Yellow Mama Archives

Meg Baird
Adhikari, Sudeep
Ahern, Edward
Aldrich, Janet M.
Allan, T. N.
Allen, M. G.
Ammonds, Phillip J.
Anderson, Peter
Andreopoulos, Elliott
Arab, Bint
Augustyn, P. K.
Aymar, E. A.
Babbs, James
Baber, Bill
Bagwell, Dennis
Bailey, Ashley
Baird, Meg
Bakala, Brendan
Baker, Nathan
Balaz, Joe
Barber, Shannon
Barker, Tom
Barlow, Tom
Bates, Jack
Bayly, Karen
Baugh, Darlene
Bauman, Michael
Baumgartner, Jessica Marie
Beale, Jonathan
Beck, George
Beckman, Paul
Benet, Esme
Bennett, Brett
Bennett, Charlie
Bennett, D. V.
Berg, Carly
Berman, Daniel
Bernardara, Will Jr.
Berriozabal, Luis
Beveridge, Robert
Bickerstaff, Russ
Bigney, Tyler
Bladon, Henry
Blake, Steven
Bohem, Charlie Keys and Les
Booth, Brenton
Boski, David
Bougger, Jason
Boyd, A. V.
Boyd, Morgan
Bracey, DG
Brewka-Clark, Nancy
Britt, Alan
Brooke, j
Brown, R. Thomas
Brown, Sam
Burton, Michael
Bushtalov, Denis
Butcher, Jonathan
Butkowski, Jason
Butler, Simon Hardy
Cameron, W. B.
Campbell, J. J.
Campbell, Jack Jr.
Cano, Valentina
Cardinale, Samuel
Carlton, Bob
Carr, Jennifer
Cartwright, Steve
Carver, Marc
Castle, Chris
Catlin, Alan
Chesler, Adam
Clausen, Daniel
Clevenger, Victor
Clifton, Gary
Coffey, James
Colasuonno, Alfonso
Conley, Jen
Connor, Tod
Cooper, Malcolm Graham
Coral, Jay
Cosby, S. A.
Costello, Bruce
Cotton, Mark
Crandall, Rob
Criscuolo, Carla
Crist, Kenneth
Crouch & Woods
D., Jack
Dallett, Cassandra
Danoski, Joseph V.
Daly, Sean
Davis, Christopher
Davis, Michael D.
Day, Holly
de Bruler, Connor
Degani, Gay
De France, Steve
De La Garza, Lela Marie
Deming, Ruth Z.
Demmer, Calvin
De Neve, M. A.
Dennehy, John W.
DeVeau, Spencer
Di Chellis, Peter
Dick, Earl
Dick, Paul "Deadeye"
DiLorenzo, Ciro
Dionne, Ron
Dobson, Melissa
Domenichini, John
Dominelli, Rob
Doran, Phil
Doreski, William
Dorman, Roy
Doherty, Rachel
Dosser, Jeff
Doyle, John
Draime, Doug
Drake, Lena Judith
Dromey, John H.
Dubal, Paul Michael
Duke, Jason
Duncan, Gary
Dunham, T. Fox
Duschesneau, Pauline
Dunn, Robin Wyatt
Duxbury, Karen
Duy, Michelle
Eade, Kevin
Elliott, Garnett
Ellman, Neil
England, Kristina
Erianne, John
Espinosa, Maria
Esterholm, Jeff
Fallow, Jeff
Farren, Jim
Fenster, Timothy
Ferraro, Diana
Filas, Cameron
Fillion, Tom
Fisher, Miles Ryan
Flanagan, Daniel N.
Flanagan, Ryan Quinn
Francisco, Edward
Frank, Tim
Funk, Matthew C.
Gann, Alan
Gardner, Cheryl Ann
Garvey, Kevin Z.
Gay, Sharon Frame
Gentile, Angelo
Genz, Brian
Giersbach, Walter
Gladeview, Lawrence
Glass, Donald
Goddard, L. B.
Godwin, Richard
Goff, Christopher
Goss, Christopher
Gradowski, Janel
Graham, Sam
Grant, Christopher
Grant, Stewart
Greenberg, K.J. Hannah
Greenberg, Paul
Grey, John
Gunn, Johnny
Gurney, Kenneth P.
Haglund, Tobias
Halleck, Robert
Hamlin, Mason
Hanson, Christopher Kenneth
Hanson, Kip
Harrington, Jim
Harris, Bruce
Hart, GJ
Hartman, Michelle
Haskins, Chad
Hawley, Doug
Haycock, Brian
Hayes, A. J.
Hayes, John
Hayes, Peter W. J.
Heatley, Paul
Heimler, Heidi
Helmsley, Fiona
Hendry, Mark
Heslop, Karen
Heyns, Heather
Hilary, Sarah
Hill, Richard
Hivner, Christopher
Hockey, Matthew J.
Hogan, Andrew J.
Holderfield, Culley
Holton, Dave
Howells, Ann
Hoy, J. L.
Huchu, Tendai
Hudson, Rick
Huffman, A. J.
Huguenin, Timothy G.
Huskey, Jason L.
Irascible, Dr. I. M.
Jaggers, J. David
James, Christopher
Johnson, Beau
Johnson, Moctezuma
Johnson, Zakariah
Jones, D. S.
Jones, Erin J.
Jones, Mark
Kabel, Dana
Kaplan, Barry Jay
Kay, S.
Keaton, David James
Kempka, Hal
Kerins, Mike
Keshigian, Michael
