Knee High By The Fourth of July

RDP Thursday – Farm

“That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
‘Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?”
T.S. Eliot

When you write tales of the macabre, when your interests involve forensics, when you are fascinated by the terrible things people do to each other because it’s not the act but the justification that actually captures your imagination then in your research and travels and the strange places to learn about these things,  you end up meeting some unique people and you are bound to learn about places like The Body Farm.

The Body farm is a place where corpses are planted and set out in various stages of being and they are left there to let nature takes it’s course and while nature and the corpse are working together to return the body to the Earth people who study forensic science study them.

It doesn’t smell great, bugs are involved and what was once inside of us finds a way to briefly, to have  their  moment in the Sun.

Odd imagery aside- Body Farms are important places of learning and study; they’re not amusement parks.

Body Farms, like morgues and embalming rooms are sad places and they are lonely places but in the end, one corpse is willing to go through this experience to help the living understand what has happened to another corpse under much more tragic circumstances.

Noble as that is, it doesn’t make their situation any less sad or any less lonely and unlike their brothers and sisters, sleeping in cemeteries under neatly trimmed lawns and their resting places marked by tombstones and flowers- for a brief time the corpses at the Body Farms have some unglamorous  work to do.

 After their work is done, they are taken away to meet their  new neighbors in  their quiet gated community with the flowers and the green grass and shady trees  where they are free to  join them  in their  interrupted slumber.

But in the end, I think we can agree, it is a very well deserved rest.




Down At Last She Lies

Na/GloPoWriMo Prompt# 18 : Write an elegy of your own, one in which the abstraction of sadness is communicated not through abstract words, but physical detail. This may not be a “fun” prompt, but loss is one of the most universal and human experiences, and some of the world’s most moving art is an effort to understand and deal with it.

Vilhelm Hammershøi,

On a table next to her bed

three unread books

their spines turned towards the wall

on top of the books is box of Kleenex  stamped with birds and flowers

holding  them down, keeping them from running away, forgotten but not forgotten.


In the kitchen  behind a bag of flour

is a red box full of heart shaped chocolates

tied shut with a wilted silver ribbon

untasted , forgotten but not forgotten


Down in the basement piled inside of plastic crate with a light green lid


behind bags of fertilizer,  rusted file cabinets and children’s bicycles


photograph albums full of smiling people,  sunshine, dogs and cats and Christmas trees


Boxes of Well Dressed Bones

What if abandoned houses

are just homes

that nobody lives in anymore


What if cemeteries

are empty of

almost everything

except boxes of well dressed bones


What if the world

is alone

in a void full of dimming stars

warming nothing

but lifeless  space

and boxes of well dressed bones.


 Day four of Na/GloPoWriMo– The challenge! Write your own sad poem


Before We Wake

Photo A.M. Moscoso


could be quiet together

silent  together

tell secrets to each other

hide from the outside together


when the Sun is out

looking for bones and flesh to warm

whether you want it to or not.


We could

haunt unmapped roads together

stand at the crossroads with each other

we could

watch the cars race by or crawl by

we could dare them to stop

and offer us a ride

to somewhere

where we could

be quiet together

silent  together

tell secrets to each other

hide from the outside together


when the Sun is out

looking for bones and flesh to warm

whether you want it to or not.


We could walk

we could crawl

we could fly

take our time

to get to where we want

let the shadows of the dying day

hide our faces

and our voices

and our intentions

from the Sun

from curious eyes

that would look better

in a faded moldy  painting or maybe in a jar

hidden on  shelf strangled by cobwebs

in an attic

above a house with a rusty broken swing set-that used to be painted yellow and blue-

that sometimes  swings, all alone,   in the front yard when the air is still and the birds are quiet and the bugs scurry away as fast as they can.


Me and you

we could stay right here

where we are

where the grass is always green and we can

rest in peace

as the saying goes

or we could walk again

we could get up again

we could danse again



could be quiet together

silent  together

tell secrets to each other

hide from the outside together


when the Sun is out

looking for bones and flesh to warm

whether you want it to or not.


Day Three  Na/GloPoWriMo : Today, I’d like to challenge you to similarly write something that involves a story or action that unfolds over an appreciable length of time. Perhaps, as you do, you can focus on imagery, or sound, or emotional content (or all three!)

The Monkey Puzzle Tree


From the remains

of the Monkey Puzzle Tree

a little treasure

was made for me.


My mother wears it

on her chest

because I was the little devil

she loved best.


Dressed in black from head to toe

she sits next to me till the sun sinks low

and after it is dark

and the sun is gone

She leaves in the moonlight

to wake on my own.


From the remains of the Monkey Puzzle tree

my Mother wears a gem

in remembrance


wicked, hungry, undead  little me.

RDP Monday: JET

Wow, That’s Brutal

One of these days

I will run across an obituary

on line, maybe in print

and it will be

 about the devastation

brought upon the world

by your loss.

Tears will be shed, songs will be sung,

heads will be hung in sorrow

by a few people,

most likely the ones

who quaffed your bile  as if it

were wine

and saw you as

acerbic, slightly pazzo, sublime.

I won’t be there

to spit on your grave

I won’t be there

to mock you, or to laugh at you

or to announce

how glad I am

you are worm food.


After the Reaper has done his job and spirited you away,

I am going to Disney Land


I must say here



can hardly wait.

Daily Addictions Prompt: Eager

The End


Over the weekend I found out my little sister’s friend was murdered by her husband in a domestic violence murder /suicide incident.

My Sister and her friend grew up together and moved to Hawaii after they graduated from High school. They were spirited, rebellious girls I’m glad to share here.

They smoked, loved Prince,went dancing every weekend and destroyed the Ozone with all of that hairspray they used to wear. They also lived with me for awhile and I will give them this, I think they were a little afraid of me but not so afraid they weren’t afraid to use my I.D. and they figured out how to use my clothes and put them back the way they found them.

The thing was, they were so paranoid I’d figure it out they use to wash and fold all the clothes around the stuff they wore so the upshot was I hardly ever had to do laundry.

It was awesome.

All of my sister’s friends from that time have a special place in my heart- they made me laugh at a time where I didn’t do much of that.

So to think that one of the girls left this world fighting for her life I can’t help but to feel angry.

Filled with rage is probably a better description.

But I take comfort from the simple fact that  for as much as I believe in a Heaven, I believe in a Hell too and I’m sure there is enough room there for one more damned soul.