On Marrying a Poet

On Marrying a Poet

Chris Toll said
The job of poets is not to explain the Mystery.
The job of poets is to make the Mystery greater.

Terrific, said Daniel, but my question was: where do you want to eat dinner tonight?

Our Home is a Poem

Our Home is a Poem

Happy National Poetry Month, day 6! Today I created a found-object poem. I took 20 snapshots of words and images around our home and made a poet out of them. Fun!

Our Home is a Poem

You are here
you rock
grab a beach bucket
an empty journal
or some art supplies

I am at the beach
or chillin with my Gnomies
the birds
or the best husband ever
living the Yoda life
faces turned seaward
beneath a Scooby Doo moon

Guests you are welcome
so be at your ease
help yourselves to some booze
or make yourselves some tea

wabi your sabi alone with a book
or check the tide chart
come join your collective self
down at the beach

When Alien Beings Ask “Why Poetry?” I Offer Them This.

When Alien Beings Ask “Why Poetry?” I Offer Them This.

Hello and welcome to earth

[bow with your hands pressed together near your heart.]

[Oh, and if they offer a hand, flipper, tentacle, or anything else to shake, shake it. If they want to hug, hug.]

here in the vastness of space

[throw your arms open wide and look around]

here where seasons and tides are gifts of convention
where time and distance are fluid invention
where music is solace and sunlight is grace

we breathe poetry
we can’t help ourselves

[improv a little something to accompany the energy of words: maybe bounce, dance, spin in a circle, or hum something]

we can’t help ourselves

here we fall in love with a face just because it’s a face
here place is a being with exquisite taste
here we fall on our asses laughing

drop to our knees weeping

to remember the feel of soil’s warm embrace


[indicate the immediate area around yourself, at least: it’s up to you how far your here goes]


“Why poetry?” makes little sense as a question

poetry is the air we breathe

so our questions tend, instead, to be variations on this one:

[Shut your eyes and breathe one long breath slowly and deeply. Then open your eyes and look into their eye, eyes, or eye equivalents.]

our questions are variations on this one:

How can we breathe more deeply—right here, right now—together?

[then shut up, poet, and listen]

The pull of springtime and the Borg

The pull of springtime and the Borg

up to their knees
in swollen pollen
tulips rise
kiss the day
apples blossom
giggle, blush and
run away
frogs harmonize
in undirected choir
damp soil winks
to beckon seed
earth preens
her baby greens
nudges buds
from ground’s nest
puddles twirl
feet to lure
a slow first dance
in shorter pants.

the first and better Borg,
in warm rain ship
with heart beat engine
a teetle a tootle
resistance is futile.


Ballad of a Flirty Captain

Ballad of a Flirty Captain

I accept responsibility
for floating adrift at sea
everything else I ascribe to luck
Life’s not controlled by me.

I fell in love with Mystery first
who often visits here
to experience her argument
for wonder over fear.

I fell in love with Magic next
brought forth by woman wise
crafted raft to follow her
back to paradise.

I fell in love with Ocean then
whose depths I cannot reach
and fell in love with Humankind
loafing on her beach.

I fell in love with sultry Sun
at shameless first embrace
I fell in love with Sky and Clouds
with Rain upon my face.

And so my ship was caught in tide
while captain flirted with the Whales
left me aground on unknown shoal
no paddle, mot or, sails.

This captain chooses Love and Play,
ahead of Serious Work,
genealogy denying claims to Picard,
confirming surname Kirk.

I accept responsibility
for floating adrift at sea
but these mermaid fairy pirate friends?

pirate friends

Under Book Covers

Under Book Covers

Gathering stories
crying with strangers-turned-friends
tales woven
into focused collections
into pages
and pages
calloused fingers
hand crafting a shared love

Book covers created
with patience
humor and
a little, not- annoying- we-hope,
Blurbs too.
Ridiculous amounts of time
pondering fonts

Then off she goes
on toddering legs
into the big wide world
equal parts confidence and hesitance
amazing, charming, and landing,
on her pampered behind
adored by a clapping family
ignored by everyone else.

Peace gets made with this. Sort of.
Popularity contests are for high school, cue eye roll.
I’m still waiting to grow up.

Drinks with friends
talk turns to Amazon best sellers
what we read when no one is watching
murder mysteries, sci fi, and smut, oh god, the smut.
Tales circulate
of $30,000 made
(that’s like a billion gazillion dollars in writer land)
on one monster erotica book

Wouldn’t be so terrible,
to create trash and romance
to splash
rock-hard abs
onto front and back covers
to write
fast and furiously
screaming “Oh god, FUCK the font!”
hair blown back in creative collaboration
until we’re exhausted
satisfied with sales
and just a little

Some days I wonder.
Beauty in books
may be in the eyes of creators and readers
but big sales
are clearly in abs.

I was Certain
from ages 10 to 43
that this was selling out.
Now I’m not so sure.
Maybe this is writer selves
skinny dipping
all in
feet and abs first
guns blazing
chests bared
delighting in being delighted in.

Maybe being human
is not so bad
after all.

Time to start creating
what we really love.

sexy cats