Poems, page 2



they’re going to start
up the collider this July
and there’s no proof
that it does anything
to our universe
but just in case
I’ll write your name
across my ribs
down my spine
imprint your voice
to be the first thing
I hear
if it all comes crashing

cause no matter what
there’s no reality
worth it
without your red electric


screw the dealer

the same friend’s family vacation as last june.
the same awkward pleasantries,
the same cousins playing card games,
the same jokes about needing to lose weight
(I brought carrot cake),
the same going to bed before 10pm.

the same passive aggressive, 
“look how she reacts when I hug her!”
the same complete and utter lack
of self-awareness. 

the same feeling of no one in this room
really wants to be here. 

the same house,
the same pullout couch bed, 
the same counting down the hours
until we can go home. 

everything about this trip is exactly the same. 
except this year
I don’t have wine. 


Waiting for Summer’s End

The sun is disappearing little by little
or is it minute by minute?

What I mean to say is that the end
is coming, the end of summer,

the end of this man-made time,
the clock on the wall twisted

into some unknown language
the birds will never understand.

But they do understand light
and dark and the unbearable heat

that cooks their young
until they abandon the nest

and flies are seen
swarming around it.


Wild Bunch Poets

there’s a poem in the attic
in the yard
through the blinds

there’s a poem in the rain
around the corner
no one minds

you may find one in your sleep
on your pillow
in a drawer

even when you’ve seen them all
you’ll still run
into more

they bloom full into morning
until dusk
into the night

making pictures cinematique
they play it out
just right

while making whispery rattlings

poets choose words carefully, then
measure, stir
with care

because more poems are waiting
down the hall
on the stairs

poets ready with their tackle, mind
and roomy

not just ghostly still in silence
aloof with
gentle heart

but see them now a wild bunch
radical art



Hot flash morning
snowy cold milk kisses my neck
Prepping for the road

Thinking of a pill bug ball up
cozy on the couch
Hookie from the test

black shapes appear to disappear
in thick white air
Ready for the ride

Home now
I lay watching
a cloudless blue afternoon
from the birdless window

High above me
luminescent tree leaf star shine
caught fallen from fog
Look what we can do!
Don’t you worry one bit.



bad tan lines that don’t look quite right
a laugh sounding from a bird outside
picturesque drive capturing sunlight
plane windows visible in smiling eyes
big screens fading away with title lines
salad bowls being scrubbed from the inside
cursing the skyline in hazy midnights
thinking about your body doesn’t feel right
lying in dear friend’s passenger sides
june daydreaming simply floating by


Shifting Shades of Self On The Way From Youth To Elderhood

Cigarettes and roller skates
three inch heels and layered hairdos

polished nails, banana splits
bikinis, martinis, permanent waves

knitting slippers, painting walls
bowls of goldfish, contact lenses

baking biscuits, adopting cats
platform shoes and baby sitting

clip on earrings, disco dancing
foundation makeup, miniature golf

red meat, fried fish, lottery tickets
selling anything, sun bathing

tent camping, working,
sports events of any sort

turkey roasting, chocolate malts
ladder climbing, jogging

given up for good!

-Sue Neufarth Howard


Image of Me

Studying an old photo
now wrinkled & worn
dog-eared and creased.
I’m dawning a diaper & tee
holding onto an old dog’s ear.
I laugh as I look.  Nearly
sixty-seven years old,
though showing its age
not yet faded away.


This Title is Satire

30 days of Heyoka

until next year enjoy one more falsity—
Rses ar red
volets ar blue
try profreadin b4 u post
feelings effectin u.
Its knawt rawcket scence;
squiggle mean werd wrong.
Half self r-e-s-p-e-k-t
like Urethra franken.



Give my uterus to the state,
And sail to open waters
Hoping to be born again
Somewhere where I 
Can live in my body
Without asking to
And not fear its power,
Wondering when my own
Anatomy will be weaponized
Against me; the trigger pulled
By a man in a robe pretending
To be a god. When can I
Be my own damn god?