“Do you know," Peter asked, "why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is to listen to the stories.” ~ J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan


the cure for what ails you

                            i thought this would be a poem. 

it's wild wild plums for a wandering heart
picked from the side of the path as you go
but it refuses to pay any attention to the way i shove the words here and there
when that same heart is hungry, hurting, and hollow,
jalapenos with honey hidden inside.                                                                                           

it's apples for anger and swallowed adventures 
and so i will stop shoving and pushing and adding too much water or too little ink and i will just let the damn things find their own places  

it's a quiver of arrows for the questions unanswered    unasked and unwanted    
they're paying no attention to me anyway 
a moondance with the monsters under the bed
they just jump in wherever they want

it's bare feet for boredom and the idea of paris . . .
you see how that's done?  how the words just push wriggle finagle insinuate their way in though they have no idea how they should end?  as if i know what the idea of paris is a cure for when i don't, never mind me, never mind my not-knowing-mind, the phrase just decides it wants to be right there and right there it sits no matter how often i pick it up and move it somewhere farther down the page. it always finds its way back.                                            

it's crumbles of cookies, sin on your tongue, for kisses unkept and shaped like the moon.
it's unmarked maps for untold truths,
 rosehips and raspberries for all those regrets.
but for unflown flights, the fever must burn.

it's the timing of things and the sitting still, and it's the way the words circle me; i see the movement from overhead, the space between myself and the words ever widening, they dancing happily hand in hand while i slowly turn, confused and addled, unsure whether to reach out and grab one, or wait. i keep writing.

it's a dance with yourself when the doors close behind you,
the call of a cardinal, her nest in a tree;
it's a dress of blue flowers that dares to remind you
of days full of yesses that should have been nos.
it's an unsteady boat for the too early mornings,
and a jump overboard into cold calming water,
jazz under your breath under a dark night tree, magnolia blossoms
light your way . . .

and suddenly i understand why paris is there, or at least the idea of paris, and i grab all the words put the lime in the coconut and shake 'em all together and they fall right into place right where they were supposed to be all along.

jazz under your breath, under a dark night tree, magnolia blossoms
light your way.
wild wild plums for your wandering heart,
easy pickings on your side of the path, no need for that quiver
of arrows,
questions unanswered,
for unmarked maps of untold truths,
for kisses unkept and shaped like the
sin on your tongue with crumbles of cookies,
tasting of yesses that should have been nos.
my feet are bare and i follow with apples,
with apples and anger and unasked for adventures
my dress torn from the sky,
for my flights still unflown.



  1. yes. oh my, yes.

    always, always let those words have their way. they always come back to tell you something. the words always know.

    1. it is useless to fight them. i don't know what i was thinking.

  2. my wandering heart sees. and loves this.

  3. yes. your words fall into beautiful pictures.

  4. This perfectly illustrates my mantra: Sense or nonsense matters not; writing is the rhythm of the words.

    The way you weave the process into the poem is inspired writing.

  5. I can't find a way to contact you but I need to cancel my "subscription" to your posts. I have to get rid of lot of used "space" on my computer. Please remove me from your "subscription" list.
    I'm sorry I had to post this here but I can't find any other way.
    Thank you.

    1. done. please let me know if you continue to receive my blog in your inbox.

  6. Oh, man. You just stun me, lady. Your process, your words: perfection.

  7. Letting words have their way with you is a good thing!! Nice Write

  8. for kisses unkept and shaped like the moon


  9. I can only dance
    as I read these delicious words
    ...I can only dance!

  10. Writing is such a bewildering concept, come to think of it. Words falling down, created, materializing on just the right places. :)


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