Mar 08
Della's picture

The Fire Girl

They told me to lower my voice
Tried to make me wear a skirt
To plait my hair and tie it with pink elastics
So it couldn’t fly free
But I wouldn’t
So I burned
I burned them and ran,
Electricity sparking from my fingertips where
Dirt lodged under my nails to spite those who wanted them scrubbed
Like the rest of me
Scrubbed clean of the dirt
That made me Different
The dust smoldered where my feet touched down
I burned hot fearless
I was the girl with the flames for a body
Embers glowed red in the dip of my collarbone
And my fear was gone
So I jumped from
The tallest trees
Ran without gasps or screams
Into the freezing water
Because even though I was Fire, the river couldn’t put me out
My insults burned, too
Burned holds in the hearts of those I called Friend
Stinging rebukes landed like hot sparks on the bare skin
Of others
But I didn’t care
Mar 02
Della's picture

A Modern Twist on Rapunzel

            Lisa finished stirring the rice and onions and scooped them, steaming, onto two plastic plates.  She couldn’t help noticing how bland the dish looked.  She’d like, just once, to be able to afford some of the fresh cilantro or red bell peppers from the nice store down the street from the apartment where she and her husband lived.
            Lisa sighed as she set the plates down on opposite sides of the small, wobbly kitchen table.
Jan 27
Della's picture

Alternative Facts

Everyone knows that on Trump's inauguration day
There wasn't such a crowd as four years ago, but, hey

It's not that much of a big deal, you know
Unless you have major problems with your ego

But Trump won't settle not to be in first place
He can't just let things go with grace

So wait, but we have alternative facts
We'll have you know that the mall was packed

What does that prove to the rest of us?
Facts can be changed if we put up a fuss?

Two plus two isn't four, it's simple, you see:
We've got alternative facts, two plus two equals three

Real leaders worry about actual issues
Not just their own egotistical wishes

It's not about being best, biggest, or most
Or pompous claims and false grandiose

It certainly feels like something's amiss
Jan 25
Della's picture


Slipping  d
            it makes me dizzy
its sheer
  and it's so small, i reach out and my fingers
                close around


Jan 04
Della's picture

First Race of The Year

We file off the bus
Talking and laughing nervously
Here we are
At a different school
Looking around at the 
Other teams warming up
We try to gauge the competion
Is that skier in the middle school division, do you think?
Oh my gosh, if she is, we're 
The JV girls pretend not to care
But they glance over at the other skiers 
As they tie their boots

Tapping snow from our boots
Adjusting pole straps
Here, wait, the collar of your uniform is twisted
Oh, gosh, this loop is short
A short loop means you have to gain speed right away

It's a relay:
Ski the loop, tag off to your partner
Trust is essential

We ski the loop
To practice
With our coach

One loop each for the middle school division
Two for JV
Three for Varsity

One loop
I look at my partner
We have got to do this

Dec 17
Della's picture


It was February 2015, and I was at Craftsbury, skiing with my BKL program.  It wasn't your typical cold day.  Earlier it had been 40 degrees and now it was in the high teens.  Not exactly teeth-chattering weather.  There were even slushy puddles around the solar panels and in front of the ski lodge.  We had pretty much given up on waxable classic skis for the year, and there weren't enough fish scale pairs to go around, so we were just using skate skis.  There had been so much snow melt that trails like Lemons Haunt and Duck Pond were impassible, so we were doing turning drills around the lower field, making tight circles around the arch near the firing range.  I accidentally skied through one of the puddles, and chilly water flooded my boot.  I didn't think much of it.  I was hot enough that I wasn't wearing a hat or gloves.  Class was going to be over in half an hour.  I'd be fine.
Dec 15
Della's picture

An Unfinished Story

It was cold out, and Delilah just wanted to get home without water being splashed on her and her school books.  She quickly moved closer to the storefronts, with dirty windows and padlocked doors, as she saw a car coming down the street.  The car, as she had predicted, sloshed through the brown, muddy puddle at the side of the road, water spraying up.  Some landed on Delilah's sweater, and she tried to brush it off.  Instead, the brown water just soaked further into the pink wool.
Dec 01
poem 0 comments challenge: Never
Della's picture

Too Late?

I feel like the Andy Grammer song
Fresh Eyes
I don't even like that song
But it's how I feel
It's kind of wonderful
And horrible
Like maybe I missed a train
And now that I care
You no longer do
How did I not see this coming?
How have I known you for so many years
And not seen it?
How am I so blind?
I always see these things coming
Make up my mind in an instant
This I didn't see
And I'm worried
That I saw it too late
Nov 28
Della's picture


I crouch on the rock ledge, looking down on the salvage camp.  A lil' spruce tree, clinging onto the rock shades me from view.  Not that anyone would look up, anyways.  They're all too busy going about their daily business.  My little sister stokes a fire with a pot of water hanging over it.  She grabs the gritty piece of flannel and uses it as a glove to lift the water off the fire, dumping it into the plastic trash barrel where we store our water.  Then she fills the bucket again and puts it over the fire once more.  I glare at her from my perch.  I want to shout out to her that she didn't let it boil long enough, that she's going to get us all sick, that doesn't she know The Illness is coming north?  But I don't, 'cause that would give away my secret place, where I come to be alone.  No way I'd want all her kiddie friends following me up here.
Nov 26
Della's picture


Snow, swirling over my tracks
I was never here
Leaves, covering my footprints
I was never here
Moss, springing back up where I tread
I was never here
Water, flooding the impressions my heels make in the mud
I was never here

The wind tells no tales
The tall grasses forget I passed
The trees keep my secrets
The stream carries my fears away

Every stone is an ancient story
Every drop of water has traveled so far
Every tree is a ladder to the sky
Every path will take me home

And even though I wash my hands and brush my hair,
The scent of thyme clings to my clothes
The dirt stays under my fingernails
And I can still taste the wind