another daydream

another daydream

Thursday, November 1, 2018

Slow Going

Commuter Pew

On the church marquee:
  “The Gospel According to Moss.”
Doctrine softens…breathes...
on the church marquee
marking the circle, Maryland to D.C.
Cars at a caterpillar crawl in morning rush.
On the church marquee:
  “The Gospel According to Moss.”


Friday, October 19, 2018

Poem Embodied

Poetry and dance meld for a villanelle by Anne Harding Woodworth, "Francesca's Song".
Grateful to perform this collaboration for the annual poetry reading at Parkmont School, Washington, DC.

Monday, October 8, 2018


Have a look at my latest poem "Lost" over at Tuck magazine––a fitting home for this topical piece:

Wednesday, September 26, 2018

Supportive Nature

On the Porch

“He who kisses the joy as it flies”William Blake

It’s not that summer is the best
season. But at the behest 
of nature, life feels epiphanous.

In the simultaneous
lazy, longevity grows slender. 
Thick with humid blooms, summer’s

bound to shift. It’s the swoon over
this butterfly—suddenly your
worst fear lacks a reason to exist––
as it lights upon these sighing lips.


Tuesday, September 18, 2018

Reading the Leaves

Machu Picchu, Peru

Pause. Partake of tea. 
Switch the swell of crisis off
a boil––to savor
harvested serenity.
Steep a fragrant cup.

                  ~ LCMH

Note: although aiming to be a tanka (5-7-5-7-7), this poem became a variant (5-7-5-7-5)

Wednesday, August 22, 2018

Farming a Poem

Small Feast

A poem is like a potato.
If you dig in the right place,
you find food from the soil.
And it’s not your toil
that placed it there––
it’s the yield of
your imperfection.
Don’t put it in the larder
to save for another
time, to look for better.
Give it to us whole, baked.
Say grace. Then part the skin
so the steam brings us
face to face.


Tuesday, August 7, 2018

Woo the Day

Anne Bachelier, artist
(with reflection by day)


Woo the day.
Courtesy to coat 
over a puddle morose, 
so she may cross
the strewn morass––

your jacket
pumiced by day's
dainty gait. 

In the morn
she was a foal.
Fresh as 
you were feisty
to break her in.

By the gloaming,
foaming at the mouth. 
Saddled, she likens to
a lady sashaying streets
in all conditions. 

The bit in your teeth,
you lag behind,

With a curtsy, she’ll bring the dew. 
Sometimes a token.
A horseshoe in the grass. 


Sunday, July 22, 2018

The Little Prince Abecedarius

Le Petit Prince

Art: boa constrictor
devours elephant. 
For grown-ups—
hat inferred. 
Journey knight-like,
lightyears mystical. 
Nonsensical orders, 
Rose speaks to us 
writer Exupéry’s 
yellow-haired zephyr.