Sep 13 2016

poking holes
in the theory of yesterday

negative space holds the shape of things

we know this, but choose to dance in the open plains
because existence enjoys being contrary

explain to a child the difference
between holey and holy


or the nature of sanity
and the way the stars all revolve
around one direction

or why i’m bound to sit
facing southeast

watching a halo of hair
glint off the arms
of the distant day
you embraced me




Aug 4 2016

some scars aren’t meant
to be hidden

and you wear them on your heart
like a badge or a pin
or a reminder to remember

you expose them
to the elements

harden them off

rub them raw

until they weave
their own shield of shadow
and eventually
stop hurting
when they’re touched




May 31 2016

it all grows tall

the robin woke me this morning, calling hard and loud to greet another day.

i admire her optimism, her ability to sing the world awake, her ability to proclaim that being alive is the very best thing, without doubt or second-guessing the effort it will take her just to survive.

she has blind faith and i admire that, too. that’s a different thing than standing small beneath the sky of infinity.

or staying inside when all the windows are open, because even though I can hear that robin, there are still all these walls.

and that’s what I keep coming back to.






May 24 2016

the out of focus
leanings of louise

and the call of a sky turned crooked

on a day that grows dark like any other

the sun always rises

the sun always rises

the sun always rises

she hears the whispers in the leaves of the tall poplar trees

she has blisters from planting possibility

she is a storm raging gales of regret

she is silent and patient and sometimes

she bends

ever so slightly

towards a house

filled with reflection

and polished





May 5 2016

opening, again

Comfort zones. They get tighter as we get older, much like that favorite pair of jeans. We get set in our ways, and we like that, mostly, we find comfort in routine and pattern and the familiar.

But life is too complicated to allow us to stay in any one place for very long. Just when we settle in and start feeling all warm and fuzzy, something happens, something changes, and we have to learn how to move through life all over again. And I’m okay with that. It keeps things interesting at the very least.

We go through phases. And they’re called phases because they are slices of time that have a beginning and an end.

The leaves on the oakleaf hydrangea just outside my studio window are just about to open. Dozens of buds waiting for just the right moment. Each one unique, if you look closely, yet all part of the same mother plant. Yes, that’s a metaphor. A nice reminder to myself this morning, a sunny moment in a week that’s been filled with clouds both literal and figurative.

I am learning new things. It is making my brain hurt, which happens as you get older. My body is holding me hostage with hormones, and I keep reminding myself that I am becoming. Moving on. Getting ready to open to a new season of life.

Pfft. That makes it sound pretty, and quite honestly, it’s not. But it’s going to happen just the same, and I’m going to embrace all of it, even the rage. (Yes, there is rage.)

Maybe you lose something as the years go by, bits of innocence and wonder, but you don’t forget they exist.

I think.

Maybe I’ll find my way back, or perhaps I’ll end up in a different place altogether. Yes. I’m pretty sure that’s the answer.

But I’m still asking questions. And I’m still going to open, even when it is painful.

Because there is sun to feel on my face, and a garden to plant, again, and all these people to love with the heart of a crone.

Reasons enough to spread my arms wide.

Reasons enough.




May 3 2016

same landscape,
different day

and you cling to the thread of recognition
stitched up your arm proclaiming you

when torn is what you are

not broken

torn and sewn
back together
with the needle
of forgiveness

and these aren’t neat, tiny stitches
these are meant to leave a scar

a mark you’ll wear as badge
as you walk into battle

fragile and crumbling
paper thin





Apr 26 2016


we spend our lives
learning the truth about love

how some days it shares
a pocket with hate

and there is never enough
or too much
or any amount just right

we get all twisted with
lust and false longing

in over our heads
thinking we must choose

there is never a choice
and it all seems so
brittle fragile

strong enough to kill us
strong enough to be there

on a day sixty years and
several winters from freedom

when a heart left hanging
stops beating and we know
we know

the (w)hole
we’ve fallen into





A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month: Day 26
I’m participating in NaPoWriMo, and the Writer’s Digest Poem a Day Challenge
Today’s theme is PAD’s write a love poem, or, write an anti-love poem. Clearly, I couldn’t decide.

Apr 21 2016

shiny and new

and here we are
far past spring
and rusted out

high stepping with
slightly more creak
than strut

these days the
rain never ends
and the wheels

have all stopped
locked in place

by expo-

. . . . . . . . .

(in response to:


from Spring and All (1923)

so much depends

a red wheel

glazed with rain

beside the white

-William Carlos Williams)




A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month: Day 21
I’m participating in NaPoWriMo, and the Writer’s Digest Poem a Day Challenge
Today’s theme is PAD’s write a poem in response to another poem.


Apr 15 2016

tiny moments of wonder, and life

the world is always flat in a photograph and
you draw rings around my heart with saturn fingers

fuchsia only looks gaudy in northern climates
long in the tooth from measured open waiting since

lavish contains every color of unnecessary yet
all i need is a vessel lined with feathers of fortitude

and this paper-torn chance of morning refuge
simper-ripped and recited from the blacklist of night




A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month: Day 15
I’m participating in NaPoWriMo, and the Writer’s Digest Poem a Day Challenge
Today’s theme is a combo of NaPoWriMo’s doubles and PAD’s: use these eight words.


Mar 15 2016

scratching at the surface
of ephemera

Alice holds a doll in tired hands. I want
to smile each time I walk past,
say hello,
but tears always well and my mouth
turns down with the pain
of perpetual forecast.

“This feels like prison,”
someone whispers, and I
don’t think it was me but
old Joe’s eyes dart straight up to mine
and hold me with watery challenge,
though neither one of us knows
who spoke.

I don’t want to walk this gauntlet
disguised as hallway or write
these words
pretending to be poetry,
but here I am
scooting by with my purple sharpie
concealed in one hand.

Hope sits in my purse
next to car keys and kleenex and
crumpled receipts,
though I’ve paid for nothing
and everyone here
will be sure to testify.


Of life and legs
always moving,




to places already been
and never seen.