Summer’s Day

Walking up the asphalt road,

it turned into rumpled bedcovers.

Struggling in its deep sand qualities,

ground was lost as the soft structure

moved beneath my bare feet.

Extending his hand, my son tried

helping me regain forward motion.

Then the foot cramps began;

I ran down the hill…

leaping from bed I circled the rug.

Fully awake, I gazed into the dream –

the hill was South Street; it was close

to where I had grown up…

some dreams really are such puzzlers.

What struck me was why that street?

Can’t even fathom the walking up steep

bed sheets and blankets on a summer’s day.

The mystery of my son showing nary a sign

of his residual injuries was heart wrenching.


Too Ordinary a Life

Books were a refuge;

characters were her only friends.

She was a shadow ghosting

behind their every move;

anticipating their thoughts,

their voices were heard in her mind.

Every nuance, every minute detail

made her life more ordinary.

Reading past midnight, the story line

infused her dreams… there she lived.

Daytime was boring; although day dreams

encouraged imagination, they fulfilled her needs.

Sneaking in a chapter or two… she was always

hiding books in her office desk drawer.

Mimicking actual work, she was anxious,

tired and uninspired waiting to delve back

into her favorite author’s wonderful world.

Fiction established relationships…

she was no longer alone.

4/18/2013   One of the most tragic things I know about human nature is that all of us tend to put off living. We are all dreaming of some magical rose garden over the horizon instead of enjoying the roses that are blooming outside our windows today.
Dale Carnegie

Midnight Scribbles

Mislaid my words when gathering gardening

tools in the garage;

they were concrete for a moment…

I almost ran into the house for paper.

Deciding I’d remember,

I inadvertently planted them with the perennials.

Perhaps the earth, rain and sun

will sprout them into something more lasting

than my ardent midnight scribbles.



Garden gloves are ghastly…

I can’t feel the soil; they pick up moisture

and there’s the stiffness from prior exploits.

Forgetting to scratch my nails on a bar of soap,

the digging and grubbing all afternoon gives

my nails the opposite of a French manicure.

Rich earth resides beneath nail tips; coffee

brown prevails not pure white of clouds

until a round of dishes soaks the soil free.



daze descended…

must be spring fever.

Couldn’t stick with one task,

I was wingless

flitting in one direction,

barely arriving,

before heading in a new direction.

Lists were useless…

flit was in order and very random.

I could hear the bees buzzing harmonies.

Sorting through papers,

lame muscles

unbalanced my wobbling gait.

Still flitting,

I concede to slacking and full on daze.



Everybody will die.

It’s an equal-opportunity hazard.

Some tune out early; their fears

eat their mind collapsing any sense of joy.

Without joy, there is no hope.

So pointless, they leave early

according to our

view of the world…

or maybe

they leave on time;

maybe we’re the ones that have

a lesson to learn

from their departure.



Sleep deceived her

Time and again;


Ringed her eyes.

Watery blur

Fuzzed accuracy

As features sagged alarmingly.

The mirror reflected her fear;

She was becoming her mother.

Curse the DNA travesty…



Having run out of paper,

her words scaled forearms.

Precise printing inked

onto skin’s permeable surface.

Recycled phrases were taken

back into her heart.