Kevlock, Mark Joseph
King, Michelle Ann
Kirk, D.
Knott, Anthony
Koenig, Michael
Korpon, Nik
Kovacs, Norbert
Kovacs, Sandor
Kowalcyzk, Alec
Krafft, E. K.
Lacks, Lee Todd
Lang, Preston
Larkham, Jack
La Rosa, F. Michael
Leasure, Colt
Leatherwood, Roger
Lees, Arlette
Lees, Lonni
Leins, Tom
Lemieux, Michael
Lemming, Jennifer
Lerner, Steven M
Lewis, Cynthia Ruth
Lewis, LuAnn
Lifshin, Lyn
Liskey, Tom Darin
Lodge, Oliver
Lopez, Aurelio Rico III
Lorca, Aurelia
Lovisi, Gary
Lucas, Gregory E.
Lukas, Anthony
Lynch, Nulty
Lyon, Hillary
Lyons, Matthew
Mac, David
MacArthur, Jodi
Malone, Joe
Mann, Aiki
Manzolillo, Nicholas
Marcius, Cal
Marrotti, Michael
Mason, Wayne
Mattila, Matt
McAdams, Liz
McCartney, Chris
McDaris, Catfish
McFarlane, Adam Beau
McGinley, Chris
McGinley, Jerry
McElhiney, Sean
McKim, Marci
McMannus, Jack
McQuiston, Rick
Mellon, Mark
Memi, Samantha
Miles, Marietta
Miller, Max
Minihan, Jeremiah
Montagna, Mitchel
Monson, Mike
Mooney, Christopher P.
Moran, Jacqueline M.
Morgan, Bill W.
Moss, David Harry
Mullins, Ian
Mulvihill, Michael
Muslim, Kristine Ong
Nardolilli, Ben
Nelson, Trevor
Nessly, Ray
Nester, Steven
Neuda, M. C.
Newell, Ben
Newman, Paul
Nielsen, Ayaz
Nore, Abe
Numann, Randy
Ogurek, Douglas J.
O'Keefe, Sean
Ortiz, Sergio
Pagel, Briane
Park, Jon
Parr, Rodger
Parrish, Rhonda
Partin-Nielsen, Judith
Peralez, R.
Perez, Juan M.
Perez, Robert Aguon
Peterson, Ross
Petroziello, Brian
Pettie, Jack
Petyo, Robert
Phillips, Matt
Picher, Gabrielle
Pierce, Rob
Pietrzykowski, Marc
Plath, Rob
Pointer, David
Post, John
Powell, David
Power, Jed
Powers, M. P.
Praseth, Ram
Prusky, Steve
Pruitt, Eryk
Purfield, M. E.
Purkis, Gordon
Quinlan, Joseph R.
Quinn, Frank
Rabas, Kevin
Ram, Sri
Rapth, Sam
Ravindra, Rudy
Renney, Mark
reutter, g emil
Rhatigan, Chris
Richardson, Travis
Richey, John Lunar
Ridgeway, Kevin
Rihlmann, Brian
Ritchie, Bob
Ritchie, Salvadore
Robinson, John D.
Robinson, Kent
Rodgers, K. M.
Roger, Frank
Rose, Mandi
Rose, Mick
Rosenberger, Brian
Rosenblum, Mark
Rosmus, Cindy
Ruhlman, Walter
Rutherford, Scotch
Salinas, Alex
Sanders, Isabelle
Sanders, Sebnem
Santo, Heather
Savage, Jack
Sayles, Betty J.
Schauber, Karen
Schneeweiss, Jonathan
Schraeder, E. F.
Schumejda, Rebecca
See, Tom
Sethi, Sanjeev
Sexton, Rex
Seymour, J. E.
Shaikh, Aftab Yusuf
Sheagren, Gerald E.
Shepherd, Robert
Shirey, D. L.
Shore, Donald D.
Short, John
Sim, Anton
Simmler, T. Maxim
Simpson, Henry
Sinisi, J. J.
Sixsmith, JD
Slagle, Cutter
Slaviero, Susan
Sloan, Frank
Small, Alan Edward
Smith, Brian J.
Smith, Ben
Smith, C.R.J.
Smith, Copper
Smith, Greg
Smith, Paul
Smith, Stephanie
Smith, Willie
Smuts, Carolyn
Snethen, Daniel G.
Snoody, Elmore
Sojka, Carol
Solender, Michael J.
Sortwell, Pete
Sparling, George
Spicer, David
Squirrell, William
Stanton, Henry G.
Stewart, Michael S.
Stickel, Anne
Stolec, Trina
Stoll, Don
Stryker, Joseph H.
Stucchio, Chris
Succre, Ray
Sullivan, Thomas
Swanson, Peter
Swartz, Justin A.
Sweet, John
Tarbard, Grant
Taylor, J. M.
Thompson, John L.
Thompson, Phillip
Tillman, Stephen
Titus, Lori
Tivey, Lauren
Tobin, Tim
Torrence, Ron
Tu, Andy
Ullerich, Eric
Valent, Raymond A.
Valvis, James
Vilhotti, Jerry
Waldman, Dr. Mel
Walsh, Patricia
Walters, Luke
Ward, Emma
Washburn, Joseph
Watt, Max
Weber, R.O.
Weil, Lester L.
White, Judy Friedman
White, Robb
White, Terry
Wickham, Alice
Wilsky, Jim
Wilson, Robley
Wilson, Tabitha
Woodland, Francis
Young, Mark
Yuan, Changming
Zackel, Fred
Zafiro, Frank
Zapata, Angel
Zee, Carly
Zimmerman, Thomas

