Aug 8 2016

quietly trumpeting
songs of solace

in a world filled with
shard and degradation

i am lost
i am silence
i am beauty

standing bent
but barely broken

i am thirst
i am hunger
i am courage

bleeding scent to
shadowed corners

i am beauty
i am silence
i am found



Jan 26 2016

built from thorn and
bits of sunlight

carried high above the sea of sky

(to keep from drowning, of course)

brittle fragile biting hiding


in a storm of hollow





Feb 21 2015

two by two


rubbing shoulders

with a world

determined to polish

all the rough






Jun 7 2014



fight for the light





Apr 16 2014

willy loman’s last
grand gesture

a tulip
refuses to rage
or go gentle

blown out
blowsed up
blundering on


no tears
no fear
all clear

silent growth
tender reach
purple hope

eating sunshine
like spun
cotton candy

by beauty’s
last song



A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month.
This post is part of NaPoWriMo.
Also joining in with PAD (poem a day) over at Writer’s Digest.




Apr 2 2014

dinner party

if anne tyler shows up, we’ll have homesick for dessert
and she’ll teach us how to breathe and forgive

hemingway is sure to want venison, but after
an extra tall absinthe, he’ll make do with chicken

as miss plath lights the candles and serves up
bitter cookies dressed in marzipan and red

garth stein arrives dripping wet, a bit shy and
empty-handed, claiming the dog ate his casserole

which makes david wroblewski snort

and when erin morgenstern sits down we hear a barker
hawking tickets to a game of musical chairs

a plan mr. king is all for as the table suddenly expands
and the sun starts to sing in the corner

rosamunde pilcher brings bread pudding and roses
and insists that she sit next to salinger

though of course, his chair remains empty and

anne sexton is the life of the party, wearing pearls
and wry and eventually landing in vonnegut’s lap

while franzen sneers behind one perfect hand, his plate
filled with words no one else cares to sample

as toni morrison whispers with somerset maugham,
heads bent in an endless discussion

dostoevsky is straining to hear

cummings offers up broken cake and colored water
he pulls from the pockets of his coat

when edith wharton smiles at mark danielewski
picking leaves from the hem of emily’s dress

and mark helprin sits in the corner, alone
taking notes with long cold fingers

as laura ingalls passes chipped plates



A little fun today, planning dinner with some favorite authors.
Who would you invite to your party?
A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month.
This post is part of NaPoWriMo, see more here.



Mar 29 2014

as the crow flies

i stand at the kitchen window long enough to grow roots

twisting down through the egg-cracked floor
into the fallible foundation of basement

this is my mirror and my afterlife and i know
i will haunt this place with my broad moon face
for seven wing-tipped generations

yet you taunt me with your hollow hope umbrage
moving through me as you glide overhead

my fingers the branch you choose to land on
though i never catch a wing or move a feather
and your song is more metaphor than melody

still, we know each other through this dark dirty pane
recognition confirmed by the silver you drop

even as you know i will tarnish-change to black
just like you and your silhouette of hands cupped
life running down my white sketched arms

as this sink filled with mud overflows




Linking in today over at dVersePoets for Open Link Night, join us!





Jan 11 2014

always, the light


when you’re finally done being silent

when the night is two hours too long

when open is all you can be

racing gently towards the lost sun



Jul 25 2013

little miss muffet

It’s a good year for the spiders. Actually, it’s a good year for all the insects, I’m fairly certain that ants and snails will be in charge of everything fairly soon. (Perhaps they already are). But there are also fireflies and dragonflies and damselflies and butterflies.

In general, I don’t spray anything in my garden, so I’ve learned to coexist with the pretty bugs and the ugly ones, the chewed up leaves and the ruined buds. I admit to using natural methods to try and control the ant hills in my flower beds, and there have been some attacks on wasps, because well, they’re wasps.

The birds are quite happy with the assortment of delectables, and the insects that eat other insects, well, they are my friends. So, yes, spiders are my friends. Praying Mantis are my friends. Ladybugs are my friends. Toads and frogs, though unrelated, are also my friends. Japanese Beetles, no matter how much they dress themselves up all pretty, are the enemy. Flies drive me insane.

So I will take an ugly old spider any old day. I never kill them, even when I find them inside (which is fairly often). Mostly, I just let them be, unless there is someone particularly squeamish around, and then I take them outside.

There’s something magical about a spider’s web. Something magical about watching one spin down from the ceiling on an almost invisible thread.

Of course, I’m quite certain I wouldn’t feel that way if I were a fly.

And when it happens right over my head as I lay in bed reading, well, okay, I admit, that’s a little creepy.

But yesterday was that kind of day.

(And no, I didn’t kill it.)



Oct 4 2012

the waltz of want

She’d spent her entire life dancing on the edge of perfection, cutting hands and face and feet on the razor-thin precipice of need. Growth occurred, but randomly, and in all sorts of crazy directions.

The light was always what attracted her, when it was the dark she should have been reaching for. Everyone knows that all the real truths lie hidden in the shadows.

But she avoided the gloom like a child afraid of the monster beneath her bed.

She just wanted her moment in the sun.

When it came, she was surprised to see how many scars she had acquired along the way.

Even so, she tilted her face up and she smiled, opening her arms to embrace the warmth upon her skin.




Linking up with the New World Creative Union’s  Wednesday Wake Up Call. Join us!