"Trees are poems the earth writes upon the sky,
We fell them down and turn them into paper,
That we may record our emptiness."
Khalil Gibran

Sunday, August 20, 2017


Brown Hooded Kingfisher

Some days, the best I can hope for is a simple brew
sipped from a rose-patterned cup
in a sunny kitchen
with a dog panting nearby
fresh from rolling on the grass
dusty but sweet-smelling
and the flash of a kingfisher through the window
one that perched long enough for me to tell him,
“Oh, you beauty” before he flew away.


For Micro Poetry - Uncomplicated Things in the Imaginary Garden.

Saturday, August 12, 2017

You -

There are no good-byes for my dog who has died,
and we don't now and never did lie to each other.
Pablo Neruda

2010 ~ 2017

They gave me your ashes
and I did not understand how this could be
when I had seen your shadow in the morning –
it was you –
you followed me from my room
you, who was always more darkness than light
snipped from the ink of night
but always so warm to the touch –
and now, I recall, that this morning I put out my hand
but you slipped through my fingers and were gone.
The ashes were heavier than I expected
and whatever they are, they are not you.


Izy Gruye encourages us to Write Unseen in The Imaginary Garden this week.