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

The Grotesque


A breathtaking

classic beauty

all of her friends say

she writes poetry

collects art

breaks hearts

she swears like a man

screws with abandon

who wouldn’t want to be her?


Oh if only it could be me!

Sadly I must confess.


I will horrify you

stun you

give you nightmares

with a word, with a phrase

with one good look at my face

 Nobody wants to be me

on purpose.


The gargoyle on the roof of the cathedral

is me.

That will always been me.

The Grotesque among the stars.


Daily Addictions Prompt: Ornate



She wanted her blood

her bones

she wanted to feast upon her



And she did


Every last dark and poisonous drop.

That is why

my foolish little friend

your nights



and they never seem to end


Envy is a sin

for good a


good reason


Daily Addictions Prompt: GENERATE