appreciate it


by Meg Baird


well, I don’t know a lot

about hip-hop

but I do like rhyme

and it rhymes all the time

if only they’d stop swearin’

I find it so wearin’

on my nerves

on the curves in my mind

hairpin turns

go so fast

never can relax


or good suspension

no time to think

somebody give me a drink

of water

somebody slap me

make me cry

make me laugh

speak your truth

I’m hip to that







by Meg Baird


old woman lies in waiting

her bulbous stomach

ready to feed the earth

add bones’ usefulness to the ash


one last act of giving


old women have hearts

of young girls, young women

mature woman, the old woman’s body

some disguise laying in wait


old woman

I love you




crazy love


by Megan Baird



crazy love


but does not break

is more

than a skeleton  of bone


crazy love

spills blood

from the ostial vessel







crazy love






by Meg Baird


elegant and willowy

he reminded me of my father

his hand on my waist

brief but succinct

in this place

of strange intimacies

we move swiftly






by Meg Baird



as a cigar smoking boardroom

she said she’d had many jobs

a waitress once

seems rather odd

one eye dark and half-closed


if lush is old

a new creation

by Meg Baird

you are cold this year
your beauty is not enough
to warm the shivering hearts
afraid of the life budded 
in the young girl's belly
out of time with her parents
planned seasons of hope and growth
simple nature!
what hatred you inspire
what wiggling bawling bundle
will curl its helpless fingers and toes
around their perfect hearts
which only wish to mimic
nature's tumble and fall
swell and flow
the ordered coming and going
what drivel is this?
nature is not for us
it is against us
no, really
it doesn't give a damn
that we want to live forever
it only offers new life
and the seed in the womb
is strong and happy
one, one revolution only for us
and none of it short and sweet
except creation
sweet creation
the reason to the end

the twist

by Meg Baird

knowledge is a sidewinder
flick of the tongue
tasting the air
deviant kind of hunger
basking in a sleek skin
under the desert sky
of voided landscapes
a terrible beauty
the thing and itself
are one
you are what you think
and flesh and blood
desiring love
someone who thinks like you


