Posts for June 14, 2023

Registration photo of Kim Kayne Shaver for the LexPoMo 2023 Writing Challenge.

haiku: my living room is awash, a blue blue ocean

          light shines cobalt blue
vases swimming on a shelf
   a window open



he grew up in the age of big families
thought himself a member of a tribe
with sixty-five first cousins
and a family reunion every year
where they measured themselves

at 74 he’s the second oldest
left in the third generation
he gets his info about births
weddings illnesses recoveries
on a smart phone text thread

death is singular and requires
an ear-to-ear call
spreads quickly among siblings,
across the country the tribe knows
and those who can will come

the old they honor
the not so old makes them aware
the young makes them mad
at god until a space of time
lets them see what they have had

this once homogeneous tribe
now diverse in unexpected ways
the sixth generation has arrived
another mystery for him to decipher
how the double helix flows like a river


The Last Call: His Final Voyage

I remember walking with you 
That morning on the shoreline 
Polyester shirt and rolled up dress pants
Crisp lines iron starched
To military perfection 
Like always.

I’m not sure 
Which I could see through more
Your old dress shirt
Or pale, cancer riddled skin?
Your tired, peaceful eyes, 
Ready to go home.

You looked out at the ships
Like a man who saw
His long lost brothers out there

You drew in a deep breath
sighed out so deep and laughed
Even as a young girl
I knew whatever you came here for
You were ready and…
You were leaving with it.


Trésor by Lancôme

While packing last night, I spilled
her perfume. The bottle shattered.

Her smell everywhere. I picked up
the pieces absentmindedly,

thinking about the end of
my relationship with my partner

of 12 years. 13 if you count
the last one, which we didn’t.

But the smell of my dead mother
just kept infiltrating the scene.

Her getting ready in crushed velvet
lighting mixed with our first date.

What it was like to build a life with him
against the end of hers as it soured.

The heavy weight of what becomes us.
I chased tiny shards of glass along

the bathroom tiles. Picking up hair
in the grout. And I missed her.

And I missed him. And I missed the now
evaporating opportunity to wear

that damn perfume.


The Stories We Hold

The stories we hold 
Are what make us bold 
They may remain untold
Yet we broke from the mold

Yet here I sit 
Taking my last sip
Only wanting more 
Call me a whore

But my stories won’t bore 
The stories we hold 
Are what make us bold 
They may remain untold
Yet we broke from the mold

Memories of men 
Only hold the most sin
But I carry them within
This can’t be my win


I can save myself
Carrying all of the wealth
It may be affecting my health
Walking with stealth


The stories we hold
Are what make us bold
They may remain untold
Yet we broke from the mold

We are so strong
We write all the songs
We are what you long
For on these nights

I’m tired of the fight
Tired of making you feel right
Easier to just say goodnight
And await morning light


Golden Girls

we always watched them
after the sun had drifted
and the sodium lights
buzzed on through
the town already closed

she’d take her seat
at the edge of the couch
while I sat on the floor
legs crossed
freshly bathed
yellow legal pad at hand
turning a Number 2
between my pruned fingers

her husband was a writer
worked in a green wallpapered
room with small mallards 
in the pattern

she wasn’t my mother
not my grandmother
she didn’t have to be anyone
to a boy like me
didn’t have to let me come over
but she chose to be something
between those two things
to keep me alive

all these years later
my wife and I
can’t sleep without
them playing
the piano intro
swelling strings
between scenes

the comfort I find
in that wide shot
of that house 
with the half moon

laying in bed
I feel home
and safe
and perfect



It is barely June and yet 

it is hard to find a leaf 

untouched by disaster-

insects or disease, 

or chemicals applied 

by some master chemist 

whose only desire 

is to see something 

shrivel and die.

Registration photo of DadaDaedalus for the LexPoMo 2023 Writing Challenge.

Resurreccíon de Arturo

Forget the insistence on Evil in Camelot 

understand there are greater goals in mind
could you be so simple minded or
kill away faux conceptions? 
Nihilism is in my rearview
I plan to raise King Arthur from the dead. 
Gyrate zeitgeist head to toe—
grate the dirty Saxons in tow 
egress all magic for change we need 
reality re-established under myself, Mordred the Godking,
sacred will coalesce with ordinary to form something beyond tertiary. 
We will all be kings. 


and they didn’t

12: Assassin’s Creed Origins (Ubisoft)


in those early days undarkened

i was the daytime back then


it’s wrong to look at dead sons

and early covid numbers and remember

what was the good in the blooded desert


it’s wrong


and i am the silent wake

lessness in the night now


it’s hard to keep living with yourself

while the gardens are rebuilt and the lighthouses and the grains of sand

but you get to



I feel blank today,

chasing ideas for poems

then forgetting them,

none blooming.


I am caught up

in memories and worries,

tangled in






I will face

another blank page,

trying to rewrite

a story

from a different POV,

attempting to create

and to salvage

a little bit of this day.