My dream had English subtitles


My dream had English subtitles.
I was too busy reading to notice what the dream’s language was.
There was flying, and dogs, and trees, and people who kept changing
into other people. You were there
except it wasn’t you
who I kissed, was it?
But the dogs remained the same.



a 55 (including title) – the first two lines of which are shamelessly stolen from an Austrian friend’s facebook feed today. offered to Shay’s Fireblossom Friday prompt in the imaginary garden with real toads


Can’t spell city without coffee. Country, neither. More’n any fuel – diesel, gasoline, some hybrid cell – ain’t gettin’ going, keepin’ going, without java. Flat white in Perth, sweet in Bangkok, Portland blend, a New York espresso, an LA mocha, from the fields near Kilimanjaro, in a Paris cafe, or a souk in Fes poured from pewter into Turkish small cups, it links us.

Maybe it’s like anything else: water makes the difference
in a man.

Is he holdin’ it, spillin’ it, wasting it.
Does he just dam it

or flow it, let it rest,
does he jump in no matter the cold

or just toe it?
Does he link up

or use it to isolate
turning others into islands?

Maybe that’s what coffee can do: jolt us into memory
that every island touches the sea



a bit of a jumble for Get Listed, in the imaginary garden with real toads


1. The day opened with an eyelid.

2. And a snuffle. Diesel, the yellow lab, lay across the next pillow. His snout exhaled loudly. He still slept.

3. The AC rattled.

4. Outdoors Ohio in late July is a sauna stuck on high with no doorway out.

5. At least there’s a doorway in.

6. Maybe that’s why there are now so many goddamn people. AC. Ice cream. People living on land fit best for flies and moles: air conditioning. Food staying fresh longer than an hour. Being able to breathe, and think.

7. What happens when the power grid fails? When gasoline runs out? Un-slim folk don’t walk too well in the heat.

8. But that’s not today.

9. Today, we can still hear the rattle.

10. And the snuffle. I scratched Diesel’s ears. He opened his eyes, happy.



for Kerry’s Micro-Poetry prompt, in the imaginary garden with real toads.

I’m on a 3-week swing through the heartland: Ohio, New Jersey, South Dakota, Nebraska, for work. Met Diesel the lab in Ohio – he owns one of the humans I work with, and let us share his hotel room.


Big Raven, by Emily Carr. Via real toads.
Big Raven, by Emily Carr. Via real toads.


the same grunts we each utter
with or without vocal chords

how bees whisper beneath a raven’s caw
how grass whistles in the teeth of a pale wind

how blooms take weeks to slip open
how waves susurrate beneath a slit moon

how we forget the pulse of blood
we all share, red or blue




55 for Words Count with Mama Zen (in under 60), in the midst of an aching world.


Fair use - rights belong to lemon hound - no infringement intended
“Peony Unbloomed” – Fair Use – rights belong to lemon hound – no infringement intended, author will remove if requested


we kept the quiet days safe
as the innermost cup in a shy peony’s fold,

you, dancing on petals quick as rain,
me, curled as though to a cheek

but really just to the silent sheets,
flat and fitted to each other

without our intervention.
the door is open; the day, spun;

what once was ours
or never was, is gone



for Shay’s Secret Love prompt, in the imaginary garden with real toads