Can the ocean feel?

There where the land splits apart,

who heals the edges?


J. Pratt-Walter


Continental Drift

From the air the rift is obvious.

Cascades, Sierra Nevadas —

I see how the Earth folded herself,

intimate and generous

into the shift and spread.


Between us, the space is not so clear.

I have bent, turned, given in, broken down

and hidden


but the quakes, the insults,

the mean stares and rivers of anger —

where does this plain and transparent

continent of me

drift to?


J. Pratt-Walter



Soundless, the roses

sing their fragrant music that

only I can hear.



J. Pratt-Walter



First you awaken.

The day paints its hope on you

on the heart’s canvas.


Jennifer Pratt-Walter


Return When the Hour Calls

How it Ends is

just the beginning.

Sleep here tonight, then leap

out that bright new door.

See, I love you too much

to measure.  Tommy, may that day

come again, where

I curl into a bowl and you purr,

where you speak and I know

Love has not one boundary, not one!

Dear One, return

when the hour calls for the

orange and white joy

that the soul of a cat can bring.

Look back when you can,

and remind me of love when I feel

too empty.

J. Pratt-Walter, (c) 8/2017

Black Wings

We cannot eat this bread.

A shadow reached all the way around

the sky

as a life tilted away like a

country road headed north.


We sometimes forget

just how to move air in and out —

There are no easy breaths here.

We search for life, and find

loss instead.

We seek reasons, but find

no words

but “broken,” “mystery,” “gone,” “sorry.”


Starved, we long for light, but find

the black wings of a darkness too vast

to walk through.  Meanwhile

 I will cry, then

I will bake a new kind of bread to awaken

a different kind of morning.

 J. Pratt-Walter, (c)  8/2017





In this fierce desert

I seek the green oasis

blooming in your eyes.

J. Pratt-Walter © 8/2017

Carrying a Torch

To the Muse of Forever Love

Carrying a torch,

they call it,

but I have ignited

both ends

and swallowed flames,

impelling spears of consecrated


deep into the heartland

of my soul.

J. Pratt-Walter, (c) 8/2017

That Day

That was the day her breasts

rose up, areola and nipples and velvet skin,

all on their own, and took back

their sanctity, their


That was the day she knew

she was a Goddess

of the richest kind, no matter

what he said or how

he said it

J. Pratt-Walter, © 8/5/2017

When Tiny Died

When Tiny died, I saw,

even at the moment of death, the sores

on his skin trying like desperate soldiers

to heal themselves.

His lungs hissed out

for new air, even as life pressed away

in a fevered moment.

His wife Shirley

touched the empty bed, the sweat,

the small flowers of blood on the sheet,

then curled up on it, feeling

that final warmth,

his large body alive in her memory

as the morticians bagged him up.

J. Pratt-Walter, (c) 8/2017