Almost caught up with posting poetry… still lots of little to-dos as far as remodel odds and ends. Also tackled my tiny backyard that had been neglected.  Front and small side yards are full of shrubs and mulch so low maintenance but the back yard mulch filled with grass and weeds! Since I plan to offer classes in my studio… I figured I need to refurbish the backyard!

back to poetry posting:

Into the Hills

Stoic to a default…
others called it stubbornness,
she remained self-reliant.
Taught to make it-on-her-own,
there was no asking for help.
Giving everything she had with a
sincere smile was her style.
A born do-gooder, she trafficked
human kindness and hope…
feeling the changes, she began
parting with collected possessions.
Recycling and gifting left few
un-useful things toted to the dump.
House tidy and clutter free, she
walked into the hills to greet her ancestors.


Dream Keeper

The bedroom remained dark
even on the sunniest summer day.

Very little light seeped through
the special shade curtains; it kept
her dreams from escaping in daylight.

Slipping through the door, she changed
into shadow engaging the reclusive dreams.
Many were favorites; as if pushing a play
button on a video remote control, a scenario
would restore itself as eyelids closed.
Sometimes she wrote down her dreams;
permanent marks on impermanent surface
that would grow frail and yellow over time.
Only when she turned to dust would
the dreams be free from endless repetition.

8/18/2012 here we ago again with spaces that don’t belong!


Sun ambles across summer sky;
flowers express adoration by following
the celestial orbit; centers turn to the goddess.
Their time span, a burst spent all too fast,

sends them growing into their last edge of time –
declining decay, heat dries flowers, leaves and stalks.
Seeds rattle and spill their load onto dry soil.
Dormant waiting for spring rains;
my eyes face your eyes…

8/20/2012  hmmmm there is no line break in this poem either…

One Last Knot

Tying the last knot on the memory bracelet…
six cobalt blue beads and one white bead reside
in-between square knots of blue and natural jute.
Even and tight, they won’t come undone; running
fingers across the beads, they pop up against pressure.
A mantra of forget me not binds whisper to surface;
its liquid resonance polishes the knotted stones.
Questions without answers tied that one last knot;
a double half hitch to practice resurrection.


Shards of Justice

How many mass graves
overlap in all lands around the globe?
Brutally executed, trapped spirits
linger even when remains are scattered.
No one gave them their due – a proper
burial consistent with their beliefs.
Without rites for their souls, there is no release.
Spilling into dreams of relatives, sadness
of their plight overwhelms the sleeper.
Haunting former dwellings, they drift
in an effort to find the way out.
Trapped in death, they hover above
graves waiting for justice… while others
indifferent to the past plan housing projects
on purchased land containing fragmented shards.

Read an article about Cambodia that said 2 million
were murdered and thrown into 300 mass graves.
One in four of the population was murdered…
I was painting primer on my neighbor’s garage and couldn’t
get it out of my head.

Too Early

Who hasn’t gazed upon your lunar surface?
Least staring doesn’t burn out the retinas…
her eyes were losing night vision strength.
Still, she preferred wandering at midnight.
Stomping ground Sunday as the cloud cover
rolled in… sultry afternoon finally cooled at sundown;
rain seeped smelting dry earth rising mini dust plumes.
No moon gazing this night, she needed its beneficial beams;
another death anniversary, each year passed so quickly.
She remembers the last smile, the sincere smile,
from a man who left her world way too early.




Mirror on the wall reflects a tame,
contained unusual hair treatment.
My friend meant well with her careful
snip snipping cutting the unruly mane.
Now I remember why I never do this;
hair too smooth and sprayed down,
I prefer wiry gray Einstein style.
Once out of sight, my fingers rifled
the bottled control releasing bristles.



Light of Day

Dreamtime was sacred to her;
welcoming the alternative time
was far better than endurance of light.
Even the scary segments were easier
to handle, she wasn’t programmed
to believe they were real – she overcame.
Reluctant to say goodbye to unconscious visions,
morning came too soon for her accomplishments.
There was always another chance to slip
into dreams were she really fit in…
goodbye to everything cast in light of day.