A Jealous Math

The floor is a guess,

is clear like water.

It is raining June in my hair.

My clothes are brimming with butterflies.


I am a sour after note to their beauty.

I was born to rise

to shatter sky.


Instead a jealous math

embalming me



Fills me with mud.

The Poet’s Way

Lately I feel vague, uneasy stirrings inside me of unrealized inspiration. I have not written fresh poetry in weeks. I am going through a dry spell, which is not abnormal but still disconcerting. Writing is usually one of the constants in my life, and this prolonged period of creative silence is disturbing. A writer is someone who writes. I identify as a writer but have not been writing. Something doesn’t add up.

Part of the problem is that I need more poetry to read. Reading stimulates creativity and imagination. To that end I am going to find two or three new poetry books online and order them this week. I have to look online because so much of what they have in the bookstore I have either already read or it is much more mainstream than my taste. There are pretty slim pickings for poetry in most bookstores, at least the book stores around me.

I need to start using Goodreads to help me hunt down good books, too.

If I really want some inspiration, I need to take more of my current poetry and run it through Google translate in Xhosa and Afrikaans. That is an ongoing project of mine, to translate my poems into these two languages and back again to English and then edit and revise my results. I can get some really fascinating results from doing this and I love to play with language. It was inspired by a South African pen pal.

Sometimes I get flashes of imagery in my head or bits of phrases I want to use, but nothing cohesive has come together. Poetry is never far from my thoughts, but I just haven’t given birth to any healthy lines.

Sometimes a little bit of creative silence can be a good thing. It gives you a chance to collect your thoughts, process the world, and provides you time to live life so that you actually have something to say. Writing is an act of communication and rare is the person who truly has something to say 24 hours a day. Sometimes I come away from creative dry spells completely re-energized and ready to tackle lots of interesting imagery and conflicting ideas. Letting my writing brain sleep allows it to awaken refreshed. But this dry spell has gone on too long and I need a sort of bootcamp to get my creative muscles taut and toned again.

To that end I need some sort of discipline and something to ignite my mind. What I will do:

Read read read

Look at images for inspiration

Try handwriting some poems to end this block.

Reread Twyla Tharpe’s book on creativity.

Read The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron and see if I can pick up anything useful.

Continue to work on waking up earlier so I have more time to write.

Talk to other writers about maybe having a support group.

Use my Mastery app to log time writing poetry.

Be willing to write work that isn’t my best just to get something down on the page. Great artists/writers, like great athletes, need to practice.

In Italics

I have been mistreated by myself in italics.

I was mistreated in italics.

I was in italics when I was mistreated.

I have threatened myself

And been threatened by people who loved me

with knives for hands.

I cut everything.

Life is a hallway.

God this hallway is a mess,

my clothes strewn everywhere.


Church of memoir

of discovery

of chants.

Cloistered in my name are ten lives

I did not live

in favor of a sublime 11th.

What is better than best?

What can joy can be discarded for ecstasy?

The taste of salt lines my mouth

when I look back.



translated to Xhosa, Afrikaans, and back

Church of Love


I find joy

while I lay cloistered in my ten lives.

Auroras swirl beyond my reach.

They will not live.

There is a reason I am so inordinately fond of 11.

What is better than a lot?


Why have I ignored peace?


It tasted of salt in my mouth.

Power lines guiding me back home.



Church of Love

Separate the gaiety from the joy.

Lonely in my ten lives,

they live,

it is as though they live without me.

How do I dispose of gaiety?

Of me?


Fuzzy snowmen smell like turpentine.

Why all this wistful wind,

this heavy quiet,

these creative snowmen dancing in slow motion

to no music?

Not inaudible music,

or even illegible sound,

but nothing at all-

Machines with no factory.

This snow  covers a ghost city.

The children scattered and died.

Yes, I am freezing.

Would you like to dance?


A salivating sun

licks a sailboat lost from harbor.

What do I know about submission?

All steel and no magnolia.

Eloquence runs from me.

From my rib you can take a war.

What nation can be fed by my falling eyelashes

that this fluid angel warps around my form?

God Like a Spider

The devil is in the trees feeding off

birds and butterflies,

his grim business shattering in silver teeth.


God is in the trees spinning webs

Soft, silky, and verdant like a blanket of grass.


Spiders fear him.


He longs to draw me to Him,

to slip his gentle fangs in my hurt and anesthetize me,

suck out my misery and take it into Him

bleeding for me.


I am paralyzed

by her black black sewing

stitching me carefully in a case of

artificial sunlight and sodium.

Needles pierce me.

I used to fly.

I used to breathe.

Now I am hollow

and my blood flows somewhere else,

in a distant desert with babies

floating down my ruby stream in baskets.

See how butterflies here bring Dawn,

a wondrously big woman with her hands on her hips?

A Thorough Education

Welcome to the Life Center,

with sparkly resources to help you warm winter.

Are you a cartwheel?

A suspicious glance?

A still wind?

We can help you get back to work.

We offer many courses:

Earth Spinning

Bone Knitting

Light Painting –

and certifications in

Prebirth Fantasy,

Pain Sculpture

Freeway Fashion.

Visit us today in the Building of Roses,

at the corner of Air and Fire.