Write her love letters

so she knows where to look for the sunrise

Envelope her in

clouds of tender kisses

Slight on her skin

Caressing her cheek

as a rose petal

may bruise her blushing

Remind her of your

boundless connection

Demonstrate your love

Being dependent

On her breath for life

Baba Yaga’s House

I live in baba yagas house

My life presses up against the windows

Threatening to explode into a thousand bits & pieces

It’s like trying to make a call on Christmas morning

Bustling with spells cast with open heart

The truth in wisdom laying down gently is misinformed

Wisdom is furious battles with important happenings

Struggles rectified with triumphant beheadings

I live in Baba Yaggas house poised on her spoon

Forged by the oven’s high heat, taunting foolishness closer

Watching the White, the Red, and the Black

Racing by the windows covered in cobwebs

Resplendent in the tatters of Chronos’ robes

With a sharp sin of her house that dances on chicken legs

I am granted temporary reprieve into the sky clad night

I cast as she taught me and my house is hers

My hearth gives purpose, ruminations of grounds gained

Immersions into dark wisdom refreshingly blessed

Yes, I live in Baba Yaga’s house.

Lent to Easter

Where nuts & fruits throw themselves to gruesome deaths

Upon samurai paring knives

(Little swords of choppy clops)

I watch carefully for non-existent patterns

That sputter & fizzle like bangers & mash on Easter Sunday

My mom makes sure you don’t forget

She made Colcannon, a traditional Irish dish.

She gave on plastic grass

in lopsided plastic baskets

Reused, named,

Equitably packed

deaf chocolate rabbits that couldn’t poop

Malted milk eggs and waxy sixlets or coins

And a custom gift like Sweet Honesty

in an Avon silver-toned deer

Or the envied Matchbox cars or Hot Wheels

With real opening doors

that tossed imaginary victims

to gruesome imaginary deaths

Stilted House

Baba Yaga's House
This is missing chicken legs

I live in Baba Yaga’s house

My life presses up against the windows

threatening to explode into a thousand bits & pieces

It’s like trying to complete a call on Christmas morning

I live with Baba Yaga’s siren

All-knowing; All seeing; All brimstone’s gift

I watch attentively for non-existent patterns

Sometimes warp, weft, and weave draw-in

She flashes me what to know

She whispers, “We are sisters.”

She made me bend my knees

As I consider her value against my own worth

I know that together wisdom shall come

It is by my right of birth

Blueberry Pancakes

I love blueberry pancakes.

the ones my dad makes for me

when I get to spend the night.

They are emotions spread into 6″ rounds

with bubbly edges stained purple.

It’s how he tells me

“You mean so much to me.”


“I love you berry much.”

That’s not him, that’s me.

It’s the connection with a father

MY DAD that worked hard

so she wouldn’t have to.

It’s the flavor of buttered syrup

a modicum of sweet drizzled

over bruised blueberries

bubbling more

than some battered fruit

The stacks of his generous heart

tower over the platter

that he places on the table

solid, like him, dependable,

sturdy as stock he stands

I accept his gift as he tells a joke

with the punchline

strategically placed

in middle the middle

Diamond and Pearl

For only one as rare as this could be uniquely pure.

The diamond attended to the pearl

born magic in a mundane world

The truth made in error,

filled hearts with deep terror

As the sapphire dismantled the girl

The pearl cast herself before swine

which caused her to cross a line

Denying her birth

she refused her worth

She ran til she unhinged her mind

The diamond polished the pearl

comforted the horrified girl

No longer in error

soothed away terror

Returning her holy to the world.

Highland Hill

The trio of bicycles barreled down the hill

The leader, arms flowing out behind him like a superhero cape

He Whooped and hollered joyously

As he careened bullet speed

Breathlessly gripping handlebars solid rescue

But only when the fear became overwhelming

His second, perhaps best friend,

Chased after the first bike reverently

Reckless, he is not; brave he be

The frightening freedom pulses wildly

From the words of the “safe” straggler:

“Oh my God!” Is Doppler effected

They are clearly exhilarated; shaken (not stirred) like Yahtzee dice

Throwing winds of change behind them

They push the envelope between light and dark

Like when the streetlights come on

When it’s five minutes more stolen: of living fully