05/12/2026 by Elizabeth - 0 comments

poison (haiku 1)

poison (haiku 1)

irritating man
chasing the Gila monster,
messing up my shot

Elizabeth Francois 2026

a picture of a prickly pear cactus with a small Gila monster under it — Look for the Gila monster at the bottom of the shot!

Story of the Poem

Hubs and I went for a drive up the canyon to the lake. It was very busy, so we continued on, looking for cool things. We ended up stopping at this little rest area to stretch. There was a couple there, looking down at the level below us. The woman spotted the Gila monster.

Naturally, her travel companion ran down to the next level to get a closer look at it, scaring the crap out of it. I was trying to get a picture of it as it scurried away. I didn’t have my zoom lens on me (I was lucky that I even had a camera!). Luckily, I was able to get one clear picture of it.

I would have gotten so many more (and better) pictures if the man would have just stayed and observed. It’s all good though. This is the first one I’ve seen in the wild, and it was amazing.

I got the inspiration for writing a haiku from the amazing https://nonsoweb.blog/2025/08/24/moonglow-ii-haiku/. I haven’t played with haiku for a bit, and thought it would be fun. I sense a series coming. 🙂

05/04/2026 by Elizabeth - 2 Comments

Sweep

Sweeping things under the rug
Being swept away
Sweeping gestures
Winning the sweepstakes
Sweeping the series
Getting swept up in something
Sweeping changes
Making a clean sweep

It’s all or nothing.

Apparently I wrote this poem (?) back in May 2016 in response to a prompt. I have been sorting through folders and finding many treasures. I don’t know if I would label this as a good poem, but it is a poem. I feel like there may be more that can be added to it. For now, though, I’m going to post it as it is.

I was going to add an image to this, but I couldn’t find one that fit.

04/09/2026 by Elizabeth - 1 Comment

Creative Challenge for the Creatively Blocked

Context

A few months ago, my niece and I were talking about how we felt creatively blocked. The inspiration was sort of there, but the will to create art was blocked. We couldn’t get anything out. We decided to create a group on Discord (OMG I KNOW! I’m so tech savvy) and set up a loose timeline with prompts that would hopefully help us do some creating.

The first topic was love letters. We had a couple of weeks to work on our art and then we would share it with each other. I had the first three lines figured out, but the rest wouldn’t come. I was thinking I would write it about reading or writing or something.

Then it hit me. I could write it about my husband Jason. He’s kind of amazing, but I don’t typically write about people (especially not romantic, sappy stuff, which I knew it would turn out to be). My brain liked this idea and started running with it.

a "selfie" of a man on the left and a woman on the right, posing at a wedding — **Jason and I at my nephew’s wedding**

When I write poetry, I generally do it by hand. I don’t know why it flows better that way, but it does. It started out as poetry and then started turning into an actual letter to him.

I almost gave up. I couldn’t make the poetry come out.

Then, I just decided to write the letter and make it into poetry later. This is what I ended up with. Hope you enjoy it!

Love Letter

for Jason

I never meant to fall in love,
but the shape of your letters
embraced me. The words
you create, though few,
helped untwist the spell
I was under. They teased
at the knots that kept me
in smallness,
in insignificance.

I was your angel (and sometimes
your angle— acute, of course).
I have seen your struggle
to arrange the letters
into precise words,
and then
to put those words
into the perfect order
that fit what you mean.

Words have always been hard
for you, but you try,
and try, and try,
and you don’t give up,
even when you feel
you will never get it right.

I know it would be easier
for you to build me something
that shows me how much
you love me.

What I’ve never told you
is that the way
you persevere
has built me a safe world.

Your words remind me
that I am divine
that I am worthy
that I am significant
and loved,
so very loved.

Elizabeth Francois 2026

11/07/2025 by Elizabeth - 0 comments

Moving On

Content Warning: Implied Sexual Assault

Moving On

I sit on a stool in the D Bar J,
sucking on a $2.00 soda, the smell
of stale beer drifting through
the door that separates me
from the cottonwood mist outside. I hear
the pool balls smack, Chapin’s
maudlin in syncopation to my pulse. Smoke
from a cigar catches my refrain,
carries it to the elk head’s seven point
rack that plays cat-in-the-cradle with strands
of dreams abandoned. The mirror’s
gold etchings frame me; I see clutching
hands, sour-milk smile. I can feel
his smooth cheek, hot breath, dirty nails
streaking my face, his reeking weight. I want
to grasp a pool cue between my thighs
and rip out what he left behind, to probe
until I find the part of me that laughed
at jokes nobody else understood. But instead
I close my eyes, open my diamond smile, slip
my lips to that shape, and say Yes
to the next bearded cowboy that asks.

The Story of the Poem

This summer, I had the opportunity to go back to where I grew up in Colorado. I have so many memories (and feelings) about where I grew up, so revisiting the places where I experienced so much sadness and joy was really hard. I will probably write a post about that one of these days. Today is not that day, though.

This was a poem that I wrote when I was in college in my creative writing classes that I recently pulled out of my pile of things. I did a little bit of reworking it, with some help with from my brother and sister-in-law. I am pretty proud of how it turned out. This poem is dark and not based on a single experience that I had. It is mostly fictional, but the elements of reality are definitely there.

I am not sure what the prompt was for this poem, but I based it off of a little cafe on the Grand Mesa in Colorado called the D Bar J Cafe. It was one of the only restaurants in the area and, on very very special occasions, my dad would take us there to eat. When we went back to visit last summer, the cafe was still there, but it had a different name.

Here is a picture of the bar, looking pretty much like I remember it looking. I know the picture is crooked, but it is what it is.

A well-stocked bar with various bottles of liquor displayed on shelves, a clock on the wall, and a colorful countertop made from bottle caps.

11/24/2013 by Elizabeth - 0 comments

Reaching

I am not to be
the poet that sits
and drinks scotch
reaching for the glass
bottom of life.

I cannot find truth
in ice cubes, love
in a wilted paper
napkin, beauty in
the ring left on the table.

My toast is not
for others to hear.

I perch on the stool,
vapors hovering,
the mists of poems
unwritten. I want to
catch them, savor them
as they slide, burning
cold, down my throat,
settling in my soul.

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