Tag Archives: Poetry

Bloomin’ Onion


AKA onion blossoms. They’re always at state fairs and greasy steakhouses. Do people outside the States eat these? It’s one of those things that’s just so bad for you, but worth it. Like everything at the state fair, all of which is deep-fried. Cowdog Creatives and I were joking about writing a poem about onion blossoms, now it’s reality.




greasy witch hands reach upward

pointed fingers of batter

inside are pale, limp worm bones

lost vegetable, battered and fried into crustacean

oil pooled in pockets

golden anemone

god of saturated fats

I think there’s an onion in here somewhere

pick a piece like a flower

light, empty crisp

loose guts slip out


How are we going to finish this and then

a sodden cold napkin and dark brown leavings

which even we couldn’t face

throw it away, wipe our fingers

and pretend it didn’t happen

but evidence remains

in our fingers, breath, stomach gurgles
















Do you hear it?

Please say you do too

Scratching, scuttling, nervous sounds

Like a small animal

Whose heart flutters at 200 beats per minute

Whose teeth must ever




It skitters in the walls

Tiny nails abrading wood

But worse

The tiny teeth!

Nibbling the bones of the home

The rafters

The foundation

Scratching the insulation

Gnawing, nesting, breaking down, carrying on

Now you know how crazy people feel

Hearing rats in the walls

It’s a sound which can shatter your sanity

What if you could never escape?

Those constant little scritches

The sound, the feel of damage

That intense high strung entity

So busy inside

Your ceiling and walls

What if you could never escape?














I couldn’t write anything good last night because cats. So here are some silly 3/5/3 haikus I was playing around with.



Birthday cake

Candle porcupine

We love you.



Can’t fit into pants

Man or beast?


Dog flaps ears

Animals do talk

We are deaf


Hostess frowns

Looks askance at me

I farted.













Haibun – Winter Maneuver


Winter  attempts an advance against fall. To one side of the road, a cold snowscape of white-laced grass, two-tone evergreens, ancient gnarled branches softly pillowed with marshmallow, a study in black and white. To the other, fresh grass scattered with the discards of the glowy orange maple, the radiant yellow fingers of the gumball tree, the startling neon red of the burning bushes. Winter is gaining ground against the bounteous color, blotting out the many-hued lawns with pure white primer, heaping icing on the trees’ heads. The trees, still warm and flexible, shake the wet snow from their glorious manes, spattering sidewalk and pedestrian alike with gobs of slush. Dripping sounds off from all sides, in full stereo. Splat. Splat-splat. It was not the sky, but the trees which rained.


Ever she dances

Nature’s unconscious graces

Embrace all conflict














Stepmother Fire

Stepmother to the primal man

her smoke winds upward

her smile bites down

into hardwoods, conifers

animal or man alike

inert or alive

makes no difference to her

she will devour.



digestion open to view

leaves, twigs, paper, logs

all shrivel

she sucks vital fluids

until the remains are featherweight,

mummy dry,

fragile flaky feces.

her life cycle tumbles quickly through

all the stages

from heat to spark to smolder to flame

to bonfire and bigger

no matter how much space she covers

she is never satisfied

she eats herself out of an area

starves, fades, passes away.

In the wake

of her carnage and consumption

humanity warms itself















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