As the moon flickers in space and time,/ All is calm, all is ready to roar/ Maybe the storm is approaching

The loveliest dawn dwelleth in the bosom./ A mild magic word rests far below./ A balmy spark flying in the soul.

dogwood blossoms, white & pink/ tiny dresses or ideas of prayer// too pure to be pure/ too many

The world around my wrist/ with its blue cargo/ of days and oceans,/ with its secret jewels

Afternoon stars,/ the green air/ darkens.// The lake holds still/ at the bottom of its breath.

I guess I'm anything but pedantic/ Splitting hairs requires surgeon's skill/ I'd much rather be labeled

What do I have to write about? Love?/vI write only what I know, simple,.vcourtly poems full of indelible

An ocean riptide reveals/ Heaven's rainbow// at Hermosa beach/ pulled down from the sky

Lorelei Bacht's recent work has appeared and/or is forthcoming in Mercurius, Anti-Heroin Chic, Menacing

The nights we spent by the lake were filled with sorcery and romance/ Conjured by the moon

so much is expected/ of the little red cardinal// winged intermediary/ between two

Drifting down/ Along the river/ Like a returning hero/ After a hundred years/ Of war

Breakfast in bed:/ a strawberry smoothie/ stirred with Stevia/ poured over ice.// Lunch in the

what is this life/ if we are not perpetually awed/ at the clusters of stars above our heads/ the plethora

Trapped in a canyon of time/ an inescapable echo/ surrounds me,/ a voice that stirs/ twists the

Not April, not coffee, not purple/ tulips opening on the table, not/ you, or her, or even the early hour

It is a ghostly obelisk of a tree, / breathless among the paused / leafless gray soldiers of the forest.

Winter’s teetering and/ certain to fall, with sap/ rising in wooding hills,/ new-leaf-pungent, silted

Things want to appear/ from their long disappearance/ but fear themselves too forgotten/ to return

Your suitcase is sitting on the stairs/ halfway up, halfway down,/ worn to the color/ of wheat