FRIEDA ROSE IS PRICKLY (August Postcard Poetry 2018)

You are prickly, Frieda Rose.

A fiery, petulant, pugnacious, pouty soul.

Compliments have to be

massaged carefully

Like ointment

onto your fragile ego

Sweet nothings must be

delivered in drops

Like antibiotics

into sensitive ears

Caresses must be gingerly layered

like surgical gauze

over damaged emotion.

For you are prickly, Frieda Rose,

A barbed cactus

among soft-petaled dahlias.


Copyright 2018

THE IMPORTANT STUFF TO FRIEDA ROSE (August Postcard Poetry 2018)

She lists important things on a portable Underwood

(Species of freshwater fish

All known shades of blue)

Using a non-serif font on ordinary bond paper

(Antonyms for apathy,

Feeding habits of manatees)

Bakes these lists into chocolate fortune cookies

(Average temperature in Tahiti,

Lyrics to “Free Man In Paris”

Packs them in brown paper bags labeled “Most Important Stuff”

(Names of all the moons of Neptune,

Every Inuit word for “ice”)

Leaves them on a bench, in the park by the river

(Best sake to drink in the moonlight,

How to apologize sincerely in Greek)

For the brave and the homeless

Who always need to know.


Copyright 2018


THE HOBBY OF FRIEDA ROSE (August Postcard Poetry 2018)

She lives like a ghost

Fourth floor above him

Mute, invisible

Sleeps with the moon.

He lives like a poet

Personal hell below her

Driven, impossible

Drinks ink from the night.

Words float between them

Written, unspoken,

Abundance of imagery

Coating the walls.

He puts out recycling

She ransacks the bin

Creating a kimono of prose

Sashed with haiku.


Copyright 2018



THE PHOTO IN FRIEDA ROSE’S WALLET (August Postcard Poetry 2018)

He lives in her wallet, face out of focus,

Single frame sliced from a photo booth strip.

They met in a library book



page 126

Hair electrified by lightning

Eyes on fire from dreams of volcanoes

Mouth sweetened on untold lies.

Men have lusted after and loved her.

She forgets each and every one

Obsessively pulling out the lone photo

Searching for the unknown man

The only one that she wants.


Copyright 2018



She unearthed the box near the curb

Buried beneath white trash bags

An old seat cushion

Woolen, electric blue,

The color of secrets

The size of a mother’s heart.

She filled it with mystery

The size of a hummingbird’s egg

Stuffed it with wonder

Scented by Babylon

Placed it dead center

Under her lonely platform bed

Voyaging on nightly visions

Distilled by the vapors

Of its contents.


Copyright 2018