Rolling backward,

car tires scrape the curb.

The hill wasn’t that steep;

trying again…

car in reverse with a mind of its own

starts rolling faster backing over a parking meter.

It wasn’t ice or snow causing the slippage.


Starting again…

backing into the parking space,

fear emerges as there is no control.

My sons eyes were wide orbs.

Rolling backward,

faster and faster with brake pedal to the floor…

leaping from bed,

the foot cramp and Charlie- horse cramp the nightmare.


Pacing the rug,

the bitter taste swallows darkness;

room’s chill negates the palpitations.

Dare I dream again…

rolling under the covers,

the cramp tingle lingers twitching muscle.

I wait out the mare choosing to sleep in morning’s luminescence.





Methodically reading shelf after shelf…

right to left in alphabetical order

kept the real world from intruding.

That world was full of shattered dreams,

painful experience and haunting tribulation

that no child should have to endure;

imaginary worlds were just that – imaginary.

Observing the events safely without intrusion,

she would live to read another day praying

the protagonists would overcome their doom.

Then she could vicariously embrace success

before moving on to the next adventure…




Somerset Maugham said, “To acquire the habit of reading is to construct for yourself a refuge from almost all the miseries of life.”

Mini escapades


A minor goddess of nature,

that’s what she was

controlling seasons with her flowing brush.

Having the power affected sensibility…

real seasons follow cyclic order;

hers jumped around hemispheres.

Deep in winter’s frozen expanse,

delicate spring flowers sprang

onto her Sumi-e paper.

In the heat of summer,

quick brush strokes made winter scenes

cool and crisp on canvass.

Making the most of her allotted time,

this arty diva practiced natural composition

tying her vision into permanence.

Unbalanced within balance,

her mini escapades brought

color during bleakness…




Writing Percolations


Sometimes I’m sad, a seeping pain emotes

matching the Pacific Northwest squalls.

Fragmentation in my middle years broke

expectations into unacceptable pagination.


I came to writing late in life as a manner of healing…

a way of putting things to rest via paper and pencil.

The simplest approach to the cemented past

due to circumstances that froze emotions in place.


Writing in long hand chips away the solid falseness;

each word strikes a bit of binder free tossing brittle

imperfections of hardened muck that clings to spirit.

Scribbles unravel the self-indulgent puzzle I created.


Snippets of dreams, a precursor to daylight,

that’s called hope right there; for me percolating

queries and most problems, in fact all things, are better

cloaked in midnight velvet ; I see through stardust eyes.





Robert Bly “Poetry keeps longing alive.”




Shadows just out of sight

watching from corners,

hiding in direct line of vision,

moving in and out of walls…

these dense forms

gathered in the light of day.

Swearing did nothing…

moving in and out of mind,

they performed a feverish

taunting dance.

Closing eyes tight made

no difference; their pervasive

energy consumed resolve

until laughter leveled their play.

Who was afraid now…