inundated by rain, flotsam and jetsom floats down the street
the river has burst it's banks and now  muddy water flows
through her house, at least her new car is safe on higher ground

we perch above it
this deluge of brown water
cyclone debbie's tears

your echoes die,
your voice is doused by life*

the minutiae washed away
and ground down to sand
dispersed in vesper tides

the feel of your touch
now just froth and bubble
food for fish and crablings


last words whispered on
the wind, whipped away

whilst i was busy,
making lists
and counting coins

oh to hear your shout
one last time
but no
you have left this place

and we must look to living
and leave the detrius
to the sea's forgiveness

treeshaper and huggiver
lived a life of comparative luxury
on the sandedge of the whale road

knowledgespinner lived with them
they were three, happy souls

in a comfortbox, with a nannexe
for  lifeknitter as she gathered
her olderyears...

they had two furlings
one tuxedocat, who hunted air
one longdog with boundless energy
and little understanding.

they did daily things,
but were happiest
when daily things,
were done
and the could
be together as one

fambily..

sisephean soldier *****
roll sand into spheres

seagulls sqwauk and swoop
for skerricks of sausage rolls

shaggy dogs bark and snap
at shifting sand and seas

dolphins dive and swing
throgh wave tips in a secret synergy

and out in the depths
whales sound and sing
with solemn  voices

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 11, 2016)

There are eight laptops on the table:
An HP, a Dell, my Toshiba and four Apples
all plugged into a six-plug hub.

Four rectangular tables braced
together, a fake wood grain.  
Cheat sheets, memory sheets,
plastics full of liquids.

Wild card expressions
regular on methodical faces.
Dimensions and metrics, conversions and hits,
greatest hits on a histogram.

We’re talking about where geographic
channels drive traffic. Where we stand.
Who we are. What does it mean.
Data, data, data, dream big, world takeover.

How I am a cookie on my computer,
ultimately, mysteriously edible.

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 10, 2016)

Rattle
in the talking hours.
One hundred frogs,
a spiritual practice in three lines.
Plainwater, twin cities,
notes on the assemblage.
Bough down ghost girl.

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 9, 2016)

I’m writing this at the airport terminal halfway through a nightmare.
My head is full of three classes (two online), one Infinite Jest reading group, one novel and 30 poems.

First there was the business trip I shuffled all my days for.
Three weeks of being hijacked in paperwork and last minute delays.

The day before my trip had me begging a conference admin to let us register for the middle day which had sold out during said bureaucratic delays.

I scrambled to make it work: the packing, the physical therapy, mailing my mother’s 80th birthday gift.

I forgot to check in for my flight and over the last three days temporarily lost various items including my travel paperwork.  I have spilled multiple liquids on important pieces of paper.

I paid for a tea and there was no tea. I went uncaffeinated. My late-night flight was cancelled.  In the week ahead I will lose steam, lose faith, lose my way and throw up twice.

Such maneuverings drag on the world’s caul.

I woke up at 4 am this morning and feel like I should have a good crying jag. Bernie is not a democrat. Hillary is not a socialist. The arguing will not stop. You know forever it will not stop. I am and we are all way behind in everything and it piles up a cacophony of noise.  I am way to tired
and far too heart superstitious to write a single line
in any way tainted with risk at this moment.

feelin lazy today,
so you get what you get,
turn the page
move on
learn from your mistakes 
be brave face your fears
footloose and fancy-free
don't run with scissors 
smile
stay a while 
catch more flies with honey 
wrong way turn back 
a stitch in time saves nine 
when i was your age 
no rhyme or reason to it 
high road or low road 
polly want a ******* 
click, click, boom
first past the post 
i 'm just a smiling sunbeam 
barrel of monkeys 
to thine ownself be
thank you what doesn't **** you 
hand in the cookie jar 
never seen the like 
flat out like a lizard drinking 
not happy jan! 
take a bex and have a good lie down
pull your socks up!
sunshine and daffodils
slip, slop, slap, put on a hat 
life passes by in the blink of an eye
stand up straight
chip on your shoulder
take note 
laughter the best medicine 
*** 
brainfreeze 
kindness warms the cockles of my heart 
if you can't be nice 
you did not just say that 
umm, ahh, now you in trouble 
quiet now i am watching tv 
do not cry 
don't spray it, say it 
do not tell mum 
it was'nt me 
hava mint,
please lol
go to your room 
do not pass go 
do not collect one hundred $$ 
hello 
all the world's a stage... merely players 
wanna play
go away busy 
want to come over 
can i kiss you 
push 
it's a boy 
what a whopper 
please i've seen better 
do i know you 
the dog ate my homework 
who now 
why am i here
put your clothes on 
what goes up must come down
 life goes on 
is my *** big in this 
stop the merry-go-round,
i want to get off 
whatever
i need a dollar 
tea anyone 
she had a goodlife 
sorry
how much 
every things coming up roses 
what pink pigs flying overhead 
snap, crackle, n'pop 
one sugar or two 
in case i don't see you 
good morning 
good evening and good night
rinse, repeat. set
now see here 
ttyl 
out
take a bow you've earned it

table grain
worn to
soft smooth flannel
under many hands
bleached, bleached
to opaque memories
of tree

stories held within
each cell
birds at nest
leaves in flight
each year
slow deaths
new lifes

now repository
of tableware
keeper of daily cares
slab of timber
dressed and washed
bleached, bleached
still somewhere within
the memories stir
of breeze and rain
the touch of feather and fur

tea ring stained,
and portwine blurred
babies teeth marks
gnawed into wood...

taken from place to place
granfa's table, time for grace
grace and memory
clear the table time for tea

do I remember these things clearly
or is this just an ingrained fantasy

table grain
worn to
soft smooth flannel
under many hands
bleached, bleached
to opaque memories
of tree

stories held within
each cell
birds at nest
leaves in flight
each year
slow deaths
new lifes

now repository
of tableware
keeper of daily cares
slab of timber
dressed and washed
bleached, bleached
still somewhere within
the memories stir
of breeze and rain
the touch of feather and fur

tea ring stained,
and portwine blurred
babies teeth marks
gnawed into wood...

taken from place to place
granfa's table, time for grace
grace and memory
clear the table time for tea

do I remember these things clearly
or is this just fantasy