Where was I?

Too much on my mind –

wandering back to the starting point,

trying to jog the thought process,

standing puzzled – run the list.

Waiting for the a-ha…

waiting to get back on point,

waiting for son’s laughter to subside.



mother’s clothes

Fed up with their rules,

she again failed to express herself;

receding into her closet, she sank

into the barely perceptible scent.

Sitting in darkness, inhalations

opened death’s determined veil.

Mama’s girl resolved wayward

self-esteem during wardrobe respites.

Missing physical rumination, closeted

connection opened the spiritual partition

breath by soft breath into ethereal  reality.




Buried in paper bound mystery,

body curled protectively

around fine print characters.

Moving internally, their forms

drift in and out of consciousness

reforming in succinct clarity

due to author’s descriptive proclivity.

Imagination burned the present tense;

lost again in acceptable passivity,

real world was relegated to fiction…


Mary Karr told the Paris Review: “Reading is socially accepted disassociation. You flip a switch and you’re not there anymore. It’s better than heroin. More effective and cheaper and legal.”


Writing on the wall

Never even ‘tagged” a wall –

that’s spray painting a symbol on

a public building – not for me…

but there was that stop sign –

young dumb teenager;

a speed sign once too – same age –

turned the 3 into an 8, so creative.


Thinking about walls in life…

some cause a change in direction;

force a circuitous route around them.

Physically many materials can create a wall:

wood, brick, concrete, bamboo, rocks;

mentally – memories built of pain, guilt,

anxiety, fear, love, jealousy, abuse form them.


Some walls are without a door;

some are without words…

most don’t have gates for egress.

Grew up with hand built granite stone walls –

stone upon stone separated pastures; dividing farm

from farm, farm from road, garden from rocks.

keeping animals in – protection from wilderness…


Hiking the overgrown roads, following

tumbled grey granite flecked with garnets,

exploring where families struggled

through each season – now nothing left.

Forest once cleared for livestock – regrown

framed by dissembled jumble leaf coated rocks.

Wordless witness to forgotten past.




Bananas dripped self-consciously

from the wire basket while former

oranges were ignorant of green mold.

Fruit flies abandoned the rotting mass

preferring fresher produce; they formed

temporary relationships elsewhere.

Long hours had passed with no indication

of weekday title; television a mute witness

to streaming waves of heat mutating

air’s stifled stillness ripe with rot.

Sipping water, the grief fast was not to be

broken by impending display of neglect.

Shorn hair illuminated by single candle;

incense seeped into ragged clothing;

numbed lips chanted until mirrored spirit

slipped into blessed obscurity…