Because the Taste of Storms Feeding Tongues and Sparking Word-Lust Is Freaking Irresistible

I tasted the storm
feeding your tongue and my ink
(pure tinder and flint),
screaming, “Let’s spark words of love
hot enough to curl hate’s toes.”


the (not so) wee note…
– I wasn’t going to post today because… well, I’m supposed to be resting. I tried resting… but my mind kept on tapping her foot and glaring… You see, last Saturday, over on Instagram, the folks of Blackout_Poetry_Challenges, um… challenged us to blackout a piece from one of our favorite Instagram poets. I’ve always been taken by @ip_writings. So, of course, I asked her if I could. She said, “Yes you can!” And I did. Then, I stopped by the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads and read Sanaa’s prompt. Dear Sanaa invites us to “pick a few words or a short line from a favorite poet” and… well, I’m a sucker for coincidences (which I’m convinced don’t exist). So, I posted the tanka you just read. Yep, that’s how my mind works. Pure madness galore.

my blackout poem

the original yumminess
(and I’m all with her, we should “brag about love… and words” always)
click on the image to delight in her poetry

Chilling Heat

“The only hope, or else despair
Lies in the choice of pyre or pyre-
To be redeemed from fire by fire
[or, at least, to get even more
sizzled by fiery cheekiness]
~ T.S. Eliot [+ a muse gone wild]


Our love lies
under snow curtains
warmed by hope,
singing of spring boons
while frost bites on ears.

If your flesh loses all warmth, my girl, I’d want you still.

I hear
you joke about
falling hard for a frigid girl,
and think, Necrophilia
isn’t cool.

To escape your chilling heat, I’d barbecue your bosom.



the wee notes…
– partly inspired by Fireblossom’s hysterical post, “How Not to Write a Love Poem”, which sardonically says that when poetizing love, a poet should “Use ‘burning’ and all its variations, liberally: Burning lips, fiery fingertips, barbecued bosom…” I’ve been burning to use the phrase “barbecued bosom”, or something like it, ever since. Yes, I cackled (and cringed) after I wrote this.
– this piece contains a tanka, a cinquain, and two self-proclaimed free verses.
– for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads and Hedgewitch’s Friday 55.