Category Archives: Micropoetry

Burial plots for frogs: a micropoetry exchange

Every other site this was on has now disappeared. I found (with considerable work) an archived version, and am planting it here just so I can find it! This work was originally done in 2009.

Four months ago, over at Identica, Patricia F. Anderson and I traded poems based on recent news stories. I started off, and we alternated thereafter. I believe Patricia kept a list of links to the news stories we drew upon, if anyone’s curious. —Dave

The mayor of Kiev raffles off his kisses & sells burial plots for frogs. He greets protesters with a song, saying: only God sings better.


A Renaissance monk scribes the sacred and the sexy, chortles with courtesans, singing “you are all that is left of me.”


Imagine how reporters for the Life Morning News felt when they found their distributor had been taking it straight to recycling.


Life, death, that’s right – the morning-shift warehouse worker sliced in the cardboard recycling shredder. It’s over. He is.


Exiled from mainland Singapore, the seashore bat lily & pink-eyed pong pong tree take refuge on a manmade island of garbage.


Pollinate the elastic plastic, yeah, trashman, jazzman, your absent music haunting the gyre like twisting in the guts.


In Lahore, the Movement for Decency bombs juice shops where couples cuddle. Now illicit whispers hide behind Koranic ringtones.


In Chicago they resell the chill graves of urban children. Babyland, Babyland, where is your lullaby? Where are your bones?


Japanese scientists studying turtle embryos pinpoint the moment when the body wall folds in, origami-like, to make the shell.


The embryo folds a tube 2 create the spine. Folds & knots another 2 shape the heart. Some things unfold that are not stories.


Even those who bought leases below the cancelled storeys wax wroth at the lost value, no longer the tallest tale in the land.


Cher Monsieur Butterfly with his devalued pearls, his mythos worth so much more – the bodice rippers, the diva, so delicious.


The Colonel bristles at the word “drone.” Real people control it, he says, be it Predator or Reaper. Let’s not dehumanize them.


Buzz was second, but no drone, a real person, he says, touching down on another body. No romantic, he pissed first, he says.


On the 40th anniversary of “one small step,” astronauts in a space station unit called Destiny repair a toilet pump.


Make destiny a bit closer, space a bit smaller. From YouTube ask astronauts questions. They answer like God from the skies.


The wind has died, its spots have cleared up, and the only thing now marring the sun’s perfect day are these 8 circling gnats.


The sun naps in the quiet between storms. Jupiter, our bully-proof big brother, wishes we’d learn celestial self-defense.


The winner of the Ernest Hemingway contest at Key West, sweating in a sweater, says he only writes checks and text messages.


The moveable feast has become transparent film, memory slicing the century into pats like butter. Never enough, the chef says.


A man in a gorilla suit runs out the back door with the hibachi chef’s cleaver buried in his arm.


Mother of grief cradles her babe in hairy arms, gives suck, turns away from death 2 rub her sturdy flat face against new life.


Chernobyl: doves and palm trees on the walls of an abandoned flat. Irradiated wolves chase irradiated deer through the streets.


Reject unborn children, damaged children, the damaged thyroid & liver. Reject Pripyat, tanning beds, power plants. Reject.

Tags: collaborationlinked verse Posted by morningporch November 03, 2009, 12:14pm Permalink

Beginning the Day

Beginning the Day

There are sounds,
but distant.
There are lights,
but little.
In whispers
of snow, wind,
the first bus
of morning
whirs to me,
opens its doors.

Erosion of Scales

bald patches on wings
show where butterflies have shed
the bloom of their youth

late Spring stars, pastel
green & cream, teeter over
a red passion point

the sunrise place shows
the price to be received, or
the price to be paid

fish for dinner means
the dull knife scrapes the wrong way,
scales fly everywhere

the indigo just
shed its skin, gleaming black-blue,
(dry, soft, tasting musk)

hairspray mists around
teased hair stripped roughly downward
for the school’s Spring play

dark surrounds the flame
of one lit candle, carried
by a voice singing,
its melody bent modal,
as it winds from old to new


Curling into a cocoon
of butter or fur.
Forget myelin is the skin
of my numb brain—
when it itches,
feel it everywhere
but where it is.

Myelin Challenge Poem

– PF Anderson, June 3, 2010

This poem was written in response to a challenge from the @MyelinRepairFdn on Twitter.

Making Visible (Momentile, debscott)

When shattering becomes
a thing of broken beauty,

(Momentile, debscott)

it is the very breaking
and brokenness
that reveals the heart,
the structure, the lovely lines,
the labyrinth of meaning
that once was whole and now
is visible.

(Momentile, debscott)

Nature wastes nothing.
Having unlearned this lesson,
people fumble with fragments
of the lost and leftover,
rags woven into
a kind of throne.

(Momentile, debscott)

Mariposa (Momentile, tinydancer)

mariposa, spread
your lashes, lips, your fine tongue
embrace the long line
hollowed with heat, memories,
opening to erasure

Momentile by tinydancer, caption by pfanderson

Tinydancer: Mariposa:

Dr. Omed’s Tent Show Revival: Momentile Monday – Mariposa:

“The gift giver, that old gnome” (Momentile, Coffeebee)

The gift giver, that old gnome,
Whose eyes hold the darkness of skies
And reflect back our own …

Santa's Eye

Original here:

Momentile here:

Many thanks to Coffeebee for permission to use her image in this post!

