Fetching Dickinson

She Selects
Her Own

Words of
Her Mind in Motion–

Abstracting Image–
Disintegrating Time and Place


Until Words

Her Chamber Safe–
From Modern inference

And Absent
Strange Beauty
Reveals itself
In its Shining


Lament for Miss Adelaide

Lament for Miss Adelaide

On this
Starry set guys and ghosts
Block out subterranean crap-games,
Her psychosomatic blues sing out
Ol’ blue eyes.

But he won’t cure her
With Bromo fizz … pearls and mink
Wraps and the final curtains of red
Lipstick clad dolls.

In the style of this week’s Poem of the week: two cinquains by Adelaide Crapsey


Writing poetry
is a secret source
of calm. Safe.


You spend your time reading
Poetry? Really?
Makes me feel uncomfortable,
Just thinking about it.

Too close

She didn’t like to talk about such things as politics
or poverty. Wouldn’t dirty her hands in any way.
She already knew the answers. Better off kept buried
than resurface tortured and dying. Safer that way.
Hide the spade. Change and all the dirt flying about.
Privy to the other side of things:
the reasonable, the calm and the beautiful,
(we don’t riot here, do we?)
beholden for all she was worth,
besides why do you need to get so hot about it?
Change the subject, she’d say.
Take a book, a painting, pottery,
anything at all, but she couldn’t get away.
Not really. Her dislike was written in every book,
in every picture if she dared to look,
even her fingers in the wet slab of clay
kneading away brought it way too close.