she examines her blueprints

drawn with rose-colored pencil

windblown and scattered

like package of photographs

dropped on city sidewalk

trampled by heavy traffic

and hard-driven


crowded zombie footwear

she pulls out rose-colored pen

winds portable alarm clock backward

begins again

By Mary Ann Blinkhorn

re-upholstered verse

she sits on flowery sofa

studying re-upholstered verse

half-finished words

a broken ego

poor decisions in self-stamped ink

swaying to and fro

like a pendulum

she fast forwards it all

to half-drawn scene

where opinions probe

sunny-cold art

mended whole picture

bluesy old ink still fragile

she sighs

eats a cheese danish

by mary ann blinkhorn

i unplug the hour

i unplug the hour

sit in silence

a thousand whitewashed walls

between us

his smile ancient

like glued sentences

his arms, warm

it’s a darker night tonight

few stars

fog gone

naked rain boots drying in corner

he writes the strangest metaphors



pen purged

voice hesitant

light bulb sheltered

by receiver

i retire to bed

lull a blue cough, good-night

by mary ann blinkhorn

i think of you, sometimes

i think of you sometimes

wondering if you’ve gotten

smaller or larger

if that little jade buddha

on black plastic stand

brought any good luck at all

I think of you sometimes

wondering if you discarded

Red Skelton doll

if dream catcher

is full or depleted

and if misty is still alive

i think of you sometimes

how you’d cry yourself

to sleep at night

wake up feeling top of the world

brave soul

i think of you, sometimes

remembrances of your drawings

little stick indians and teepees

standing along a river

the tree that you sketched for me

hope that they’re not all packed up

uncaringly in some old cardboard box

and I pray this for you, as well

i think of you, sometimes

by mary ann blinkhorn