Jun 16 2015

gypsy rose lee

uncurl, unfurl
into a blooming dance twirl

lay soft or stare hard
but do not be afraid
to show the center of your
to the mirror help maid

sit in lachrymose silence
til the end of the sky
fills yours scent cloaked ears

and then dance
to the cloud colored music
you hear

the only absolute
is open

and your interpretation
is the petal spread of living
on a vine scored with rows
of hidden heart thorn

climb the ladder with care
and then jump
into being

scatter petals
shout perfume
nod your head at the coy
wary moon

uncurl, unfurl
into a blooming dance





Jun 2 2015

fire in the sky

and it’s the magic of twilight that draws me outside, down the hill to a swamp filled with peepers. some nights the sound roars through the darkness, and on those nights, it’s not that i can’t sleep, it’s just that i don’t want to. my primal memory wants to lie outside and count the starts into numbers too large to carry. my feet refuse to forget the sensation of walking. nothing is clear in the darkness, but everything shines, and until you’ve let the moon find your shadow, you’ve never once stood in real light. there are secrets out here, everywhere. the trees are always whispering. i want to walk into the forest and do nothing but listen. that’s where all the answers are, but we’ve forgotten how to hear them. lightning reminds us, but only for a moment. and thunder makes us forget yet again. i want to wash my hair in the rain and leaves my toes caked with mud. i want to run through the color of midnight.




May 21 2015

could-have-beens and
and the questions filling my days

“You can’t ‘just’ be a poet—which when rent is due is absolutely true—therefore we get pretend titles like Ambassador and Legislator and Seer. The upside is that we are free (or, downside, forced) to find or invent roles for ourselves (and our poems) that engage differently with the material demands of our culture.”~Mark Bibbins

I came across this quote yesterday, after a conversation the evening before with my husband about the paths we take and why we take them, and whether or not we regret them, or at the very least, wish we’d done things differently.

This is something I’ve thought about a lot recently, as I find myself aging, as I lose friends and loved ones, as I traverse the territory of middle-age that stands between now and crone. And I find myself, quite often, wishing I had done just that. Except then I realize that I did do everything differently, without thought, without choice even, because my path was never the one paved with asphalt and fancy construction, my path was always just a break in the trees somewhere in the woods, and I was always the barefoot girl staring wide-eyed at the moon.

So, okay, no regrets, but there are still things that haunt me. And the older I get, the more security becomes one of them, the more struggling looks less romantic and simply hard. The more I wonder if I should have put some high heels on all those years ago and walked down a different road, wearing a suit that might confine, but would also protect. I was a straight-A student my whole life. I could have done anything. (At least that’s what the little voice whispers.)

But the voice that always answers back, the one that’s stronger and sing-song and slightly rose-colored, tells a different story. That I could only ever have done exactly what I did. I could only ever be who I am. And that is my solace.

Will it be enough to see me through?

Only time will tell, and besides, the sun is shining down on these roses about to bloom and a few years back, this whole bush was crushed to the ground. I see no regret in these buds that turn themselves boldly towards the sun, and the thorns and the scars are all hidden just now, in the darkest shadows of growth.

I’ll sit here and watch them open and listen to the birds and inhale all the yesterdays that brought me to this moment.

And all I’ll breathe out is today.









May 9 2015


It feels like summer already, high heat, lazy naps (for him, at least), flip flops and outdoor fires, all beneath the only ceiling that doesn’t close me in.

Gypsy days and windows-open nights.

The perfect lullabye of peepers and crickets.

Sun on my skin.

Last night I sat outside until midnight. It was 88° when I walked inside.

This morning, everything is green.

Game on.




Apr 29 2015

no one knows what lies ’round the bend

but you can’t stand still with a photo
in one hand
holding claim to borrowed memory
even a dead crow
dreams of color
and everything buried will
to the catacomb
of temporary



A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month. Day 29
I’m participating in NaPoWriMo, and Writer’s Digest Poem a Day Challenge.



Apr 28 2015

it’s only matter if it matters

and even a star can get pulled
out of shape by the weight of living
and eventually
everything rusts
(except plastic) and you
can bury your heart
in the landfill of everything
but you will still
hear it beating
in corners


you in
and you’ll just keep thinking
you win
you win
you win



A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month. Day 28
I’m participating in NaPoWriMo, and Writer’s Digest Poem a Day Challenge.



Apr 26 2015

the daunting dwindle of compromise
{a game of shakespeare}

you say age cannot wither her, sir

but i say what a piece of work is man all filled up

with woe is me and heart on your sleeve and

a rose by any other name when what you mean is

love is blind or bag and baggage but i carry you

to the corner of frailty, thy name is woman all

green eyed monster and fight fire with fire

(really, i have green eyes)

and lay you down under the greenwood tree knowing

for certain that all the world’s a stage

and the milk of human kindness will save you when

the game is up and thereby hangs a tale

of more fool you though

this is the short and the long of it

and the course of true love never did run smooth

but all’s well that ends well and we both know

there’s method in my madness


Et tu, Brute i say, Et tu?*



Today I took Poem A Day’s challenge one step further and filled a poem with
Shakespeare phrases, in addition to using words he coined in the title.
All phrases in italics are Will’s.


A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month. Day 26
I’m participating in NaPoWriMo, and Writer’s Digest Poem a Day Challenge.






Apr 23 2015


what i hold in my palm is not forgiveness, exactly
but my own cracked version of all the ways
i’ve learned to spell

the quest for grace
the call for compassion
the human con(dition)

absolution is not mine to give nor
clemency mine to offer

i can only keep my hand open
mark these trails as map

i no longer need
to know the route

for i stand naked in the rain
of evolution
running rivulets of truth
across a river
laced with anarchy
and stone



A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month. Day 23
I’m participating in NaPoWriMo, and Writer’s Digest Poem a Day Challenge.




Apr 11 2015

beneath the covers

if you’re going to fall in love
with living
you have to accept that grief will be
a frequent visitor
showing up at odd times
key in hand
bulging black suitcase tossed
at her feet

you might even
become friends
brew her tea and bake
some cookies
put a vase of red tulips
by her bed

she won’t stay forever but
she won’t ever leave
and after a while
you begin to clear out

a drawer in a dresser
some space in your closet
and then you’re mates
sharing space
in a house of one hundred
barren rooms

passing hours and days
without an encounter

but you hear her at night
rattling heartache and stain

and eventually
find yourself listening

with a crinkled up smile
as you lie with a quilt
built from stitched over
memory and faded thin
of once was
and gravity’s chain




A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month. Day 11
I’m participating in NaPoWriMo, and Writer’s Digest Poem a Day Challenge.


Apr 8 2015

perfect storm
{a body in motion}

Poetry, NaPoWriMo, Poem A Day, Poetry Month, Storm

i remember the day i grew up
my hand on your shoulder and my heart
left somewhere in amongst the gravestones
we’d run through without tripping

and i realize now we made a trade
that day
you standing still
and me never stopping
chasing ghosts i’d never known
but surely


the clouds sung a choir
of revelation
just before i knelt

to pray for silence

and then i was off
like a shot or a doe or a wild-legged

wind in my hair streaming long
back behind me
your hand outstretched
but never grasping
how i’d left you alone

with your fear




A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month. Day 8
I’m participating in NaPoWriMo, and Writer’s Digest Poem a Day Challenge.