end of winter


by Meg Baird



wind crinkles

in the house cracks


broken honey-comb ice

stacking street curbs


cold bleak dirty grey

and nothing left to say

poem for Spring


by Meg Baird

















by Meg Baird


because a bull might destroy her

she built her house a china shop



the unwilling visitor


by Meg Baird



I have no frame of reference

to be in this alley

where it is almost raining

left over from a heavy rain that wasn’t

no wind but the crows cawing

I imagine they are ravens

as it is only here

since I stepped off the street

that it is like this

his door is locked

but he jumps up quickly

“come back tomorrow,

yes, tomorrow, please”

his color was of ashen breath

and from his eyes a hollow bright

and amber light

my head already pounding

is hammering now

it heightens my sense of thirst

and there is no one I can tell

who would not think

I have amour for this

and so I sit and figure out

that snow drips profusely

on milder days this time of year

and in narrow darker alleyways

it would appear to be raining



by Meg Baird


she was Russian

in her great coat

and ushanka hat

white teeth flashing

sunglassed-eyes laughing

great coat flapping open

wrapping round her feet

pulling it to with a husky “hello”

as she tumbles from the doorway

and on to the snow-covered streets



by Meg Baird


as women age

they become more tubular

vacuous reeds

play sensitive musician play

something beautiful

something sweet

something deeply penetrating

touch on meaning in the ether light

bright channels within them


as women age

they become more tubular

a masculine shape

the aching meaning of need

chorusing through them

slides down thicker straighter sides

less curves and dangers signs

to keep them from flight


as people age they become more alike

women get facial hair

and men begin to care about little things

the flower and the stem become one

thicker softer reeds of darker green

or so it seems

I think they dream of love






by Meg Baird


the lowest common denominator

may bring us all together

and where do we go from there?


check it out and see it’s not so simple

“nothing’s ever simple,” Fran used to say


the article preferred least common denominator

which is more complicated and not so fraught

with the lowly intentions of the lowly mind

of the harassed and burdened lower classes

or perhaps the general malaise of old age


I think I’ll be sweet and no one will beat up on me

that’s what I learned and lucky for me it worked

I gave my best and I guess I can keep on giving

even though the meaning of living begins to elude me


but not really

there’s so much to be learned

the maker


by Meg Baird


wiry old women so often

look like starved birds

so wanting to fly


Jessie raised her kids at sea

the rocking rolling motion

gave her steady feet a special feel


in her old age she became the ship

each creaking rolling motion

its inhabitants all gone, moved on

she sailed the Netherworld alone

seeking passage somewhere yon


old Jessie walked a thousand thousand

thousand miles

no chair, no office, no room, no place

was out of bounds to stop for rest


and then one night

she ate her supper

and went to sleep

deep and sound


nothing ghastly

nothing grim

her bird-like frame

had given in

in one fell swoop

the maker came to claim her

Illo by Pattie Mulligan © 2015

mr. beauty


by Meg Baird


that big ol’ alley cat

has a head as broad as his shoulders

or maybe it’s a she

white as a white alley cat can be

Mr. Beauty has a smaller

more delicate companion

clean as a white alley cat can be

a friend, a sibling, a stray

it’s hard to say with alley cats

anyway, the name is Ms. Pretty

they’re often together

and known as a pair

by the neighborhood cat lovers

maybe they’re looking

for Mr. William S. Burroughs

protector and friend

of lost lonely lovely stray cats

he lived long and hard

and he looked long and hard

for a life metaphor of “the cat inside”

the un-tameable un-nameable urge

Illo by Pattie Mulligan © 2015

the cat inside


by Meg Baird


as I sleep

with the cat inside

wrapped in its lap

of luxurious fur

I am sure I am dreaming

one-third of our lives

we are dreaming

my cat purrs

its soft fur

is pushing me down

the weight of your arm

cross my heart

we are travelling through space

I am waking to face life

the part that is more real

or less so

I don’t know

the cat is inside

it is beauty and pride

it is good and it’s bad

it is happy and sad

are you weary?


you are stressing the cat

Illo by Pattie Mulligan © 2015

end of the line


by Meg Baird



pretty little Pearl

in her case of flesh and bone

lay curled

all she ever said, “Arr . . .”



