isn’t it sweet
gray morning
when the sun comes bursting
making me think of spring
isn’t it a gift
from God
in the middle of sadness
to be so warm


Harping on a theme (too soon)

Scene from 1983:

Me: I don’t think I’ll live to be 25.
Mom: Don’t say that.

7 a.m.  on a Sunday morning :

Dad on phone: She’s gone.
Me: It’s too soon. Don’t say that.

It was you, it was you
gone too soon
so cliché
pardon me if I don’t
come up with
golden lines
at times like this

I would say you were
ripped from us
but it was more like
a fade-to-black
with screaming
your face melting
into the wallpaper

Don’t go yet
it was supposed to be me
hanging out with Peter and Paul
you, oh you
were supposed to earn
your old age in your rooms
in your house
beneath the pines

“Too long ago to write death fresh like this.”




Thoughts one upon another
rolling over rocks over water, oh
give me a sheltering branch
taste and see if my thoughts
are bitter or sweet
or rotting on the vine

Jesus, I need Your hand
like a wing around my bare sores
beaten down and tired–
heal me please with your tender care
remind me why I need you daily
oh cover me in sweet grasses
and help me not to forget


Every step the stones loosen
on this road I fashioned myself
thorn and burr on each side
and a rising tide
I press on–trying to stay upright
keep my feet from slipping
one arm raised–a hand
outstretched to feel Yours

their seasons

damp brow
hard work and well-
earned rest
a starling sings, and
she lifts her hands
in prayer-full stance–
the wind is shifting
and she remembers

early summer blues
a man-boy’s voice, inviting
don’t forget about the love
don’t leave behind
don’t leave summer behind

through July’s singe of grass
first raspberries tart
and sweet
red lips musing
a wipe on the back of her arm
traces of longing

what do you suppose
the clouds talk about
congregating in cirrocumulus bevy
when they see all of it–
the neck bite
the slammed door
one red apple

by August’s fireflies
he-on the road
writing sonnets on social media
from her pen
epics he will not read
reams, of
her late night daydreams

just in time
for September,she
will answer the phone
wondering why he waited
until he finished the bottle
to call
each word counted
and kept

starting his wander back
he searches for her key
in a pocket with a hole in it
it will take nearly ’til May
to speak of her again. Until

the breeze catches her scent
and he returns, to
find her once more–
his brown-haired fay
he swore was made of vapour
from the clouds
of early June

Holy Week (split ends)

It came on suddenly–turning toward the mirror–
that which I have avoided like an ex–
the one who holds all my secrets

Turning to profile, I see my split ends
touch the small of my back and I wonder
how it grew so fast– or was I rip-van-winkling
had I stopped looking feeling smelling the time
did I have to remind myself occasionally what day it was
so I would be where I was supposed to be
and on time

I know there are friends
who are done with my nonsense–which is not nearly finished–
as I unravel the threads–the tragedy woven into the mundane
and my only regret in all of it–
my only pause I take in the intense scrutiny
of the woman in the glass–

Is the pain I see around the eyes and the lips–in the knowledge
that I hurt you and your brother
hurt you with months (years) of depression and looking the other way
wounded you with ears that did not hear it all
afraid of the truth in a time when truthful words cut me like rapiers

So I move on so I clash and strain and struggle for you to hear me–
ears that have had it–that love me in their own way–but no longer give credence
to middle-aged fears and jolts–

So I struggle with this, I strangle my fears to leave them back there in the mirror
so that when I see you and you hear me again, my only gift I will give to you again
will be hope

The hope of the Father I found in the sky the flowers the rain and my own hands
more lined than they used to be, dried and cracking around bitten nails from crisis and leaning into the bastard rasp repeatedly until they bled

so that my only choice I am left with, is to look up with hope and prayers, this holy week that went by over and over throughout a decade
and rolls here again, the day I lost my mother slipping by during the holiest of seasons, when love and hope and mercy and forgiveness all are measured into the pot, until what we carry to the table nourishes and soothes the souls that gather there for my only one night

