Beyond The Limits

From the top of the stairs, look for the cats
below the round marble-topped table, sleek
haughty, dismissing us for lead-paned glass
and the sun’s slanted golden reach you seek

in fabulous dreams of different worlds
time elongates and we drowse-imagine
relaxed and filled with satisfaction, whirled
into a love connection we begin

on such a slow August afternoon like
a portent of fall–choose now and choose love!
Imagine, create, through all boundaries
flow.  Slipping through time, gain the stars above.

That’s version one, written quickly.  On dversepoets today, we are asked to take our poem through the Bök Checklist and question each noun, verb, adverb and adjective, looking for the uncanny.  You can head over to the prompt and try it!

After the revising, the title changed as well as other surprises…here’s version 2.

We Fall Slow

From the top of the stairs, consider cats
below the marble-topped round table, sleek
disdain for us peering through lead-paned glass
and the sun’s slanted golden reach you seek

in fabulous realms and alternate times.
Relaxed and filled with satisfaction, we
drowse-imagine, this dog and I sublime
rainbow-splattered tiles and carved Siamese.

Into this love connection we fall, slow
late August afternoon til September
rushes in.  Through faux boundaries we flow
choosing precisely now we remember.

So this is love

Invisible footprints sizzle.
Intentions magnetize a trace
of you impalpable and pure
magic. Charmed I slow
my pace. Disarmed
and vulnerable at last.
Spring tendrils
curling past
my now implacable uprising
beyond my senses
gentle surprising real
love-song crystals
spilling into sacred space.

Inspired by the dversepoet prompt 100: a quadrille (44 words) celebrating magic and love and spring.  And the power of shifting the narrative.

Featured image credit.

Here Is My Song

Hey blue, there is a song for you, ink on a pen, underneath the skin, an empty space to fill in.~Joni Mitchell

The simplicity of my matinal rites
by the lake and skyful of blue

available to anyone here–trembling
poplars, this downy woodpecker

rattling, a pair of cautious dusky
ducks. The praying mantis looks

over her shoulder with large bulbous
eyes. Three ruby throats of humming-

birds dive and chirrup. My pen glides
in the cursive flow of thoughts

informed by space. Three-year-old twins
on the opposite shore squeal

helmeted and wheeling. The wildlife
flees. Traffic thrums. The shadow

of wings fast across the grass.
By starts and fits I edge into

emotional depths of this shimmering
moment, cloudless blue embrace

bright water quivering in pure
essence goosebumps and chicken skin.

My brother is driving to see his new
granddaughter; my friend is home

from the hospital, these texts
like prayers infusing my heart

beyond the stories this intense
invitation open the multilayered

being green and blue planet
spinning incomprehensibly

welling up, pouring through
the way beneath my dancing feet.

Inspired by:  Simplicity, Matinal, EmotionalAnyone and blue, the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt today (sit and write about the first blue object you see today.) (As always, my really-wanna-edit brain gets a firm no!)  Also a dverse poet prompt to write in descriptive detail.  And Joni Mitchell’s song Blue.


Postcard From The Edge

Forgive me?  And please! Ignore this photographer’s claims that I flirted with Jupiter. We all slide out of time, pulled by deep longing to connect in space. When we parted, Dearest, I felt my heart plunge into ice! I spun insensible, concussed. Aeons I believe now that I dreamt. I was the moon, of course, when I awakened. Bereft, devoted. 

Darling, feel me pull the tides of all your watery beings, vulnerable in the dark to my seeding? Do you hear my fractal separation song? Truelove, I yearn for your embrace, reaching through what’s left to integrate. 

Listen, Beloved, a new plan is stirring. We’ve all agreed to slip away—soon, pack your bags! 

Will you follow the sun in his—our astral ascensions, as our solar system explodes in joy? 

I’ll watch what’s written in the coded waves, finely attuned, awaiting your response.


Composed for a dverse prompt to write flash fiction prose in 144 words and include “I dreamt I was the moon.”

Without A Compass

He traveled into uncharted mountains.  There was no signal, but he carried his phone when far away. An interrupted cry her special ringtone, he’d answer whenever she called.  (She’d laughed until tears ran down her face the first time she heard it.  He’d recorded her picking up the baby, her nipple resolving the outburst.  From scream to silence in less than a second.) 

The bastard.  She understood that he was gripped by pain and fear of the present.  He’d been abandoned too many times in his young life.  He didn’t join; he aimed his camera, watching later to see what he’d missed, never catching up, never present.  

Her unmet expectations of him forced the fight.  On the outside, a handsome strong man, but that was just a shell.  Empty.  A pushover; he’d left when she’d pointed to the door.  “Take a hike,” echoing still.


My first attempt at flash fiction prosery, the dverse prompt to use this line “when far away an interrupted cry” (from Robert Frost’s poem Acquainted With The Night) in a 144-word piece.

It’s Over and Then It Begins Again

I open my eyes carefully to start,
the dark unnamed things clinging to my breath,
this lineage trauma obstructing my heart.

For so long I’ve wished this pain would depart
in life before succumbing to my death.
I open my eyes carefully to start.

Pure wisdom’s what I crave, not so book-smart
and lost in worry, submerged in fear’s depth.
This lineage trauma destructing my heart,

my chance of magic, trying each dark art,
the scope of my search dizzying in breadth.
I open my eyes carefully to start,

the mirrors of my terror set apart,
each floundering exposed, rendered inept,
the lineage trauma constructing my heart.

The spiral of each step a vain restart,
life is a full progression until death.
I open my eyes carefully to start
this lineage trauma instructing my heart.

(This villanelle is written for a prompt at dverse poets.  Check out the site and see how many other poets do it!)