Flora, bright flower

decidedly shocked

by all of her pain

and this strange environment

“It’s all very sudden,” she said

and without much adieu

she had fled



Evelyn, Evelyn

you’re gone so long

you didn’t waste and dither

you laid your long strong body down

and wailed your way to heaven




thinking of you


by Meg Baird


if I were a bird or a fish

I would have no words

or way to write to describe flight

immersion in the ocean’s liquid night


I have lived another life

perhaps a pharaoh princess

or a Pharaoh’s lovely wife

and then I might have been an eagle’s meal

or in a gilded cage

I may have worked from dawn to dusk

a lovely pharaoh’s slave


yes, I remember many things

on any given night

the sky

the sea

the fire of Kings

some other things

I have been speared

have been enclosed

I’ve lived and died a hundred-fold

your love has always been with me

when words do not suffice

it swims and flies and dies with me

ready, as the days unfold, in this another life





by Meg Baird


and someday he will

out of the corners of his mouth

remember the bend of the form

the soft cooing sounds

icing on cinnamon buns

the pair of them

what to write


by Meg Baird


write about that night

that the rain was on fire

that your bed was a pyre

that you burned with desire

that you steadfastly held

to your right to disclose

and remove your clothes

that you knew it was rain

that the flames would not burn

you will learn you will learn

how to suffer



green shoots


by Meg Baird


it’s rather chilly

this March dampness

there’s a forecast

for heavy rain tonight

there’s green shoots

shooting up in the garden

with their tiny tips of color

and their cups enclosed

and they are truly shooting up

out of dark and damp and cold

color packets, shrubby buds

spires and thorns and pulchritude

kaleidoscoping blooms surrounded\

rooted in and grounded by the many

shapes and shades and patterns

of their bed of green and gold

and purples too and more

and if it snows

they’ll just slow down

but the forecast is for rain

and rain it will

spilling into buds that drink

for bees that drink

and birds that eat

delicious little garden treats

but now it’s only March

so much is written of that month

the madness and the fun

some betrayal, wars and such

what will it bring

no one ever knows for sure

but how we crave the Springing forth

we have a metaphor called Love

jack and jill


by Meg Baird


he’s  slipping into madness

and she’s sliding out of dodge

they’re holding hands

new jack old jill

tumbling down the hill

the pail comes flying after


tom had some Irish in him

crazy big blue eyes

gay was his heart

and also his hurt

we who loved

could flirt

his mind

was a world of delight

his eyes have now changed

they are slits

he is chained

but he’s having a wake ‘for he dies


the doctors tell him he can pick a date

nurses at arms implore him to wait

he’s not terribly unhappy

let’s have us a wake

he’s a strong heart

they’ve told him

obviously lucid and sane

set up the high-five

or continue this frame

but the motor is running

it’s purring and warm

he might slip with his jill

down the hill

one more night

the story to here


by Meg Baird


Feral or fear

And what is the difference

Injected dilaudid diazepam


Colostomy surgery

Metastasized shit

Please pardon the pun

There’s a reason for it

No winking at surgeons

A bite for the doc

Who’d offer a high-five

If he would but knock

I’m thinking him more

Of a cat every day

We once had an old tom

And that was his name

Of how we just let our

Old Tom go away

No matter how ragged

Or cut up his was

A scrapper

An old tom

A thing of great interest

But I kept my distance

And that is the story to here



Art by Patty Mulligan © 2017

Tom cat


by Meg Baird


My friend Tom cat

is a gentle man

may he land on his feet

as he leaps out of the reach

of the outstretched hands

that he doesn’t understand

and they don’t understand


It’s just about time to

have a serious talk

Stage three cancer

maybe four

Somewhere between in his

chemo-laced platelets of blood

and the radiation blasts

to the tumors in his ass

which are grim to the intestines


my dear, dear friend

in the Sunrise Manor

house of the rising sun

public housing cockroach

bedbug-ridden hell hotels

the welfare checks

he calls being paid

the job search center

he calls his office

and he says he’s going

kicking and screaming all the way

what can anyone say

death has a way to it

same deal with every meal

going, going, gone

and we lightly on the surface

will sing and remember him

each in their own way

he will be gone

mon amie


by Meg Baird


mon amie est en train de mourir

lentement et dur

donnant la botte et le cri

a cette vie où il a essaye

être libre

maintenant il fatigue

et le feux de la vie

me quittera bientôt

sans lui



my friend


by Meg Baird


my friend is dying

slowly and hard

giving the boot and the cry

to this life where he tried

to be free

now he tires

and the fires of life

will soon leave me

without him



Art by Ann Marie Rhiel © 2017



by Meg Baird



running the last mile


walking and talking with him

then running to avoid

the feared parking ticket

running to run away

running just to run


