another daydream

another daydream

Tuesday, January 7, 2020

"Spiel" (Word Golf)

Spiel


She could say the mistake was fake
or pour him a little more saké,

plead that she’s not as sane
as portrayed, not the same

as any synonym for tame,
contained (who doesn’t teem

with vicissitudes?), to seem
the rub rather than mending seam, 

rather than soothing sonata, to beam
ambiguously. More words for the ream

all mean one thing: she’s unmistakably real. 


~LCMH

[Word Golf in this instance means we go from "fake" to "real" in ten moves, one letter at a time.]

Tuesday, December 17, 2019

It's a Wrap



Thank you for spending time with me at mix and moss poetry in 2019! One of the highlights 
of the year was hosting a poetry tent at 'Art on Cullers Run.' I loved having conversations 
with kind strangers (and new friends) about writing––while being outdoors in the beautiful 
setting of a mountain arts festival. The poetry tent will reappear in 2020, along with other 
events, and, of course, more poems. 
Wishing you peace...

Charise

Wednesday, December 4, 2019

"Eating Nasturtiums"

Eating Nasturtiums 


Peppery bloomskins make me salivate
––orange taste uncitrus––rambunctious unlike 
inedible ranunculus––zing surprising 
––reminiscent of salted dried plums from 
the Chinese market, La Cresta, in the sweat 
of Panama City––keeping the seed tucked 
into my inner cheek long after sucking the gnarly 
fruitmeat––only once downing the rocklike 
remnant while tying my shoes for the first time––
reassured that it would pass through me––
that we discard the wrong material––
we are made to be revised.   



~ LCMH

Wednesday, November 20, 2019

"Alterations"

Alterations


I want a hero of a certain type,
            a muse who gabs for newer garb
custom-made for archetype
            of shape shifter, a tarot card

hermit who emerges without hype
            or hardened heart,
an orphan of the night tilting light
           by walking backward,

            Magritte’s chapeau to alight
from gallery to weary guard,
            surreal to set things right,
a little prince to free the sword 

            as words from stone, to see    
the stone as notes for poesy.   


~ LCMH

Friday, November 1, 2019

"Uber Rubric"

Uber Rubric


Autumn is an aria––
warm tones of yellow, orange, red.
Resonance resounding
as conversations shift in sedans, suvs
––oratorio out of the ordinary
when solo rounds have company.
We confess from front and back seats
to know a thing or two about the weather
and whether our exchange is philosophy,
prophecy, or counsel as strangers
in an arranged ride. Outside, the wind
greets leaves with a shake and lets
them loose, an encounter that will color
sidewalks, curbs, alleys, forest floors
alike. Yellow, orange, red––more
ground to cover at each stoplight. 



~ LCMH

Thursday, October 17, 2019

Something for Autumn

Leaves in Couplets


Some would rather plead than leave,
lack etiquette

of
fallen
leaves.



~           ~           ~           ~           ~           ~    


What happened to the raking of the Rake? Such soliloquies
lose cadency by the Blowers of the leaves.



~           ~           ~           ~           ~           ~


I’d like to bask in the befores, afores, the eves,
and idle        between        the turning leaves.



~           ~           ~           ~           ~           ~


                     ~ LCMH




Wednesday, October 2, 2019

"Dead Journalist"

Dead Journalist

October 2nd.
There’s a blank column
staunch as a pillar
on page A27
of the Washington Post
reserved for the writer
who would have had
something to say,
who has something to say
by effacement.
The stop of speech
hits like stone, like matter.
But what matters doesn’t
...when tangibles tangle
our pleasantries.
The sinews of silence
stand up, stand anyway,
ready to run for their life.


~ LCMH

Monday, September 23, 2019

A Dour Ditty


Dry

Dry the grass
the action past
dry without mast
will not sail east
north south west
seems a storm be best
seems the clouds must
amass must cuss
us out to summon dust
of our victories dust
of our complacent
posture holding us fast



~ LCMH