Hablando Sola — (3 of 5 senses) NaPoWriMo #17

I talk to myself in both languages.

The musky, chile flavor of Spanish
Seems simple of sound
But, de repente, estoy enchilada
With the unexpected heat
Of words that never
appeared on a vocabulary test.

Hablo sola en los dos idiomas

The milky sweet scent of my native English
– with its nearly inexplicable vowels –
fills all the corners of my home
from the folds of the curtains to
the creases of clothes in the closet
y ni modo I must live with it, living without.

The silky, smooth, liso Spanish
runs comfortably, if not easily,
under my fingertips and over my tongue,
and the seersucker texture of English
me sale facil, if not comfortably
over my tongue and under my fingertips.

Asi que, if I must talk to myself,
Que sea en los dos idiomas
Para que
the day tastes
and suene completo.


Talking to Doors — (terza rima) NaPoWriMo #15

I'm torn between dark green and bright purple.


If I could open on the sunrise
bathing the mountain silhouette,
I’d be mahogany auburn, embracing allies.

If I could open on the sunset
Behind the city skyline
I’d be oak, singing a golden evening duet

But I’ve not the rich man’s spine,
just a middle class stiff.
Though plain, I’m sturdy white pine.

If you will paint me a colorful whiff
for those who knock in flood or drought,
I’ll never do less than if

I were a wealthy man’s door, facing south.


A much better incarnation of the idea from a few days ago. =)

Waiting, with Blood Moon (a not-quite kenning) NaPoWriMo #14

Drizzling temptingly up from the east
you rise in traditional silver,
while an ocean of desert wind sloshes
against the house,
splashing windows and dashing doors.

A mere reflection of light,
you tease men into strange beliefs –
offense to the brain, lycanthrope, end of days,
or mere bad luck –
you hold no such sway over me.

But then, here I am,
ninety degree neck
waiting to pass – tiniest of shadows –
between you and the source
we all look to as life.

And still you drip, tantalizingly slow –
night gradient black-to-silver velvet behind you –
and I wait to see your perfect shine
tarnish away to coppery
bleeding, light.


I’m no viking, but I saw a couple of potential kennings here — but it could be wishful thinking. Happy moon watching one and all!

Alebrijes — NaPoWriMo 13

Wild thing
without meaning.
Dictionaries deny
the evident passions
beneath your wings
under your hooves
and between your claws.
Familiar forms tacked together,
you belie the dreams
from which you emerge
sweaty and damp
with frightened rage
and joyous wonder.
Colored in shades that shout
Of sun, heat, and sun again
you fade briefly
only to rise again
on the strength of


Hunting — NaPoWriMo #12

Home is a place
with a solid wood door
– painted purple or maybe dark green –
that opens into a space
adequate for those who
seek love and peace.

Home is a place
with a kitchen window
inhabited by colorful bottles
and hanging strings of broken glass
throwing playful rainbows
over and into every dish.

Home is a place
where sunflowers and marigolds
thrive and grow, alongside
the aloe and herbs.
A lime tree tosses its shade
by the barbecue.

Home is a place
of haven and quiet joy
that is sometimes loud
in the growing strength
and building waves
of vital energy.


meh. I’ll try again tomorrow. ‘-)

Well-Fletched (with Kahlil Gibran) — NaPoWriMo #8

The bow was shaped in a rush,
But there was time
to cure a bit of sinew for the string,
test the weight against youthful biceps,
and the aim of ancient eyes.

The fletching slightly skewed from hurry,
still she’s flown far, the little unexpected arrow,
and swift like the wind
under the sparrow’s wing.

Though the quick, green bow dried and broke,
Life’s longing lights her path
as it lengthens.


I wrote the title for this about two years ago and have been thinking on it ever since. I like the result, though the alliteration in the last stanza may be too heavy for the rest of the poem. I used Kahlil Gibran’s “On Children” from _The Prophet_ for inspiration. You can find it here, if you’re interested.

P.S. Thanks for all the reads, visits, views and comments! I can’t believe I’m up to 129 follows! ~LD

Sunday Saving Daylight — NaPoWriMo6

Eyes still shut
I awake to the practiced, stolen
tunes of the mockingbird chief
outside my window;
I love his
teachery ways.
My sleepy ears enthralled
by his youngliings’ answers:
in tune, if not on key.

A crunch of leaves,
already sun-dried in April,
disguises the crack of a bat
and briefly the rustle
of fifty Moms cheering
in the stands;
I break open soft-boiled eyes
and imagine shadows of children
swinging bats for arms and mitts for hands.

A glance at the clock
reminds me time has changed;
by summer schedule
I’m up early even
without counting the hour I’ve lost,
but I envy my mockingbird
his timeless choir practice
that runs on angles of light
not on the hands of a clock.

The Trouble with Dust — #NaPoWriMo5 — a golden shovel

(with apologies to William Carlos Williams)

Like wilderness everywhere, an urban desert lies just so
Constantly changing, but not by doing much
Its glowing watercolor sunrise depends
Bug-like, upon

The thickness of industry exhaust, a
long time ago, this city was red
with the blood of civilation’s wheel
that dug up the desert foxes’ barrow

Their eyes looked out and saw the glazed
tangles of steel with
eyes bright from dwindling rain
They walked down to the river only to find no water

The maquilas built the dam beside
The craggy cliffs and stones upriver, while the
Dusty limestone glistened white
All around the rancher’s wife’s chickens.