staying on track

we’re parting ways

here’s to the days

we thought would never end

my friend


but the parting

is in the future

I walk in my years

strongly beside his frailty

I’ve always loved his joie de vie


he’ll be tired

just getting home

hospital bed in his living room

how ironic words can be sometimes


now he’s drinking

“in his cups” as he likes to say

happy enough in his own way

along with a menagerie of drugs

dying, he said, is a full-time job

along with lucid dreaming

loss of short-term memory

loss of appetite

anxiety, some panic

visual effects that turn the room

sideways or upside down

all normal, the docs tell him

if he fears anything

it’s being alone at night

those wee hours are frightful to him

can’t say I’m brave enough to stay


torn between standing in his way

and whispering in his ear that it’s ok

run Tom, run



I’ve told him

I wouldn’t stay

not at his apartment



he’s in bad shape

his ship is sinking


are one of his fantasies

go figure


Stevie, his friend

from across the hall

before he got evicted

now still has a warm place

he’d been running errands

for Tom for months

a real sweetheart with problems

this could get interesting




Art by Ann Marie Rhiel © 2017

moment of madness


by Meg Baird



I once knew a woman

with Alzheimer’s

not funny, eh?

but anyway

she said something

all the time

over and over

all the f-ing time

she said

I can’t do this anymore

so the other night

I lay in bed thinking

about a song I’d just heard

and the line that stuck in my mind


I should have known

heard it again just now

but the group and the title slipped immediately

from my mind that had followed the following news story

and the word “gross at the end just biffed that group and title right out of my head

and can I find it anywhere with a reference to that line

well, you guessed it

all I can come up with are soapy, slimy lyrics and it’s not the tune

I was sure I had remembered the group’s name but oh, no

no such band

a recording company

so I’ll have to listen for it again

it’s a new contemporary song

I’ll get back to you

of course

I should have known

And then they sing

I’m all alone

I should have known

then there’s some lovely lines about good things

I should have known though

that was my point

it’s a perfect repeat line for a madwoman

I was thinking that the other night and I was feeling the same today

when I heard the damn thing

someone put an end to this

and that’s my point, too

someone do it for me

wish I could have killed that woman and put her out of her misery




Art by Ann Marie Rhiel © 2017

at the crest

by Meg Baird


my demons were chasing me

they linger even now

that morning’s light has come

I did not run with them

though they howled all night

I am wounded

I walk with scars

the bright light hurts my eyes

I am saved for another day

for yet another way

to dicker the price



Art by Ann Marie Rhiel © 2017

Gottingen Street 1998

by Meg Baird


as winter begins to thaw

the old dilapidated part of town yawns

the junkies outside the addiction control center

have eyes of exposed rock

their limbs are lean and mean weathered branches

a cache of desolate landscape

along the brightly colored, sagging, litter-strewn street

where the winos melt and the hulks saunter down

the main artery from the North End

the good city is always trying to clean that street

keep it from getting clogged

and causing a major heart attack

but it’s just dying of old age

living and dying every day, in every conceivable way


(Gottingen, in the area that I lived for awhile, was pronounced like “got-a-gin” and occasionally someone would refer to it as “got-a-gun street.”)



Art by W. Jack Savage © 2018

Love is all

by Meg Baird


I say things now

I don’t know where they come from

But I do

This growing old is new to me

I only recently stopped digging my heels in

when I joined the Buddhist temple

and got the Buddha Bible or one of them

in translation of course so who knows

some of it gets through

It’s all Love

Love is all is what Tom used to say

Oh, yes the friends, family and lovers who are passing on

Or whatever, dear God, it is that happens

They’re still so oh so very much inside us

Gone to where we’re going next

That much we know but not the rest

It’s all Love

And that’s my mama

that pink porcelain egg

Planted one tip in

a Chinese flower pot

on the kitchen counter



Art by Ann Marie Rhiel © 2018


by Meg Baird


some roads are built at night

star-spangled interstates

of mind travel

on wide thick ribbons

of nerve-drenched cement

wet in a romantic rain



Art by Patty Mulligan © 2018

sweet rivalry


by Meg Baird




if you’re mad

it’s only in your mind


to be kind

pray for grace

to speak sensibly

keep the body well fed and loved


if it were not for the body

you would not be here

though it is the landscape

from which you paint your madness

contemplate this strange arrangement

that the keys you seek

serve only to secure you

death alone can release you


it is said that sleep and death are brothers

the mind must go to sleep

the body must go to death

never the two retreat

nor two siblings rival so sweetly




Art by Cindy Rosmus © 2018

Art by Rich MacNeill © 2018


(aka Janis Joplin)

