into your past.
Google yourself now. Won’t they just have a blast?

I just stumbled upon my old diary from age eleven through thirteen yesterday. What a revelation. Facts garnered: I had someone sleep over at least three times a week, lots of relatives passed through one summer, my best friend went home mad a lot, I called lunch dinner and did the dishes every day, woke up late whenever I could and never revealed the names of secret crushes, even in my diary. I had a “dreamy” boy-girl party the year I turned 13 (a feat never repeated, at least among my friends) and danced with every boy except J (yuck.) Mr. G didn’t like me anymore (perhaps) and we seemed to take a lot of trips down to the Frosty Freeze at night––probably because other kids did the same and we had no other place to gather. Nothing, however, to preclude my running for public office and all easily burned if there were. And that simple event and the thoughts thereafter led to this poem.

The RDP Wednesday Prompt is Simple.

Roll of the Dice for Sunday Whirl 698 Wordle

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Roll of the Dice

If you need to find those parts of you
particled off by life,
those strings of you that have spun off
in times  of  loss and strife,
address the world with that new you
and let it hear your voice.
A dirge becomes a rousing reel
depending on the voice
that chooses how to read the dice,
reflecting gain or loss
by their interpretation
of the numbers that they toss.

 

For the Sunday Whirl 698 Wordle Prompt the words are:
time hear lose world off string life particles reel need find

“Performance Anxiety” for SOCS Mar 14, 2025

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Performance Anxiety: Nightmare

Bassoons are idly chuckling in the orchestra,
and in the aisle, popcorn crackles underfoot
as the last audience member hurries to find her seat.

I stand center stage
wondering what play this is
and how I came to be standing here.

The curtain opens.
I am naked.
And I have not even seen my lines!

For SOCs the prompt is “Crackle.”