Burning it Down

Just like that, my high hopes went up in smoke. Along with my trust.

I had never suspected that someone within my faith would be the one to introduce me to the consuming fires of betrayal.

Keep Reading and join me there!


I am stuff’d with the stuff that is coarse and stuff’d with the stuff that is fine 

and I’m looking for you ahead of me, searching for bootprints in the grass–

you will wait for me, paternal and maternal and full of hope
that generations will not return void the legacy you bequeathed.


I lift my eyes to the brightening dawn and pull my soul awake
meet the warmth of day and walk into the open green.


I take hold of who I am–a woman of many nations,the smallest the same and the largest the same.


I am new every morning
and never change a thing.


I sing myself to the world and the world listens.
I am full of innocence and grace and find beauty in the slow moving snail
that makes its way across my step.
He journeys alone and free.


I sound the bell and wait for the echo to return.
My freedom is in the air, the wind, the song
that finds its way back to me,
as I follow you.


Leaves of Grass (Walt Whitman)

I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise,
Regardless of others, ever regardful of others,
Maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man,
Stuff’d with the stuff that is coarse and stuff’d with the stuff that is fine
#SingPoWriMo2015Day07 #SingPoWriMoDay07#Prompt1: Woo your favourite poet with a poem.

The Economy of Poetry

im starting to feel like cummings!
with ran(dom) . & ,
taking up space in these lines

The $ of poetry
(^also known as the economy* of poetry)
is the stuff of word accountants
who tally up #s and %es
and formul8 !something! like this
and call it art.

*not a universally recognized economic system

by jb white

based on this prompt:

write a poem including the following symbols:
! $ &* ( ) . ,
bonus– include @ # % ^ < /

Caught in the Late Evening Light

Caught in the late evening light that fell like a blanket

onto the gray stained  floor,

an ordinary man sat down

in an ordinary place,

and he had no intention of taking the stairs down

where the light was too short to spread.

“My feet will be cold down there” he thought.

“I prefer the sun” El Sol. Luz Suave.

So this ordinary man sat down.

And eventually, he decided to lie down,

stare at the ceiling, and watch the evening light change,

watch the white wall turn soft shades of persimmon

and papaya. “I’ll grab this light,” he said,

“and remember this moment”

when all the forces of time and place

came together and offered him a little bit of sunshine.

‪#‎SingPoWriMo2015Day02‬ | ‪#‎SingPoWriMoDay02‬

singpowrimo image

Today or Fifty Years From Now

Today or Fifty Years From Now

In Louisiana, no matter what the year,

the Cajuns dance on the graves

and the swamp comes alive.

A dance they feel in their bones

’cause the rise and squeeze of the accordion

sends a shot of love through their limbs

and they just can’t help but dance.

There is no queue, no line, but a snaking flood

of sometimes shallow water  that carries the song and dance

and lifts it up, so high the fireflies and mosquitos stop–

arrested by the undying sound

of life-giving music.

SingPoWriMo: A Facebook Group

CHALLENGE: I will write 1 poem a day from 1 apr 2015 to 30 apr 2015.

– post a poem every day. you can follow the lovely prompts provided daily by mods, or you can just write whatever.