Many things inspire my “daily” poems… sometimes its a quote, or a word or two heard in conversation or read, sometimes it’s a song, memory…



Things I Wrote Today


A Beatle tune kept circulating

all morning in my allergy clogged head…

Things we said today.

Melancholy wrapped its arms around me;

a gentle embrace left me wondering.

It seems to be about hearing things in my head

and heart and not being able to get them into

some sort of expression as instantaneously as possible.

Least that’s for the art as I always carry pen and paper.

I don’t lose words often; its ideas for art that slip away.

I don’t want to leave this life without experiencing more…

without disconnecting limitations, that’s the real sorrow.

Melancholy drifts to disappointment for not conquering

accepted flimsy fears that withers part of my being.

Begin again – some wise shaman said that…

someday when I’m done dreaming, I hope to remember

the things I wrote today…


Someday when we’re dreaming,
Deep in love, not a lot to say.
Then we will remember
The things we said today.  Last lines from Thing We Said Today – Beatles

Rainy Day Pearls


I observe luminous rain pearls

scattered onto Lady’s Mantel.

Soft leaf hairs make water form droplets

that rest around each pleated velvety cup.

There’s this invisible line the drops cross

where they become a major burden

for this old-fashioned flower;  Lady’s Mantle

tends to hug the ground… the orbs lower leaves.

Gravity’s pull streams some globules to the valley

from hair perches; other glistening drops cling

stubbornly until sun’s heat takes them  back.

Wet or dry, they lean over and soften hard edges.




Rain – No place to run

No place to run

Walking the Corgis

the skies opened up

dumping solid rain sheets.

Nature’s invisibility cloak

engulfed us.

Wet fur; wet fleece;

wet footprints…

no place to run




She was what she was

Watching the aging process descend upon body

parts from the comfort of her observational mind,

the mirror revealed textural skin changes as pores

deepened and chin hairs appeared at odd angles.

Flowing head of hair had gone from red-brown to short

black with more straight white poking up every day.

Remembering childhood fascination as her limbs lengthened,

armpit and other body hair appeared; small conical breasts

finally descended into rotund nursing orbs now bereft of milk.

No regrets as she surrendered to normal physical changes.

She did miss the smell of baby’s breath; her empty arms

exhibited hanging waddles – total opposite of youthful strength.

Fascination hadn’t disappeared… each morning checking for

signs of default, she noted every subtle change: another crease

or wrinkle untouched by various wonder creams; more wiry

projectiles untouched by store-bought dyes;  lacking skin bleach,

spattered age spots decorated crepe paper skin on her hands.

Road map blue veins added patterns to textured loose skin.

And so eventually, she got tired of all her friend’s searching.

Disregarding their quest for perennial youth, she was her own

work in progress without a fountain; for good or bad, she was

unencumbered by beauty products and age enhancing supplements.

She was what she was –  captivated by aging naturally…




Staring into the Distance

If you knew how many hours

you had left, would you want

to fill it with something positive?

I suppose you would want to do

something and not sit staring off.

What about romance at the dawn

of the end… I guess I’d have to say –

why waste time with that?

Being one of the last people on this

planet not to have a relationship…

well that’s how it feels,

I would more than likely be as clueless

as I am now about approaching a partner

even for short-term spin before death

takes me off the radar forever.

An observer of couple interaction,

perhaps I’m better off dying alone

staring off into the distance…




Getting Along

That woman sounds psycho

and the guy is being a doormat.

It comes across as dysfunctional;

I am intrigued – people watching

better than reality television.

Whether inside or outside…

I’m not intentionally spying;

people just let it all out.

My mother used to call it airing

dirty laundry; Dad would give her

the silent treatment on occasion.

I wonder who she commiserated with…

mostly the family was together all year

long for weekday or weekend activities.

I don’t remember her having a close friend…

most of the old photographs include family

gatherings with or without us kids.

Images of them sitting around a restaurant

or kitchen table heaped with dishes fill

yellow pages of photo albums. Her neat

handwriting done with a black fountain pen

scribes fading information of date and location…

I need to scan the brittle photo paper.

Sitting on park bench, at café tables

or other gathering places, I overhear

the daily struggle relationships go through…

reminds me of lap sitting around a full

table while relatives worked at getting along

through their quirky uniqueness and odd habits.