Wordle #197

Wordle 197

My lips stumble
under a blood orange sky.
My bruised and blessed breath
breaks apart in repetition.
You plow me like a field,
patient until bursting.
I swallow your seed,
your vox populi,
your furnace full of stars.

I am a beautiful way to drown.
The ocean in you
feeds the ocean in me.
I will always find a place for you,
a place where everything
is taken whole
and nothing is rejected.

I watch your lips sulking
beneath a blameless horizon
our silhouettes eerie in the half-light,
our silhouettes throbbing hot
like a meteor shower.

my writing is still off


Wordle #168

Word Art (3)

All I have are impressions,
sentiments pressed into paper,
floundering hailstones
in a crucible of grisly white.
Your facsimile drips from my fingers
unbridled and contagious.
Everything I write, do, breathe
has been infiltrated
with your electric blue aura.

Do you ever feel claustrophobic
knowing that you are inside of me?

All day I sit hammering the keys
and gnashing my teeth
in search of fire, in search of peace.
All night I lie peeling back the moon
so that I can count the stars behind it.

Do you ever wonder how my haggard heart
goes on beating despite a skein of impenetrable scars?

The better part of me
still seeks the extraordinary
in what others call mundane.
I have not forgotten the magic
of two people meeting
for the first time
only to find that they have met
hundreds of times before
in ways that they cannot
possibly explain.

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Of Poems

There is a poem inside of me.

It exists in the subdued sunsets

of my eyes when tightly pressed.

Every time I retreat inward

I feel it crawling, clawing

on the inside of my eyelids

like cat that wants to be let out.

That feverish third eye

that knows without knowing,

that stirs the primordial soup

and remakes itself each day

on the bones of my grief.

I feel everything to exhaustion,

you might say I am histrionic.

Perhaps you will think me a villain

for all the confession I have made.




Sunday Writing Prompt #242 “The House as Self”

For the challenge I decided to take pictures inside drawers and cabinets and all the places you don’t usually see when people are showing off their houses. I organize when I get stressed, at least sometimes.  I have other coping mechanisms too like exercise or writing but whatever it is I tend to be obsessive. I have unlimited energy for the thing I am obsessed with and a very low tolerance for anything else. I am not like this all the time though, thankfully because I don’t think anyone could live with me if I was.

Sorry for the blurriness hands are freezing!



Coffee is on top, tea on the bottom. We have a tremendous amount of tea. I never drink coffee.


My 10 year old daughter’s sock drawer


A little snippet of the downstairs bathroom, the one my daughter uses. Nothing is perfect I mean what does that even mean? It is all about accessibility, at least I try to make everything as convienient as possible to use and find. I don’t always succeed but I really do try to be considerate even when I am on a rampage. If it hadn’t been late I would have taken a few more shots.



Tale Weaver # 55 Making Sense of Nonsense – Agrotive


A thousand pipettes fire
from the minarets
of my deconstructed soul.

I have the itch again,
that need which being bottomless
is without resolution.

My hands stick to the keys,
to the letters crowding in retrospect.
I hate everything I read.

Paper towns, miles of fog,
an agrotive of eyeless houses
shuddering in the distance.

Today my words topple like soldiers
in a mass grave each one a father, a son,
an unrecognizable mask of death.

These are not the words I was born with,
they come not from my muse
but as a consequence of her neglect.

Wordle #239


I am a maelstrom of transparencies
and coercions, whether in sincerity or jest
I gravitate toward the impossible
ever impulsive, often insane.

Even love succumbs to rage
in the absence of truth.
My hands wreathe and yearn
excavating letters from the stillness.
There is freedom in attack,
in the mating of instinct and aim.
I know only what I must do
not who I am and certainly
not what I will become.
The sun meanders through clouds
crisp as sheaves of paper, two by two
phrases collapse in mute misunderstanding.
How is it possible that these blood-soaked volumes
which prey so vehemently upon my heart
mean so little to yours?


