The Spider’s Dilemma

I stepped outside a few minutes ago, just to feel the unusual February warmth and stare absently at the city light and night sky, and was struck by the moon. It’s a full–or nearly so–shrouded in wisps of clouds like the tulle for a bridal veil. It was behind a criss-crossing tangle of branches that made me think of a web, which led to this poem.


What will the spider do

when she awakens to find

the moon

caught in her web


Kooky Cookie poems inspired by Basho

It’s a hot night. Unbearable. I tried sleeping, but it led to tossing and turning and calling down curses upon Summer. So what does one do when one feels all hot and bothered on a Summer night? Why get up and read Basho, of course. One haiku in particular stuck out for me, and it’s pretty obvious why. Inspiration struck my boiled brain, and I sat down and whipped out a baker’s dozen of pomes and haikoos in “homage.”

Here is Basho’s haiku:

Awake at night–

the sound of the water jar

Cracking in the cold.


And here is a sampling of mine. Enjoy!


Awake at night

with an empty cookie jar

and a glass of milk whiter than

the moon.


Fingering the cookie jar

Finding only crumbs

Licking them from my fingers.


Feeling inside the cookie jar

I find only the Spirits of Cookies Past

but they don’t taste the same.



I didn’t live alone

I could blame


for the empty



two moon poems

From our kitchen table where I sit each night to write, I have a great view of downtown and the night sky. Tonight I caught a glimpse of the moon and, inspired, wrote these two poems.



A rusty nail

hammered crookedly into the sky–

the moon.


The Moon

slinking through branches

wait to pounce

on a passing car.

In Any Case. . . The Moon

Once, I went for walks every night, and always for company I had the moon. Now, with a baby in my life, those nightly constitutionals have come to an end, and rarely do I see the moon. Its existence to me came to be much like the planets–I know they’re there, but never see them. Upon seeing the moon again, I jotted down this poem in my writing notebook.

The moon

which I haven’t seen in weeks

still rises

waxes wanes

still shines

over all of us

abed asleep

or in the street

stumbling drunkenly

or perhaps just lost

and looking for a home

that isn’t there anymore.

Just the moon

which I haven’t seen

in weeks.