Amelia In The Frame

RDP Thursday – DEEP


Her name is Amelia and she hangs upon my wall

trapped in a frame

from a five and ten cent store.


Her eyes are flat and cold

her cheeks are pale and slack

Her jaw is wired shut

there are metal hands upon her back.


The bow on top her head

has been tied with love and care

and someone long ago

curled her long brown hair.


Her dress was to big and her shoes didn’t fit

and every time

she saw them hanging  in her closet

she closed her eyes and said;

” Ma, I’m just dying to wear this dress. ”

Before winter hit,  she did.



My Monsters

I wanted to craft a story

with ink, with needles with thread

I wanted to craft a story about

monsters and graveyards and the living dead.

I wanted to carve a story on bone, on stone on the insides of

my eyelids

I wanted to write a story

but the words

are staying out of my head.

The cowards.

Where Nothing Lives


Photo by Emre Can on

There are no locks on the doors

in the rooms  where nothing lives.

There isn’t a single sheet of glass


the window frames at the house where nothing comes in  and nothing ever leaves.

Nothing is down in the basement

nothing lives in the walls

nothing is rotting in the attic

nothing was forgotten in the kitchen cupboards.

Nothing is in the dead house

at the end of the road

from where you live, from where I live.

And In that prison

nothing screams in it’s endless terror

without ever taking

a single breath.

The Destroying Angel


In the Spring

in the woods

under a cool blanket of leaves

Amanita Verna waits for you

to find her, to pluck her

to raise her to your lips in blissful hunger

Go ahead.

Close your eyes

and then

taste her, bite her, open your mouth and swallow her

she won’t take you heart or break your heart

she’ll just shut it down

and then

we can bury you  in the Spring

in the woods

where you can be with

Amanita Verna




Inspired By: RDP Thursday – Fungus


How To Be The Curious Traveler

There are buildings you’ve never seen before


cats lounging in windows,  curled in improbable shapes around potted plants, snoozing with one eye open under wind chimes, their fuzzy cheeks pressed against half drunk cans of soda pop.

There are streets you’ve never walked down before

lined with pastel colored cars and brightly colored garbage cans parked on the curbs where they silently fight for space on sidewalks much smaller then the ones at home


squeezed between brick and wooden houses and markets with decals of dancing fruit and children eating ice cream on their glass doors


little diners named after Mothers and Grandfathers and sometimes dogs that have  chickens and alligators or maybe fish painted on the windows.


Don’t pretend like you know where you’re going

as you stroll by the cats, the diners, the markets, the parked cars

don’t walk with the swagger and squint of a seasoned traveler, the wily  explorer who has scaled the  pyramids or cruised all of the  Seven Seas years ago on a dare.

Put the phone away, delete the app, it’s okay


take a wrong turn

to not know where this road leads and that road ends



close your eyes,

don’t take a breath

Jump right on in






Na/GloPoWriMo :It Begins Day 2- For our first (optional) prompt, let’s take our cue from O’Neil’s poem, and write poems that provide the reader with instructions on how to do something.

The Pumpkin Patch

In the field

that I  drive by each day

is a field of pumpkins

waiting to meet their makers for Halloween.

The pumpkins are round and orange and golden and they are full of sweet smelling pulp and slick smooth seeds.

Any day now the field will be decorated with scarecrows, the farmers will set up tables and serve warm spiced apple cider and hot chocolate and I think you can get your face painted before or after you pick your pumpkin.

I think the choice is yours.

There is  so much excitement in that field, on those days when people show up to drink warm cider, get their faces painted and pick out that perfect pumpkin to carve, to shape to mold into their vision, to tell their story about Halloween.

The  pumpkins are hallow, they are empty, they are lumps of cool white marble, softy gray clay waiting to meet the artist who fill them with dreams and candles and give them a voice with a story to tell.

The pumpkins are empty, I’ve heard people say, until they are filled with our dreams of Halloween.

In the field

that I drive by each day

is a field of pumpkins

and sometimes I roll my window down

and I think I can hear the wind

I hope it’s the wind

that sounds like a chorus of screams.

Daily Addictions Prompt: CAPACIOUS

In My Bones


When was the last time I dug a grave

told a joke

baked cookies, frosted a cake, got lost on an adventure?


It may have been at the end of last Summer

when the leaves began to fall

and the fires roared up North and the smoke turned the Sun blood red.


When was the last time I dressed a corpse

waited for a Doctor to sign a death certificate

had a laugh, braided my hair waited watched a meteor shower with my cat?


It may have been at the end of a long ago Summer

when the Sun died for a while

and I heard the dusty ground cry in a relief.


When was the last time

I saw the fog creep into the cemetery

down the road from where I live?

I think it will be soon.

I know it must be soon.

I can feel it in my bones.


Daily Addictions Prompt: Illuminate