Give One’s Tongue to the Cat (2020 NaPoWriMo #22)

The French much have told me to give my tongue to the cat, this prompt was so hard.

But I have long teeth. No hair in my hand. I do things with all ten of my fingers.

I’ll cut the great in two before I start running circles in the semolina.

It’s all Greek (or French) to me anyway. Before I have one foot in the grave, or smell of fir, I’d better bow out of this race.

Maybe I have, after all, given my tongue to the cat.

Glutes, Worms, Earwigs (2020 NaPoWriMo #21)

Dying, grossly, the sun is very spright
the bending sumer lights in the fibers,
and since hays weight on my glutes.
Jack saved with: “A mocha libation…”
And wider Dan: “A bin of mud….”

Die bushes beaten in litany,
Glutes, worms, change–die king loser,
Dir with an earwig lights my hiney;
and a Klondike wise rose
tracked a rottweiler hailing a shine.

my apologies to the original, and clearly lovely, Rilke
Sommerabend

Die große Sonne ist versprüht,
der Sommerabend liegt im Fieber,
und seine heiße Wange glüht.
Jach seufzt er auf: “Ich möchte lieber …”
Und wieder dann: “Ich bin so müd …”

Die Büsche beten Litanein,
Glühwürmchen hangt, das regungslose,
dort wie ein ewiges Licht hinein;
und eine kleine weiße Rose
trägt einen roten Heiligenschein.

 

 

Anne with an E (2020 NaPoWriMo #20)


My friend entangles love,
stitch by rapid stitch,
colors carefully chosen,
fibre a soft embrace.

Mere days after he left,
she hugged me,
imparting her empathy and
strength.

Years later, she wove
Hope in tiny beads,
In anticipation of
human forever.

Quarantine Archive (2020 NaPoWriMo #19)

Matilda Snow Fun

My “walking archive” specimen tray held time.
Held fragility.
Held change.
Held life.

In the moments after I scooped
snow, it
became slush,
became water.

If I wait long enough the tray
will dry leaving a
ring of sediment:
ghostly evidence.

All I want is to hold
snow that
remains snow:
freeze time.