I curtail the prodigal blue of your souring gaze,
a moment unto itself, a collision of scars and artifacts.
I can’t consolidate my past with your relentless nostalgia.
The stars do not cross, they drip
their nomadic splinters into my callused dreams.
Spinning circles, collecting flowers, writing
and everything we are is an exorcism
doomed to fail but perpetually administered.


Where has Yves been? I apologize to anyone I might have worried in my unexplained absence. Winter is hitting me hard this year and I fear I have entered a kind of quasi hibernation state. Eating, sleeping, compulsively preparing my den. My husband is also suffering with Depression and is currently feeling very low. Even my daughter is experiencing mood swings from bouncing off the walls to sulky/whiny. We are a fine mess! With the holidays everyone is home and so we have attempted several outings which have kept me away from the computer much of the day (come night I am too tired to put anything together).

While I have not received a response from every magazine I have submitted to, every one that has responded has replied with a NO THANKS. The rejections have been polite and none of them have suggested that I should never write again or that it would be a waste of time to submit again (some have encouraged future submissions) but they are still rejections. I am wondering if I should continue pursuing magazine publication or just go with self-publishing my own books? While I have found magazines that have some great poetry (none that have wowed with every poem but some gems), I don’t think I have found a magazine that suits me exactly. I think my writing may be too abstract but not so abstract as to be deliberately nonsensical. I think my work is in this uncomfortable state of quasi-reality that just isn’t fashionable, classification specific enough. Still, I think some people want to read my poems and I sure as hell want to write them. Only right now I am processing the rejections and feeling supremely vulnerable and guarded about the whole business. I will snap back. I know it but right now this is where I am.

Some of you may not know this but I am obsessive. My mom calls it OCD, I call it hyper-focus but who knows. If I am focused on exercise I will exercise several hours a day, draw up exercise plans, diet plans, weigh and measure my food, weigh and measure myself, read about exercise, watch exercise/nutrition related videos, dream about exercise, think about exercise nonstop to the point where anything not specifically exercise/nutrition related becomes a bother (did I mention I also talk about the topic until other people want to either join my obsession or murder me?). Right now I am like that about organizing. I lay awake at night thinking about boxes and organization but since I have literally organized everything in the house I am just sort of left picking up lint off the floor mindlessly whenever I am home. Maybe I have OCD, maybe! The thing is I am not that way all the time. I have 3 big obsessions diet/exercise, cleaning (as a kid this meant 3 hour baths daily and rearranging our house continuously), and writing. I have others but those are the big 3. As I said though I am not always obsessed, I can go weeks without being stuck but when I get stuck I don’t usually unstick until I complete the mission, if there is a mission, wear out or become frightened. I might get stuck on the exercise bit for a year and then realize I have lost way too much weight and the sight of myself in the mirror snaps me out of it again (I never seem to mind the buying new clothes part though, except when adult clothes no longer fit). I am hoping once my delivery comes in from Ikea with more storage boxes and I have sorted that it will be enough. If it doesn’t do the trick I may have to literally write a schedule that forces me to do other things for a while until I regain my bearings. Sigh.

Writing Prompt #139 “The Magician”

The Magician

Mark Stavish

Overflowing with wreaths of smoke

I am a heated pot, gurgling, impatient.

The words I love, the gift that I

do not own but borrow though the timing

does not often suit me.

Some things must be done

and no amount of even ifs will steady

the hand once the need strips

those skulking sheets their innocence.

I am uncommon, a candle

burning in its own juices,

once untenanted, I burn,

spectral and appetent.

The things I know shame me.

My great and ghastly divots,

my scars wet as the day

they were cast. I am pitiful,

miserable, I bereave myself,

offal cast as pearls, heart

a stalk of weather-hardened barely.

For The Love Of The Whip

I don’t hold many threads in the bid for sanity.

The rejections pile in and though they are not cruel

they have become common, at times unshakable.

I could write of other things. I could write more directly.

I could coat my skin in lard that the tears would cease to leek through

but in the end I cannot recant my love of the whip.

Happy Holidays everyone =) Sorry no holiday themed poems from me! Right now I have an obsessive need to organize but I have organized my house and there is nothing, even my storage closet it tidy.