Fire Goddess (Momentile, Tinydancer)

Dr. Omed is an inspired paper collage artist who shares his work in Momentile. Momentile has become one of my favorite social media spaces.


This isn’t the space where I want to talk at length about why Momentile is interesting, so to keep it short, Momentile is basically a spinoff of the increasingly popular projects in various social media to post something every day for a month or a year. With Momentile, not more than once a day would be more accurate.

There have been a number of posts on this blog which originated as captions in Momentile on someone else’s photo, image, or work of art. Of those other artists, the one who I find most inspirational is Dr. Omed. I have captioned a number of his paper collages, and wish I had time to caption them ALL. This has been an amazingly productive and serendipitous “collaboration”.

In Momentile itself, you really can’t hold a conversation with the other artists – it requires oblique strategies to communicate. Luckily, Dr. Omed and I know each other in other social media spaces, which means he can post my captions on his blog and I can post his images on mine and both of us can ask permission and link back to each other’s work. Happy Days!

“P. F. Anderson has written vatic poem-captions for several of my ’tiles, and you may soon [see] more ’tiles and more of her lovely captions on the Tent Show (unless she says not).”
Today is 2 Men 13 Ch’en. Dr. Omed’s Tent Show Revival.

For the record, I am delighted! Especially if Dr. Omed will grant permission for me to share the caption / Momentile combinations here and in my Flickr stream as well, of course linking back to his original Momentile and his blogpost. Here is the first example of what I envision. I hope it is OK with him.

Momentile Caption: TinyDancer - Fire Goddess

The face of the fire goddess
swells with her aching,
dozens of her nipples leak
blood and cluster together.
Around her spin seconds
become hours and hours
become seconds,
as the air consumed
abandons both breath
and breathing.

Conversation Going Nowhere

A Twitter collaboration between @neilfinn and @pfanderson

Day One

You can say the magic words
I got my sensors on

words are magic, magic is words
(siren, serene, sliver, sword)
opening hearts, closing minds
(eggshell, box, & lemon rinds)

She said nobody move
Or I’ll bring the house down

Rustling in the dark,
cracks, pops? Nothing but old house
sagging down to earth.

My wish is for you
And end to your sorrow

Swathed in cool robes,
she bows her goodbyes,
the warmth of embrace
just in her eyes.

So paint a circle in the sky
Out of breath receive the arms of love

Beneath us, shadows
limned by an airborne bubble
blue around our eyes

When you shake off the shadows of night
And your eyes are so clear and so bright
You make fools of the liars and creeps

Day Two

they seem bright, honest-
the firefly constellations
dark’s gentle flowing
seducing with their silence
misleading the other

Today I am still disconnected
To the face that I saw in the clouds
And the closest I get to contentment
Is when all of the barriers come down

Look not at bright dots
embedded in mist.
The space between things
shapes the connection.

We’re standing in a deep dark hole
Beneath the sky as black as coal
It’s just a fear of losing control

Eyes closed, skin alive –
feel air move, waves shift, the rest?
moment of balance

Cuckoos call, pendulum swings
I thought you knew everything
Lift my hands make the cross

Arms raised, our hands cross
(maypole ribbons when dance is
done). Summer comes in.

No one is wise
Until they see how it lies

Day Three

Fingers warm and stick
with sand trickling to the beach.
Lie down in the light …

I lit the match
I lit the match
I saw another monster turn to ash
Felt the burden lifting from my back

Day Four

the stone is a stone.
it doesn’t become lighter,
we become stronger

Then I wake up in your room
To share one piece of your life

the dreamwalker shifts,
sits in the rocking chair, rocks
changing face and form

Remember my loose tongue
Forget what I just said
I’d crawl over broken glass
If we could start again

Day Five

Broken bits of glass
tumbled in salt and sand
grow soft, full of light.

Here’s someone now who’s got the muscle
His steady hand could move a mountain
Expert in bed but come on now
There must be something missing

Sun haze, glory days –
teen boys swap and top stories.
Where is the mirror?

I have all I want is that simple enough
there’s a whole lot more I’m thinking of

Light shivers and sings;
crystals chime of needs, desires.
Echoes ripple, fade.

Tough outer shell
But so you can tell
She’s soft underneath
Where you sink your teeth

Day Six

Marbles, hopscotch, jacks –
we’re not playing the same game.
Ah, for a good book.

I saw you there by the side of the road
You wore long faces and long overcoats in the rain
Waiting for buses to carry you home

Soft staccato rain
embroiders slumber’s edges
with midnight’s needles

I’ll be brave, put all my fears away
I’m hoping that I get the chance to meet her

Day Seven

Meeting, greeting,
Hey! It’s sleeting!
Duck & hover,
Run for cover.
Save handshakes for another day
when beating rain has gone away.

There’s a small boat made of china
Going nowhere on the mantlepiece

On my mantelpiece,
a filly nuzzles her colt,
mama bear breastfeeds,
St. Nicholas cuddles Christ,
Grandpa Morris holds his Ruth.

Sing it anyone got my eyes got my face
Sing it everyone got my nose got my blood

Walking down the street,
seven matching noses,
like Russian nesting dolls,
in sizes big to small

Go kindly with him
To his blind apparition
Whose face creases up with age gone grey
You’ll be back here one day

Last Day


Tales from my head
I can’t buy the book
No one’s listening
But I guess you could
Try whistling this


show me the sacred —
opening and arising,
the breath, wet, bone, stone.

Inspired by this momentile from tinydancer