magpie's shiny things - shiny things in messy little piles

Sonnet, circa 2024.

Sonnet, circa 2024

Hold a leaking pen over an inadequate 
notebook. Chew on the derivation of “grace” 
from the Latin gratis—meaning pleasing. 
Seek a place for “apostle” in description 
of a wren. Stand in a mist looking for a verb to 
describe the lightness of the raindrops. 
Break a line against the breath, carry on 
long past where human lungs can take us. Cross 
a sea of images in a flat bottomed boat; play out line;
hope to catch a fresh allegory on a poorly baited hook.
Grope for metaphors lost like loose change 
under the couch cushions. Head down to the bus stop. 
Tumble into the rhythms of another poet’s mind. 
Look for echoes of your own presentments.

Published on The Laundry Line, 13 January, 2026.

Resurrection

Resurrection

Even our own sun will, one day, 
leave its ordained round of the sky
no longer crossing the Milky Way  
or shining only on the 
moon’s bright side.
But wandering off into the weeds
to lie down and rest,
Say to us—no, no you go ahead.

In the dark, waiting,
time will tumble 
unstuck from the clock face.
We will forget
how to determine
lines of meridian.
We will imagine the histories 
of the gods 
that will come after us.

Until the new sun rises,
more rosy than golden.
A sun that dances 
with the planets 
and leads the moon on 
a leash made of spider silk.
And we will watch as
it goes crooked
down the mountain side
carving a new path for the little
stars that spill after.

Published on The Laundry Line, 6 January, 2025.

Catherine Wheel

Catherine Wheel

I live in a pyrotechnic universe 
garish with a bright mathematics 
that allows me to calculate 
how much it has cost me
to buy Rita Hayworth’s 
second wedding dress,
some purple fairy lights 
to hang from my umbrella,
and a pair of ruby slippers 
that will take me anywhere but home.
By 3am,  I have lost my mother’s ring, 
the heel of my right shoe,
and your phone number.
Carrying only my hope of redemption 
and someone else’s car keys,
I cross the lawn, on fire 
and spinning.

Published on the Laundry Line, 30 December, 2025.

Prayer for Winter’s Passing


Prayer for Winter’s Passing

I am all asunder
and have no way to put
myself back together

there is no name sewn carefully
on the front of my shirt
no buttons either
my pants creep away from my socks
my socks have new holes in the toes

my morning has drifted
away from its moorings
as my day creeps away from its morning

if only I could find a pattern in 
the snow drops
that have almost made their 
way above the crusted snow
I can see their
	strap-like leaves
tips bent against the icy dome

but winter holds on 
the morning begins with snow
	and darkness
here beneath we are undone and unknowing
dawn is a thing that happens 
	only above the clouds

Published on the Laundry Line, 23 December, 2025.

Sunday, 17 December


Sunday, 17 December

The draft from the barely 
open window cools my back. 
I listen to the the barn owl 
call his mate back 
from her dawn hunting.

The back door
closes lightly and I hear
this morning’s fire wood 
tumble into the box. 
There is just a tinge of pink light 
on the tops of the trees. 
Enough to see the across 
the clearing but not into the woods. 
Your right slipper squeaks
as you climb the stairs. 

The shower starts and 
I hear water splash against 
the tiles. I turn the pillow
and rest my cheek on the 
cool percale of the other side. 
Downstairs the dog 
clatters her dish across the kitchen 
calling for her breakfast. 

I roll over and listen 
for the soft cooing of the owls 
as they settle for the day. 
The mice are waiting 
for them to fall asleep. 
I drowse too.

Then, I hear your bare feet cross 
the creaking floor. You are bringing me 
hot, black tea and oranges. 
You climb back into bed beside me,
peel the fruit and 
hand me sections. I bite them and 
spill their juice down my chin.
You laugh and rub your bristly cheek 
against the back of my neck.

And I marvel 
at how much I can love you
lying here in the scent 
of our unmade bed 
with the sweetness of December 
clementines on my tongue.

Published on The Laundry Line, 16 December, 2025.