Posted in Poetry

Mars red Mars orange

Mars red Mars orange
a map to show me the way across the year

at 10:36 each night tapestry wing-backs that never got recovered like I planned

Mars still keeps time pays us
no attention
though we are watching
Mars entirely too much these days
with chicken little leading the way
the sky has always been falling the stars
don’t seem to know  
to care enough to recover
our shabby tapestry
to reupholster our worn out edges they
just move as they have always moved
Mars red Mars orange

© Jilly  All Rights Reserved

Join me over at dVerse for Meeting The Bar where we are playing with repetition in our poetry. 

Posted in Poetry

Iambic Spider

The seven legged spider knits and sews
Makes seven little socks to warm her toes

What mountains should she climb without a rope?
(it’s tempting here to rhyme by using ‘hope’)

What balance, oh! what symmetry beheld
When once she set about her climb, compelled

Considering her loss she holds her ground
Returning home she stokes the fires, earthbound

The seven legged spider knits and sews
Makes seven little socks to warm her toes

© Jilly & Silly Jilly  All Rights  Reserved

Frank is tending bar at the Poet’s Pub,
dVerse on Thursday night, we’re challenged thus
to meet out lines for Meet the Bar this day
Iambic feet in lines that hold to ten
I cut my teeth on nurs’ry rhymes of old
with thoughts that run within this form each day
And so, my friends, my spider with a crutch
is in the spotlight twice within one week.

Posted in Poetry

Thirty-Five Toes; No Soul

the seven-legged spider

pulls threads through

needles of daffo-lillies

and yuck-a-dills

awaits aphin-lets and buzz-a-winkles

carefully cleaning thirty-five

toes she thought should be


counting the lost five

wondering if it is true

that she lacks a soul

won’t go to heaven after all

© Jilly’s & Silly Jilly  All Rights Reserved

De is hosting the Quadrille at dVerse this week; join us!


Posted in Poetry

One’s Self – En Masse

Upside-down, warped butter crust resting on the speckled-like-a-robin’s-egg-if-it-weren’t-neutral brown counter-top, you lie there, golden soldiers or yellow-brick road tiles, not sure which, nearly perfect symmetry, all in a row, except for one wounded warrior who rose and rested too close to the flame of the oven, with a lightly bruised and burned shoulder, but all else the same as the rest, yet it is what makes you stand out from the rest, catching my eye, wondering if I see mold, no, it’s not mold, just an injury that makes you the slice I leave behind when I make turkey sandwiches for our Thursday lunch, in hopes that you will be, instead, singled out for a solitary honor, like toast or better yet, a crustless straw hat where that ugly  birthmark can be shaved off – it’s painless, I promise – and you will be glorious like the others, no, more so, because they shall continue to be all lined up, yellow-gold, bland, white bread squares, one sandwich like any other, and you alone shall be the Marilyn Monroe with that beauty mark, or I could just turn the loaf over, set it up-right, hiding your shame, pretending I see only the tops, each one perfectly Orwellian like the others, wonderful rectangle of tan, lines demarking the individuality that would spill out like dominoes if I slid the plastic wrapper off with the flourish of a magician all at once, showing off your nakedness, breaking down the barriers of the loaf into its geometric components.

dragonflies hatching

rise from the lake to follow

their own curved road to Oz

© Jilly’s  All Rights Reserved

qbit is our guest-host at dVerse this week for Haibun.

Posted in Poetry

Hitchcock Birds

Hitchcock birds covering the baseball field
the batting cages
they move in murmuration

slow and quick

My blackened voice lifts off the ground with them

(no one sees us)

in a zizz and swirl
soundless except for the air they press and fold

© Jilly’s All Rights Reserved

for De’s Quadrille challenge at dVerse.

