Last night my mom gave me a tiny owl.

Petite, the size of my fist, he was cute

and fluffy with big golden eyes.

He said we knew each other before.

Yes, he could speak; Keanu is my name.


We took a nap together.

Memories glided into that snooze

across sunrays back into moonbeams.

Morning light brought realization

of dreams within dreams…



Frog’s Voice


Frog’s voice carries in high wind.

Tucked into tree bark shelter,

he hollers – is this an alluring voice?

Waiting for a lover’s response, his silence

is overwhelming as the wind carries on.





Complete blather,

her mind wouldn’t shut up.

Over and over the loop circled;

wolves attacking Achilles tendon

tearing a deeper rutted limp.

Hating life’s routine upon routine…

compulsive redundancy…

she washed her hands again.



After All


Gust of mind rattles loose dusted

decades uncovering neglected effluence…

that damn loop of self-criticism slithers

in spasmodic bursts of mental vocalisms.

Idle ignorance doesn’t assist eradication

of deposits located in recessed memories.

No expectations or assumptions can retain

freedom from steep ravines of darkness.

Since her eyes were sharpened by time

and experience, she knew internal dark

mumbling hastened her shrinking from success –

after all, success was more frightening than failure.



February 29th


Finally leap year…

finally a chance to celebrate her divorce.

Four years was a long time to wait to light

a candle; drink some sipping chocolate;

renew her vow to never trust again.

Well, that didn’t need to wait four years

since circumstances justified lack of faith

in all human beings all the time.

To avoid abuse, that was her ultimate goal;

to avoid her rescue nature, that hadn’t changed.

Cuddling dim hope that her debt to karma was

well served over a life of leaped years…





Howling upon departure,

sadness envelopes sleep

till snoring interrupted

by key in lock releasing

tapping toenails that

accentuate skittering paws

rushing to greet with

barks and a prancing hello.

Honestly you two, I just

went to the mailbox…


To the Top


She was a fake…

borrowing other’s words,

flaunting them as trademarked,

usurping thoughts too,

anything to better her unoriginal mind set.

Flirting with contention,

ignoring rolled eyes,

she gouged her way from underdog

to top bitch…






Something Living


Midnight found her struggling to pull leg

warmers onto chilled cramping calves under

achingly cold layers of blankets; where

were those blasted cats when you needed them.

The long pink flannel nightgown did little

hold the warmth with its ugly ruffles at cuff and collar.

Not that she ever wore anything revealing but still

she hated pink and the ruffles… but a thrift store

inexpensive find is a thrift store find even pink flannel.

Rolling back and forth to self-tuck in, she felt as naked

and barren as the leafless maples under their sheets of ice.

Calling softly, the three cats responded curling behind

bent knees, resting on chest/hip saddle, and leaning against

her stomach; whispering thanks for their comforting breath

nearby and something living to lie with…




Inspiration for this poem  was “Three Dog Night” by Faith Shearin, from Moving the Piano. © Stephen F. Austin University Press, 2011 – especially the last stanza.

“Your hands and feet were cold

and the trees were cold: naked,


traced in ice. You might take a dog

to bed or two or three, anything to lie

down with life, feel it breathing nearby.”






How are you?


Such a simple question… asked

out of social politeness rather than actual interest.

Trapped with an expanding diatribe, she was

frozen to the spot unable to slip away

in the direction of the tempting coffee aroma.

After all, it was just a typical greeting;

listening to miniscule details of every issue

without rolling eyes, checking the time,

or screaming indifference made sainthood probable.

Too nice was an outside layer; sympathetic ear

was a disguise; she only came for the refreshments

not for gathering other’s composted trivial lives.