by Meg Baird


she knew about that

glove on an iron fist

that shoe on the other foot

that dragging of salt

over an open wound

howling at the moon

she was made of it

a bed of oysters

swallowing grit



Art by Ann Marie Rhiel © 2018

three tenses

(past present and perfect)


by Meg Baird



there’s nothing new

that I can do

that doesn’t bring back memories

the truly new is a losing game

unless you’ve read some poetry

poetic thought like D.H. Lawrence

Ship of Death

a thing of beauty

bold and yet

so timidly it wings its way

towards the light of each new day

and if you love to go to sleep

sleep of the dead it’s said is deep

Be not afraid




Art by Cindy Rosmus © 2018



by Meg Baird


it should scare you

embrace the caution of aging


it’s not that you like it so much

it’s inevitable and ultimate

it’s going to happen


it’s pretty impressive

if it weren’t so fucking depressing


listen to Cohen

read Cohen

he went through it

and baby he knew it

as far as I can tell

he’s not a false idol either

and I’m not saying

he’s an idol of mine

or anyone’s but I know he is


that’s ok

I have my own shit to share

and it’s sticking with me to the end

or almost

I’d like to go cleaned out

peaceful and very high





Art by Cindy Rosmus © 2018

Art by Ann Marie Rhiel © 2019

life is weird

by Meg Baird


I wake as if I’m in a dream

It’s 2 or 3 or 4 AM again

my aching legs and troubled mind

say I must rise and move about

and have a jolt of nicotine

I’ve heard it’s really not that bad

It’s all the other crap they add

so slippers, coat and to the deck

I sit and light a cigarette

feeling old as old as dirt

but back to bed my legs don’t hurt

the radio is always on

to hear the news and other docs

the thoughts the thoughts the thoughts

decide revolt refuse

go back to sleep



Art by Ann Marie Rhiel © 2019

the look of legs


by Meg Baird


I was walking and turned slightly

to see him in his wheelchair

looking at my legs

his were withered from polio

seemed he’d made the iron lung

part of his persona

squat and stolid and a lawyer

like Ironside, no lie

I was aware suddenly

of the energy inside my own

a burst of brightness

at about knee level

radiating up and down

a moment frozen in time

then he turned with a wide sweep

of his wheels and we never said anything


Art by Ann Marie Rhiel © 2019

pressure lines


by Meg Baird


that well-worn phrase

for a woman your age


I often find that language

rhymes under pressure


hold her to the line

most of the time


go with your intuition

it’s always listening

knows exactly

where you’re going

you can let it

do the talking



falling trees

and burnt debris

a forest fire in B.C.

maybe peace

in the Middle East

I heard it on TV


not everyone listens

not everyone cares

fair enough



Art by KJ Hannah Greenberg © 2019

work it out

(yes, I do)


by Meg Baird


yes, I do like the sound

of my own voice

it helps to ground me


yes, I do love my

intelligence and curiosity


no, I don’t mind being alone

we’re always alone

or we’re never alone

it’s the same thing

you can never own anyone

people have tried

and what a mess all that is


yes, I do love sleeping alone

waking alone can be a bit weird

guess you can’t have everything



Art by Ann Marie Rhiel © 2019

Art by Ann Marie Rhiel © 2019


by Meg Baird


lampshade with a yellow light

inside a room across the street

lamp lights a frame of aqua blue

graded shading through the gauze

of curtains in the upstairs flat

all the other windows black

for many nights I checked to see

it never changed when suddenly

a silhouette in a rocking chair

leaned forward giving back my stare!



Meg Baird can be found in the ezine archives of Yellow MamaTwisted Sister, Anemone SidecarOpen Heart ForgeryApollo’s Lyre, and Prachya Review, as well as the paper publications FluidityCV2: Poetry OnlyExpressions, and Fourth Floor Images. She enjoys performing in cafes, libraries, bars and special events. Poetry, her own and that of others, has saved her life on more than one occasion. Say no more!

In Association with Fossil Publications