Posted in Poetry

Fences and Snakes

black racer slooshed through the short grass
gently startled we
no yelp from me no hiss from he
(or was it a she?)
all silent speed travelling she
(making of us a sisterhood flee)
into the shrub between us and they
who splash and whee! ‘til quarter to three
glee o’er their newly found pool
with thumps and thrums and bass beats
hope she (or maybe he)
made it stealthily through
for a silent black racer
makes for a better neighbor
than they
these middle-night raiders of sleep

© Jilly’s  All Rights Reserved

Björn is hosting Meeting the Bar at dVerse this week and we are slapping a bit of Onomatopoeia into our poetry.  My encounter with this silent visitor occurred right after work yesterday and, smiling at one another, the snake and I made no noise.  My challenge was how to write about that silence with sound.

Posted in Poetry

Foiled Again

there in the door
way beyond any other

there are the bar
staking his hero journey

scanning the room
she glances over you

watching her move
he follows her with his eyes

here on the wall
you see them plotting their moves

there in the night
picture it all in your mind

here in your room
wanting to foil their delight

turning away
for a watched plot never foils

© Jilly’s  All Rights Reserved

Join me, my  friends, as I host Poetics tonight at dVerse!  We will be twisting adages and you are invited to flock with other poets to write and read poetry, and maybe discover that great things come in blog packages.  🙂

Posted in Poetry


I cannot see myself except
I look down and here I am
hands, knees, feet

I cannot see myself except
I look in the mirror and here I am
face, bodyyouconnectwithme

I cannot see myself except
I look in your eyes and there I am
you love me, hate me, disdain me,
dismiss me, envy me, findmeinaccessible

You cannot see myself except
what I let you see, here I am
little girl hiding in the high branches
of my cottonwood tree
wind catching the waxed-paper leaves
clack, clack, clacking

I cannot see myself except
I know I am here



© Jilly’s  All rights reserved

Join me as I host Poetics at dVerse Poet’s Pub this week where we will explore things unseen!


Posted in Poetry

Those Who Wander

There they are, weaving, braking, menacing their innocent way along the bad dream that is I-4. This highway that has more deaths per mile than any other interstate in the nation and it is under a decade-long face-lift. Wrinkles are being removed and crooked bones straightened. Even the locals find it hard to know where the lane lines are, as they text and apply make-up on their morning Orlando commute. But there they are; Tourists. Herds of them arrive every winter from every state and every part of the world.  They are here for our World, Disney, that is. Land of Mickey and home of Harry (Potter – he and Ron and Hermione reside at Universal). So, as I was saying, there they are, weaving, braking, menacing, all in the left lane of the dreaded I-4. Weaving, you ask? That occurs when they spot the Central Casting building for the Magical World, which is, of course, right along I-4. We know them, these Tourists, they have licence plates from places where it is currently snowing and cold and bumper stickers that proclaim their undying allegiance to Epcot. That’s the place with the giant golf ball, in case you didn’t know. They have an event called Drinking Around the World. This car full of Tourists may have already been there for all of their weaving, breaking, menacing.  Florida drivers are known for driving fast; really, really fast. It’s only because we value our lives and want to get quickly around this car full of Tourists.

I floor it and buzz-lightyear past them.  Whew! Made it. Oh no! Look! Just ahead… it’s another one, only bigger! An RV, towing a small vehicle, complete with bike racks and coolers that are mostly strapped down. And what are they doing? Well, you know the routine.

natives garbed in coats
travelers bikini clad
locals travailing

© Jilly’s All Rights Reserved

Join me as I host Unconventional Haibun at dVerse this week!

Posted in 28 Days of Unreason, Poetry


You are not the music that plays in my head
     drum of my soul

You are not the light of my dismal life
     lightning blues in the clouds

You are not the taste of liquor on my tongue
     crushed Concords drenching my face

You are not my shining star
     galaxy, flat as between the hands of God

© Jilly’s All Rights Reserved

for Day 7 of 28 Days of Unreason & dVerse Meeting the Bar & for You

“What beauty in this the darkest music
over which you can hear the lightest music of human
behavior, the tender connection between men and galaxies.”  ~ Jim Harrison
from Warbler / Dead Man’s Float