Category Archives: storm


a single storm raged

on a planet far from here

for a year! engaged?




why are we so ‘engaged’ in ‘news’ ?

in things far from our everyday lives

in things we have no control over or effect on

gossip, speculation and fear are a virus


where focus goes, energy flows

we choose


the information contained in the haiku is a fact . look it up on the net….


wear the yellow wellies

NaPoWriMo 2021 Button with black background

pray for rain, for darkest sun

say the word storm til it hums, honey

in the base of your tummy

hurry-flurry from home

wear the yellow wellies, silly

the spotted overalls, the lightning gnomes

everyone forgets to

. . . . .

pack only a ring of bells

one ( or two ) cracks of shells

a smack of berg-a-mots and cloves

three ( or four ) knocks and shoves

for good luck

smatter in some syllables

shuck some pebble-marbles

for kicks and giggles


. . . . .

leave them out on the porch

bring a torch

go insid

where you hid

as a kid

flash-splash beam-scream mutter-whisper

call to all your jammy jars of sea foam whiskers


you kept for later


cock your ear

the path is clear

corkscrew your self to where you are young

find the poem – ( fully-fledged )

bouncing on your tongue – right at the edge

left right where you left it

catch its skin in your pearly teeth

like light from the storm beneath

bubble up, laughing

in your teacup, paddling


not a haiku



NaPoWriMo day 4: write a poem . . . in the form of a poetry prompt. If that sounds silly, well, maybe it is! But it’s not without precedent. The poet Mathias Svalina has been writing surrealist prompt-poems for quite a while, posting them to Instagram. You can find examples here, and here, and here.

Hung outside in, Kitchen

NaPoWriMo day 5


Hammered! Into copper-tongued clarity nothing

______matters, does it? Stuffed! Into cotton mouth

answers bluest call, shatters juices more from apple cored.

_____I wince. Panting quietly, my idiotic grin incised.

I can’t remember a taste as metallic as this

_____wishbone ( aptly gnawed) between teeth and trees and faith, passing

flowers have some honey, so does sun, and

_____isn’t that enough? Listen! This is just what

the bees whisper to breezy Spring’s

_____hips, thighs drunk, heavy, rippling, fizzing on

estrogenic tides. Sniffles caught on hazel twigs, drained and skinned.

_____Sorry! I lift my head and toes from this mess, taking intricate

steps. I lift kettle and cauldron down

_____gently, without much clack, fire quietly electricity, lightning cracks,

dying for some scalding liquid sympathy. Sun comes in

____at my waist, pouring pats on porcelain vase on table centre

My mind wanders out the window and teacup

_____strikes formica, gruffly asks a spoon to dance.

When has a morning been dressed as flayed as

_____this? Smashed passion for mama’s cooking, damp dents

in pillows, twisted patterned sheets…….dissipates……

_____The storm inside abates, beaten in syrupy circles

washed out in sea flakes and oat cakes

____a string of fresh laundry strung outside.


not a haiku

April 5, 2021


This prompt challenges you to find a poem, and then write a new poem that has the shape of the original, and in which every line starts with the first letter of the corresponding line in the original poem. If I used Roethke’s poem as my model, for example, the first line would start with “I,” the second line with “W,” and the third line with “A.” And I would try to make all my lines neither super-short nor overlong, but have about ten syllables. I would also have my poem take the form of four, seven-line stanzas. I have found this prompt particularly inspiring when I use a base poem that mixes long and short lines, or stanzas of different lengths. Any poem will do as a jumping-off point, but if you’re having trouble finding one, perhaps you might consider Mary Szybist’s “We Think We Do Not Have Medieval Eyes” or for something shorter, Natalie Shapero’s “Pennsylvania.”


Here is the poem that chose me…

Here Are Some Thorns, Splinters, Fishbones


Home for a pan-fried mackerel dinner, 

           my mother watches my chopsticks stumble

around the 가시. Full after a few bites,

           I remember a story. When I was a baby 

I choked on a fishbone at my grandparents’ house. My dad 

           wasn’t there. They yelled at my mother 

for not inspecting each flaky bit of fish I put 

           in my clumsy mouth, not teaching me 

the maneuvering of spiky slivers with my tongue, 

           how to place the needles next to my plate, 

extract white meat clean. Ever since, she peels and holds 

           skeletons above our meal—fossils before me.

Still, I am bad at pulling bone from fish, cutting

           skin from pears, which means I’ll never 

get married. But what about the nights where my mouth 

           drips with SunGold kiwi, looking over 

at my love, my lips smacking unabashedly.

           Me cupping the furry layer in my palm, and you 

standing over the sink eating it whole. 

           What would our mothers say? We laugh while I tell you

the story of how once, a splinter burrowed 

           into the meat of my thumb, and I kept it there for weeks.

Told my parents the splinter came out on its own

           while I hoped my body would absorb the slender spear

and disappear the 가시 painlessly.