prompts: lock mock sock war store shore score door lore wake gores glib alight choir

September 6, 2021 to September 19, 2021

from the new moon to the full moon in Virgo

My hair smells faintly of you living in the strands
The memory locks on briefly,
tightens in a playful pull for your reaction

The wolf, starved, eyed the food left at the door of civilization. A steel bowl garnered with rules.

The mockingbird, its acute trills a duality unheard by the wolf, laughed and flew away.

“Try at least three times, really try and without pride, to talk to your friend and try to mend things.”
Grandma’s fingers moved deftly to the clicks of the knitting needles.
She paused to hold the big red sock up to the light.
“Darn it. After that, you might cut ties but don’t carry resentment.
Poison in your well is just as draining as holding on to trouble that can’t be solved.”

Strangers now but wearier, warier specie raised by sponges fashioned into mothers; wolves who left the pack in search of mate finding some single cell finale of fate; it was a self-exiled finality unlike the busy sorting aftermath through war or disease

a shortage of mason jars lids during the pandemic
a well-built corner store on every block
cherries, apple butter, cheese, and greens
lidded, rezoned into brightly packaged
sugar and fat, three for a dollar
leftover cottonseed once dumped in the river

One foot on the shore side of Scylla
A boat of chum, dog toys, and catnip
some chocolate for the lady and the palest hyacinth
matches and a thimbleful of gasoline

The score was 3 to 4:
quarter notes bending into position,
nodding to the stretch
of wholes ready at the relay.
Down the linear track in wait,
a chorus of eighths eager to pace,
excite, divide, and propagate
into a feverish, rapturous finish

This broken heart opens like a ‪door
Death metaphor, transform

Ashes on the floor and a wreath
of nosegays and sycamore leaves

Through the door to deity
Entrance or exit, war or peace

Mr. Wentithird turned, spotted Ms. Theid, smiled, walked toward her, caught sight of her entourage, paled, checked his watch, then eyed the door to the stairwell. For a moment nothing moved but eyebrows: Mrs. Crane’s raised, Miss Applebomb’s left brow arched, and Ms. Theid’s bunched at the browline.

She listened though I’d said nothing worth saying. Even when my words in wake of sleep fell easy,
she never asked me to explain; said the stringing sound of poesy is the only worthwhile philosophy,
so I stayed. As I was never made her student nor patient, I remain.

Grief takes the very mystery of things and mines the awe; leaves you with a ball of unsorted confusion.

It doesn’t bounce or return—there is no further lore; a hard dull carbon thud.

The art, history, and monuments of battle
never quite depict the blood shed
Rivers of ephemeral red
Infernal tributaries of devastated

The noun ‘champion’ gores the verb
from the the peaceful heart of [hu]man

I missed the soft side; he who called looking for lifelines aglitter, to talk in poesy meandering the marveling day: a language-loving philosopher.

I waited for him at the Green Mill, ill-prepared for the glib aloof lounge singer who sang of his own beauty. It was the wrong night for this mood.

The sky, black and blue, through milky haze;
Stars alight on strings of night and candle flames.
Our bodies tucked in beds of softest grass—
light years from the past—
in the spiral of Orion’s arms.

A choir of highs and lows
with all notes stacked
and tween, moves
in untold ratio
with everything

We are resonated fools
in a sea of waves
enduring, brief ballads
fossilizing in the deep

©2021 LAFogle / Lesley Ann Fogle


for Lois

friends photo

With you I don’t kill time till time kills me
And I would miss you because you’d never leave
That is the highest value, consigned like family;
my sibling I was not instructed to love

It’s so easy, this vulnerable intimacy;
no cling to agro youth as we take our seat

Ours is a permanent love seldom on display
in growing observation that does not take
away the benefit of the doubt; we benefactors
heal together plotting the wondrous day

And don’t insult the witch:
This is not naivete;
It is a pact with heaven through hell
We question unafraid

The sickle moon

The sickle moon, with ice chip tips
clears away the day

In amber tunes of the low sun
retiring to its unseen bed;
The knowledge that it never sleeps
unnecessary for dreams
as we rest soundly in dependable return