(am I) Windswept

Have I written too much
about about the birds and trees–
do you doubt my sincerity
when I talk about the weather–
you and your calm, and
me on the edge
of coming to life

april 30 water.jpg

Perhaps all the new words are taken
and my pen– relegated
to thrift store fodder
rearranged and painted up
and succinct

On the edge I’ve been sitting on
since then
my own rough edges
you take notice of
are nothing
compared to what is inside–
the part I show to no one

April 30 wall.jpg

You didn’t see me anymore
and I started deleting–
rubbing myself
out of existence
one day sweet–the next sour
a warning would have been nice

Left on a shelf
like a single bookend–
we aren’t lovers
and we aren’t friends.
Is she as danced out as I?

april 30 windswept.jpg

From where I stand – stalwart
I see eternity. The
evening becomes you
and when the evening
becomes you–
you are everywhere
the moon is

April 30 spooky moon.jpg

monday random–life changes

  • In the worst of it, I cried at the end of Daddy’s Home
  • Christmas with the Kranks
  • and Lilo and Stitch
  • It’s okay. Smile. Laugh, it is funny but I like to think everyone has those guilty pleasures they go to for comfort when they really would rather be rolling around in a feather bed, and finishing it off with a pint of ice cream
  • I take that back–the worst of it was self-pity. No one appreciates that, and it made me kind of sick of myself
  • The best thing to do is to press on, move forward, keep working when you are dead tired
  • I can no longer ignore the past and walk around my weaknesses, but hard work does help me put aside the unhealthy thoughts and obsessions
  • like failing
  • and unkindnesses
  • It really is easier to forgive than to continue to hold onto all of that
  • There is something to be said about living in an area with four seasons. Winter can be rough, but it makes spring oh so sweet
  • I’ve been getting to know the wrens, woodpeckers, and cardinals in the area
  • The ice storm killed the crocus, but the daffodils are out
  • We are headed to a park by Lake Michigan to take pictures and scribble. Maybe doze some.
  • Monday is his Sunday, so this is the hind end of our weekend. Tonight–homemade soup and garlic bread
  • And two movies before bed

I hope you’re having a great monday! Thank you for listening–


(are we) sprung

let us run (hard)
it is not yet summer
but the sun
is burning my shoulder
and the clouds hang back
waiting for a sign
all buds bursting

let us not (give up)
stay between walls of ivy
each caveat they hurl
weighs tons–up against
daffodils in your sunglasses
and tulips–and rose oil
dabbed behind my ears



Let us take a walk through a particular woods on Long Island in New York. I will show it to you and then you will understand why a set of trees and a narrow stream could mean this much to me. I met my husband on Long Island and had my first child there. I don’t remember anymore what town these woods were in, but  I used to go there often, and usually alone. But even when by myself, I did not find it lonely there. It held that kind of peaceful solitude that you can really embrace.

As you step into the woods, about twenty paces, there is a small stream and a little bridge going over it. You can sit on the bridge and hang your feet over. I sat here countless times. Walking further in, the place is green, lush and cool with many leafy trees and evergreens. The smells are great and the ground is damp, so you can smell that as well. If you stand very still there in the Autumn, you can hear leaves falling from various distances away. My favourite clearing you’ll see as we come to it, is surrounded by several large trees with red leaves, and when they fall, they form a carpet beneath of red and pink.

How sweet it would be to sit in this clearing once more with the leaves falling around me and onto my head, shoulders and lap. When I was here I was in love, and he was in love with me. I remember how that felt to be someone’s whole world. And the day they put my newborn daughter into my arms, I thought I could take on the world myself. I want to feel that again, that feeling of red and pink, and explosions going off overhead, and my head so full of poetry that I thought it would be blown clear off. I’d like to be in love (here) again.

should spring be always
or summer arrive at thought
or autumn’s riches