The night-soil swallowed me up
Land, the dirt above my fingers I grasp
Knows all the stories of my years
You stood above mourning those times
Even that time I spilled the tea
When those moments have lost
You look one last time, and leave
Are you going to keep, you wonder or
Lost in reverie for the rest of your days

“The land knows you, even when you are lost.”
Robin Wall Kimmerer -Braiding Sweetgrass

(Hour 14/Sonnet)

Under the shoulders I lift
Placing gently down and safe
I adjust for comfort

(Hour 13/Haiku) Written as a brief thought about the work I do.


I stared at the from the window

Is it that their perfect taut skin

By its indefiniteness

Not catching the light but it

Reflects the shadows that fall forth

From those heartless soulless voids

And I’m drawn to their immensities

They are not of this universe

And thus, their cracked smiles stabs us

I look to you from behind

My breath caught with the thought of you

Your annihilation, that same smile

When did it happen?

Beholding the depths, your vacant eyes

The white depths of the milky stare

You’ve made your way, your hand outstretched

I’ve nowhere to go, so I turn.

(Hour 12)

“Is it that by its indefiniteness it shadows forth the heartless voids and immensities of the universe, and thus stabs us from behind with the thought of annihilation, when beholding the white depths of the milky way?”


John Langan The Fisherman


those strange wonderful nights they shared
capturing a firefly behind their darkened home
in a little bottle they decorated in the faded gloam
in a  little bottle they held, they compared (more…)


Those strange wonderful nights they shared
Capturing a firefly behind their darkened home
In a little bottle they decorated in the faded gloam
In a  little bottle they held, they compared

The tiny heat from the glowing
Bonking against the glass
Without ever really knowing
Just how many flitted about the tall grass

How strange it was that summer
We ended up against the treeline
Tapping against that gossamer
How sooner we’d have to adapt

They’d trapped us instead
Their intentions we’d misread

(Hour 9)


sudden blackness
dousing his
good spirits

He had
tried to speak
and he would let it
used this savage power
that was coming back
where he had for years

trying to recapture

I skipped the emoji poem. I was at the end of my work day, and very tired, so translating emoji’s was not going to be my thing. I skipped the random prompts and went right to blackout poetry.

This was an excerpt from Stephen King’s Salem’s Lot

(Hour 8)

Season of the Bee

We caught bees on the hot summer playground.
In little plastic bags
they buzzed-
little angry,
little confused
little balls of anxious.

Who knew this would stay with me
for all these years.
That one memory
threaded through all the others.

This girl and I, we took them in.
Our little plastic bags inside a
bigger paper bag.
We kept them in the
closet of the dusty classroom.
Our hidden secrets closed away
from all the rest.

(Hour 7)

tracing lines in sand
quiet wind by the ocean waves
lazy summer here

(Hour 6/Haiku)


Limitless roads
Weary passengers weighted
against time;
Racing the moon, clouds
Long stretches of nothing
racing by
reaching beyond eyesight
Those sprawled landscapes placed
Gently by the hand of God
His fingertips brushing the against
The gently blowing grains
Playing kick the can with tumbleweeds
Spirals of old dirt across the roads
Sprawled out gardens of concrete
lines of perfectly rowed trees
unrelenting, on and on.

(Hour 5, Photo Prompt)