The sickle moon rests in waxed shade
partly phased inpathic privacy

We too allow the mind its mysteries;
That lunary healer of all things sensory
works in wordless timeless sympathy,
within sleep’s reactive silence,

its filtry ministry

~ LAFogle

crescent moon dusk photo
Sickle Moon poem image

first posted on Twitter September 2021

Sister Knot

for Nikola

Shh, don’t say a word
on the harvest of the Great Confirmation Bias

All moves, construed, take cover
Links to the center of a silver chain frame
Dark brocade hair lays layered and wound

The Sister Knots fit pretty
at the temple, wrist, or throat

Their mother wore it first
A hand-me-down; heirloom
in dignified terms

The girls learned to fight
over it: tears, fists, appearances

Its victimized cut-off
reenacted on damaged friends


red berries photo


I’ll guide you through the gloom
of the lowermost fathom
where the golden flower gathers light
the moment it is seen;
sparks the charge of a lumined heart
from its dormant reality

Loses the rhyme to court opinion
that resists the loop of a beat.

I should make this a garden song

Nature may not know her future hybrids
what signs await
in the warning hues of bright berries:
the conspicuous guides
the subtle guides
pick their sides

prompts: clock shocks dock rock jock

August 30, 2021 to September 5, 2021

His words and deeded shocks, the paradox,
send reckless current rippling through my brain;
firing patterns change to shield-like shapes
sealing intel from his mission of pain.
He’ll write of your imagined devastation

On the dock of Bear Lake, Michigan, my weightless stick legs bobbing in the teal opaque water; I sat watching my father, almost young again, fish from a pontoon with his best remaining friend.

Ursula’s kingdom was a glittery tree,
a remnant of the Aracariaeae
Too prickly to climb but lovely to see
it’s refusal to be extinct.

The bones stood tall but water is water to rock
Cracks where stacks of slab lay with land
One cosmic shift in the whole honorarium,
the very idea, could buckle and fall. A lean-to
Devotees return to the land
The serotonin from this soil
the very reason to build here

Jock Camon grew from the bloody fists of Vales in its dirt sun-burned streets where trees once wailed under the axes of men with immediate need for wood. A doorway, stiles and rails of pink chipped paint unfitted in the frame; a plywood panel where a window had been.

Greg and Atvatabar

excerpt from the book FutureYou by LAFogle

conspiracy photo

I get that half the esoteric groupies are D&D flunkies but this is a whole new level of bullshit.

“You sound like a conspiracy theorist. All that knowledge too much for you, Mr Crowley? You losing your shit?” I reached down and patted the chair.  “Have a seat. Maybe lay down flat like the earth you live on.” 

It’s too bad Greg didn’t do social media because he’d really enjoy some of the fringe theory groups. But he didn’t do social media. He’d get too upset. It’s wild to think about what Facebook would do to him with its groups and gangs of people engaging in relational aggression. Maybe they don’t think people can sense a bully/mean girl/gossip routine but sensitive people might. And sensitive people can be broken. Have you ever seen an isolated person experience paranoid psychosis? I have and it is awful. I like making Greg feel okay. He might have quirks but I can handle it because we clearly agreed to be friends. We’d determined a while ago that being annoyed with each other was okay and temporary. At least I think. Right now he was staring at the ice cream on his spoon as if he wanted to fling it at me. Or maybe that look was more about hunger. 

He tossed the words at me real quick before taking the bite. “Um, duh, if the earth were flat then what about Atvatabar?” 

“Atvabar?” Damn. I was the one who bit. Asking him a question could delay me by several days.

“At-va-TA-bar.” He pretended to choke on his soft serve. “You’ve never heard of AtvaTAbar? Are you kidding me?”

I sighed and took a seat. The “Are You Kidding Me” game always took awhile. It was a scolding really. Emphatic face gestures, eye popping, deep distant hilarity—a dawning of hilarity at the idiocy of the ape in front of him—some chicken neck stretches, hands at the waist, elbows out with a couple of stick legs strutting forward and back. Because of his emphatic preening, it took forever to get to the point. He beat around the bush like a prizefighter jabbing the shrubbery in the kidneys, remarkably light on his feet.

“I get it, I’m an idiot. You know all. What is AtvaTAbar?”