Posts for June 1, 2017



Clouds spattered across
the expansive blue canvas 
a kiss waiting here 
(c) Edelweiss Meadows-Millstone


i will not

i will not let you rule me with these lingering thoughts
telling me what could be– the havoc you seek
i will not let you steal my joy, hope, and possibilities-
i live to dream — nightmares will not rule me
i will not let you steal my sleep

i will not let you rule me with these lingering thoughts
your greatest friend, is my enemy
i will not let fear prevent me from running, soaring, being
you will not own me
i will not let you suffocate the life in me

i will not let you rule me


Playing in the Sprinkler

The satisfyingly horrible sound:
Wet skin
Wet Skin

Said too quickly
To solve the problem
Shield from consequences 
And avoid life lessons)

A realization
A kick in the head


June 1, 2017

I need
it to be  

stars silver
in arborvitae
stacked seven
across wrist
shadow vow
ring eternal  

before tone
soprano catches
heart-strings in
paved paradise
after James finds
himself careening
where no one else
can go, I follow
in quiet corners
alone where wild  

roses grow beneath
bare feet peeking
from under silk skirts
wrapped twice around
sacred elm trunk  

fingers stretched
above head wreathed
in clover tied beginning
to end to gather prayer
flags, tips bowing  

in wind gazing
to sidewalk marked
with hopscotch
and four-square
letters spelling

algebraic equations
deconstructed within
inevitable marriages
we stand with  

each other at altar,
at court, handing white
tissue in front
of casket, yawn  
unspeakable pain
grief reminds us
laughter caught
on camera, our
children captured  

in images our minds
can never erase,
grateful lapses
in memory ask
us to search for word,
yet entire  

poems float, etched
in white, evocation
more substantial
than ghosts hover
like fireflies in June.  


# ( , , ) {“I have measured it”}

“Where, they asked, is your theory of light and color, where is your explanation of this behavior? And as in the previous case, Newton retreated behind the smokescreen of positivism. I am looking for laws, or optical facts, he replied, not hypotheses. If you ask me what “red” is, I can only tell you that it is a number, a certain degree of refrangibility, and the same is true for each of the other colors. I have measured it: that is enough.”

“It is, above all, to distance yourself from it, as Galileo pointed out; to make it an abstraction. The poet may get uncritically effusive about a red streak across the sky as the sun is going down, but the scientist is not so easily deluded: he knows that his emotions can teach him nothing substantial. The red streak is a number, and that is the essence of the matter.”

– – –

turn, verse,
and turn again
and take me away from Berman’s prosaic exposition,
back to the place
from where he led me
back before he made me gold

ignore these scenes,
the foundation to our culture’s consciousness,
the frame of my mind–wait
you can’t ignore them; instead,
start there
be led
as I am led again, this time
leading myself away from the prison cell
my mind was born into

as I attempt,
in so many words,

an ekphrasis of orgiastic color


In the War

  In the War     
my father when asked, “What are
     you fighting for?”        I can hear his voice:      “Fighting to get this war—      I had to choice        to keep out      of—over with      so I can go about        my business      at home,      for I could care less        if I get to twirl      another wild-eyed      desperate foreign girl.”



 The boards beneath us— 

and the sun above, 

are different sorts of warm. 

Like you and I. 

When I got drunk at school 

and told you, 

I wished you met me 

before you met him, 

I thought you wouldn’t come. 

But there you are. 

Next to me, 

drinking the sun— 

while I sink into the boards.



Patsy He sent someone, an angel,                                              [Michael in tears.                                                                                distraught Unnerved                                            a warrior                                                                              in the presence of evil,                                  whose loyalty wanes] of me. Not so important.   Paramount is the lie, is not what it seems.   Belief bequeathed brushing past tomorrow, no a person, an entity, the mother                                     [Hidden in the basement by— doesn’t smother                                                                               the father] embraces the son                                 [the tumbling star] Who had the nerve to ask, Where’s mom?   Doug Self


The Last Ride   

              In Memory of Nicky Hayden  

Riders flocked to our little town
representing the motorcycle community
as an act of love for The Kentucky Kid

Victory processionals throughout his racing career
couldn’t begin to compare
no champagne cork popped at this finish line

Over 3,000 engines revved when given the go
winding through town like a somber parade
to his final resting spot behind the country church


Gills Treading Water

When I finally breathe,
I feel gutted,
limp, eyes barely open,
body still, as I
waking up slowly to social media posts of summer destinations,
fishing trips at Jacobson Park and
the white blinding light of Florida Keys
filling my pages: Sunburnt cheek bones, and fishing lines,
huge smiles captured by tiny dead fish,
“You catch it, you eat it.” I whisper half asleep to myself,
imagining bite-size fish in frying pans,
on a stick,
over the fire.
Scales. Scaleless. One gulp.
Fresh water. Salt water. Culture.
Will there be room to gut?
Thumbs sinking deep into body crevasses,
Pulling, Scraping internal life parts,
miniscule gills
on finger tips
I don’t comment just
scroll down to shards of information.
News Flash: rare, deep-water fish
found floating in the shallows of Hawaii.
Can grow to 2,000 pounds.
Searching for food?
The world’s ice box getting empty?
America first? Cov.Fe.Fe? Paris Climate Agreement?
Ugh. That Bottom Fish Feeder flooding my news feed.

Breathe little fish. Breathe little fish. Breathe little fish.
Gills treading water.

I open my eyes all the way.
I’ve been holding my breath way too long,
body bursting for gulps of oxygen,
It’s time to get up,
and start moving, again.