Ivory Thieves

Bear this in mind… I don’t write poetry. But there is something very poetic in this photo, and that something—whatever it is—inspired me this week.


ff piano

The dead of ivory gone

88 keys stripped bare

The white is their treasure

Not the music that soars emotion among heights and depths

Not the sonorous miracle peculiar to this ambitious creation

Not the woodwork that curves beautifully, gracefully strong

They want white whom can only lay lifeless, void of sound or joy on their own.

Those cold and finite thieves steal away the dead,

And leave the bones of the miraculous to grow new life.

Friday Fictioneers: 100 word stories inspired by a photo that Rochelle Wisoff Fields posts every week.  This week’s photo courtesy of Anshu Bhojnagarwala



Fire Angel – Friday Fictioneers


She came through fire,
and she will return through fire,
her path is straight
she knows precisely what to do.
All the girls, being used
spit on, hit on, hurt
looked down on,
she will lift up,
and make strong.
These women, who’ve been scarred inside and out,
she will avenge.
She will hunt the oppressors down
and end them
with fire.
Because her heart has known pain
and her mind has known fear
at the hands of one who was meant to love her.
It pushed her through flame
making her see, giving her strength.
And now she will not abide
the abuse
on any of her daughters
Wow, so late this week (last week?) Better late than never, I suppose.

Friday Fictioneers: a story in 100 words prompted by a picture that Rochelle Wisoff-Fields posts every Wednesday.

Here’s a link to the rest of the stories for this week: Friday Fictioneer Stories

Friday Fictioneers – Savior From The Sun


The sky today
is covering
a dark grey blanket
that smothers, hanging low.
And the people in the streets
stoop, afraid to scrape their heads
to scoop out gooey fluff
in their hair from the sky.
So they go back inside
to keep their heads clean
and they whistle
and they wait
for the sun to return
to burn away the grey.
But when the sun comes back
they’re afraid of the heat
and though it’s not so bad
it makes them think of baking buns
so they run back inside
and they whistle
and they wait
for the blanket to return
their savior from the sun.

Friday Fictioneers: a story in 100 words prompted by a picture that Rochelle Wisoff-Fields posts every Wednesday. Here’s the collection link.



And the sound of wind,
thick and harsh
through the trees,
as it blows the storm away
to haunt someone else;
It leaves behind
the smell of earth;
freshly cleansed,
new, toxins seeping deep,
down, filtering.
The trail of dark clouds breaking up
opening for the sun
-like sentries making way for their king,
And the king rains down
polishing the streets in light
so they glisten.
And everything is fresh,
And a rainbow graces his presence
just for a moment
he’s shy – sensitive
things must be just right for him to come out.
But all else is green, even dead grass looks greener
now that the rains have stopped.
And the air that had been bounced around and purified,
during the storm
can slow down – and pick up
the fragrant flowers, the sweet earth
and the magic.
Given to us,
For no other reason
than to enjoy.

Hardwired For Blood

He’s hardwired for blood
His body evolved to kill
to kill on land and in water
his teeth, white and jagged, meant to tear
meant to crush bone, meant to rip sinew.
He is a predator, his ancestors still roam and pillage in gangs
and they spark fear in humans.
When they howl, our hearts grow faint
and the hollow returns to our stomachs.
And he is their offspring, though we built him specifically to hunt.
And his natural diet, muscle and eyeballs and liver and skin
and hearts,
he would eat them even if they were still beating.
He stands before me, drool dangling from jowl to floor,
This predator, nature’s killing machine
hardwired for blood
he won’t take his eyes off the food, it is obvious what he wants,
this predator
he whines at me, and growls a little.
Then yawns.
This predator, this hunter, this killer,
whines for what he wants:
the chocolate cake on my plate,
and a nap.


we could

you like what you’re told to like
you wear what you’re told to wear
you can’t think for yourself
because you’re taught not to
in high school.
your hair is like everyone else’s
your shoes are like everyone else’s
you look around
and you say
Yes, i will be like everyone else
because that is what boys want
and you are told
that’s all that matters.
So yearbook pictures
row after row
same after same
until the popular one gets blue hair
and like vultures circling a kill
you pounce
and then we drown
in blue hair.
But what if you thought for yourself?
what if you wore something else,
what if you did something else
with your life?
How many more Curie’s
How many more Brontë’s
How many more Earhart’s
could we have,
If we were just told
we could be different
we could be smart
and still be beautiful.