another daydream

another daydream

Wednesday, January 13, 2021

Patchwork Poem: Writers of The Washington Post

 January 6, 2021

Breaching the barriers

––their flags and banners 

snapping in the cold wind––

sprawling crowd 

shouting, chanting.

Nobody stopped them.

A sickening sight unfurls––

the flags and the onslaught.

Crowds climbed up scaffolding,

surged up the steps,

defied orders to disperse,

breached the capitol.

Our naivete was a talisman 

against disorder. 

The marauders freely roamed,

strolling through the statuaries. 
Precious artifacts were paraded 
around as props and prizes.

It happened because we refused 
to believe it could happen.

A sickening sight unfurls. 

Your gas masks are under your chairs.

This souring sentiment 

may lead to more violence.

This blindness to cataclysm

snapping in the cold wind.



Writers of The Washington Post: Dan Balz, Rebecca Tan, Peter Jamison, Meagan Flynn, John Woodrow Cox, Marc Fisher, Jessica Contrera, Carol D. Leonnig, Aaron C. Davis, Dan Lamothe, David A. Fahrenthold, Phillip Kennicott, Philip Rucker, Maura Judkis, Ellen McCarthy, Marissa J. Lang



Thursday, December 31, 2020




When comfort divorces you,

whether or not 
this was warranted, 
whether or not 
you assumed its existence 
had a guarantee

––like those plates 
advertised not to break––
whether or not you saw this coming,
you want to go back 
to normal that’s torn asunder.


It may be harsh to meet 

a surface of concreteness

whether or not 
you call it a ‘new normal’
to save your ass 
from the guesswork
of hazardous life.

Whether or not 
you cried, unsteady 
as a toddler trying to walk, 
this is freefall; 

you launch into the dark

––like a moth, not 
particularly lovely,
taking on the night shift 

of pollination 
as each nocturnal jasmine 
opens, opens––
whether or not
you can sleep,
beauty is consuming 
the darkness. 



Friday, December 4, 2020

"Sound Storm"

    ––for my fellow tinnitus sufferers 

Sound Storm

Abracadabra’s best chance, 

denied. Elusive, former,
ghosted hearing…ill-defined.  
Jangling katzenjammer.

Listening mixes noise 
over people’s questions, 
revelations, sagas. 

Tinnitus ululates, vibrates, 
whirrs, xylophonic. 

Yammer zaps.


Thursday, November 12, 2020

A Reminder

Poem can be a verb––to poem, poeming. I love this maxim, created as a hashtag in the land of Instagram. It's about putting into verse the voice of your soul. How timely. 

Warm wishes, 

Charise (@charhogepoet)


Monday, September 14, 2020



Sunset. Porch View. Lost River. West Virginia. 
This is the place...where much of my poetry is made, including "On the Porch" published this July in the Tiny Seed Literary Journal. You may have read "in Lost River" from the chapbook...even "Oh Orlando" was written here. May this view of September sunset commune with the part of you that lives for these moments...of beauty, of nature, of reprieve from worldly worry, of the strength of mountains...wherever you are. 

As Kalhil Gibran writes, "Does not your house dream? and dreaming, leave the city for a grove or hill-top?"

Warm wishes,

Saturday, August 29, 2020



You’ve moved in like a mistress, 

unwanted houseguest, paramour

putting a marriage into distress.

More than anyone bargained for,

freeloading on the betrothed,

stealing their embrace. Wait.

Breath you take away, know

that a debt will accumulate––

needing someone to survive––

opportune partner won’t last

forever––you’ll need to revive.

Soon desperate for a recast

and there’s a limited supply.

It’s ill-fated––your modus operandi.  


Friday, August 14, 2020

Wall Poem

When you are spending more time at home here in 2020, you may get some crazy whimsical ideas about what you want to look at on your walls. This haiku I wrote a few years ago is my choice for a sunroom spot above a mirror, beneath a bronze work of art by a dear friend. 

Domestic transcendence is a possible destination. May you find your own version of this kind of destination...

Be well (and whimsical),