Catching up with posting my poetry… where does the time go.


Nap Time


A raindrop fell into her pocket;

cold drip rolled against her thumb.

The pocket absorbed what little

was left after gravity was finished with it.

How odd that it found a dry home away

from its comrades who clustered in puddles.

Random thoughts poured while walking her dogs.


The dogs gleefully splashed into each puddle

sending ripples scurrying to the edge.

Current and former raindrops soaked their fur,

snuck into her tattered sneakers and were

absorbed by wool socks causing her toes

to itch… towel play and much body shaking

was followed by Eau De Damp Corgi Dogs.


Rainy meditations continued as the rain

tempo tapped on skylights filled with Payne’s gray.

She missed conversations with her mother.

Continuing as if she hadn’t passed, she talked

to empty space which didn’t bother the dogs

who had already had settled down for naps.




Tug of Ocean



Swimming against cold tide,

salt burnt eyes and nostrils.

Gulls call from shore…

core temperature drops.

Swells opposed course.

Fighting to get forward,

up and down each crest:

island… water;

beach … water;

island… water.

Bobbing in tumult,

one stroke forward;

one stroke pushed back.

Tug-of muscles,

tug-of ocean…

fluid provenance

birthing death.



Nocturnal Rounds


Mouser was more dog than cat.

He was her best buddy and playmate;

they spent many childhood nights

in the acre field in back of the house

star gazing and catching lightening bugs.

Disappearing in the dew wrapped grass,

she situated herself so she couldn’t see

the neighbor’s house; the cat stayed near.

Black silhouetted trees edged the back field;

hedge of brambles closed the sides.

The tall spikes of timothy tickled; nothing

was visible but stars and twinkling fireflies.

Purring and crickets until porch light

snapped on, screen door creaked and her Mom’s

voice called bedtime… come inside you two.

Reluctantly leaving the grass nest, blinking bugs,

and stardust skies, they trudged into confined space.

Drifting to sleep, she held onto the scent of grass,

images of the Milky Way and the sound of purring.

Safe in dreams, the cat left her side and asked to be

let out to make his nocturnal rounds.



with or without



eyes burned;

bitter sweet salted glaze.

a soul leery

once knew love.


what an odd symbol

for love;

withered muscle

still beat;

hope closed tight.

some music

haunted spirit.

lost chords constricted

former enchantment

with being in love…






What was the relevance?

Stormy pattern had been set for life;

maybe this life balanced a prior boring life

where everything was perfect;

where she was loved and nurtured;

where she passed that on to others.


White knuckled roller coaster…

that would describe this journey.

Where everything was imperfect;

where she was lacking love and nurturing;

where she held onto what she could.


Where was the karma eraser?




Tiger Macabre


I have that ferocious tiger by the tail.

Bouncing to avoid claw and teeth,

we’re an odd duo of lithe and awkward.

Spinning in dervish fashion, time blurs;

long ago advice echoes into the frenzy…

position yourself VERY carefully before you let go.

Muscle spasms in calves and foot cramps

signal the end of the dance with tiger macabre.

Nauseous and light headed my grasp fails;

flung into space, my body descends to touch down.

Feeling like I fell into a muddy hole, I wake

jumping from my saggy mattress to walk

off the double duet of leg and foot cramps.

Before climbing back into the valley of fatigue,

I check under the bed for the tiger.



Into Shadow


Encumbered with thought…

the vision soaked her day.

Her dream-man had appeared

last night; his face pale as death.

Sitting talking to her while drinking tea,

he rose and walked away into shadow.

Soft tears had rolled onto the feather pillow –

she relied on his frequent consultations.

For many years he had slipped into

the midst of her sleep; appearing solid,

he was a nurturer and respected her efforts.

Too shy in reality to believe in herself,

her dream persona was her real self

hidden during waking time in veils of peril;

making frequent eye contact, they shared

this sporadic astral relationship.

Torn between mistrust and revelation…

she worked on her cut paper project demo.

The art class gazed with astonishment

as it came to life with every precise snip.

Don’t forget the gray hair…

here’s some gray paper;

when are you making the dog?

Her voice tottered thank you; their faces

full of light and hers a compatible reflection.



Inspiration: Sharon Olds  said, “It took me a long time for the poems that I was writing to feel like me, rather than feel like the people I admired and was learning from.”

Her advice to other writers is to be daring and take chances. Sharon Olds  said: “I think that whenever we give our pen some free will, we may surprise ourselves. All that wanting to seem normal in regular life, all that fitting in falls away in the face of one’s own strange self on the page.”



Stomach gurgled about to puke…

the oh so ripe breakfast banana disagreed with it.

The orange had been hiding a wealth of green mold;

the apple had been oozing brown gooey mush.

Fruit resources depleted, it was the banana or nothing.

Gagging its barely manageable form, there was

no need to chew; stomach contained its plotted escape.

Mother used to quip about our Scotch-Irish stomachs;

genetic digestive stubbornness that prevailed to kept rocking

contents confined within gastric walls without release.



On Thanksgiving


At the end of the day,

you should smell like turkey,

fresh cranberry sauce, gravy,

pumpkin pie spices  since

the house and company have

been soaking in these scents

all morning until The Meal.

Permeated with preparation,

stuffed with well-set intentions,

tryptophan-ed into obsolescence,

the TV mumbles to syncopated snores.





Light winds and cooler weather –

Deep breathes chill the lungs;

Body functions call for brain heat

To prevent freezing fog.

Dangerous combinations…

Dry and cold or hot and humid –

Either shut down protocol.

Winter and summer hibernation

keeps extreme’s anxiety subdued.

Sitting Zazen to stabilize fluctuations,

As if weather didn’t matter at all…



Be of Good Cheer

Classical music was putting her to sleep…

one swift click brought up Bing Crosby’s White Christmas.

Did she really want to Pandora back to the good

‘ol days reviving her family’s Christmas celebrations?

Family members who weren’t dead were scattered

across the country leaving the clan irrevocably broken.

Every year cheerful carols snagged forgotten moments

mostly in a warm glow way for those times were not

always pleasant or without strong under currents.

Greatest gift was acceptance of what couldn’t

be changed in each individual family member’s quirks.

Let it slide, eat some buttered chestnuts and be of good cheer…





Moon wore a ring

and a diamond tonight.

Tissue veils of clouds

coast in ahead of the next

predicted rain seizure.

The last leaves tile earth

giving color to drab night

under flashlight’s gleam.

Crisp leaves will turn into

heavy sodden compost fodder.

Another season spins away

leaving frail insight interlaced

with moonbeam midnight walks.




When does it hurt?

Seared consciousness…

hot grill’s indelible marks

crisscross permanently.

Raised scars, shiny welts

of invisible unresolved issues.

Pack your bags,

hop an exit,


tied to cinder blocks

weigh soul down…

why does it hurt?




Swimming through torrents was not

an ideal dog walk…

thick clouds swallowed the bravest star;

full moon lacked catharsis power.

Disappointed without a chance to dance

in real moon light, the glowing fake stars

were a poor substitute.