October 24, 2016


sometimes all you can do is observe

and listen

the mirage makes two halves whole

and there is beauty




the slightest ripple

will change the effect

the map of motion

pushing onward

like the silence

of dawn’s

bold promise




January 27, 2016

january’s garden

blushing with the memory

of sun on skin and

layers of blue sky blanket

tiny stars of optimism

in a kitchen filled with

mittens and boots

and the slight refusal

of dormancy




January 25, 2016

waiting to fly

Monday morning:
this headache with broken wings that flap inside my skull.

Melting snow and downward dog stretching age from bones gone brittle.

Thoughts on loss and gain and loss again.

Wishing to be a tree for a night and the moon for a day.

Spiraling down like a lost flake of snow and landing gently
on a bed of frozen promises.

Melting into tomorrow.

Backlit hope and translucent dream.

Flying closer to the sun.

Winging it.




September 21, 2015

morning dew

The cardinals sit outside my window eating kisses.

Blue sky and autumn chill, anemone and silence.

We are all whispering this morning,

the flowers to each other,

and me to myself.

Trying not to wake

the afternoon.




June 15, 2015



because sometimes life needs a bit of extra sweetness

and i’m missing the sunshine


this morning the clouds touched down to earth

with a fog as wet as rain

everything has been damp for days and i think

this must be what it feels like to live in a rain forest


my garden sounds tropical

birds singing songs i’ve never heard before

everything changes, always


impermanence is a rusted-lock treasure chest

filled to bursting with boxes

each marked with faded letters

of my name




April 6, 2015

because it’s poetry month…

poetry, national poetry month, poem, NaPoWriMo2015


Wishing you a week filled with poetry.



May 21, 2014


Up at sunrise to a morning filled with the kind of sun
almost too bright to be believable.

And yet, there it is, inviting me outside,
despite the meteorologist’s promise of rain.

I want to lie down on that bed of blue forget-me-nots
and forget about everything but sky.

I want to be a flower for a day, standing tall and beautiful
and blissfully ignorant of the distraction of tomorrow.

I want to bleed sunshine and color, promise and pretty,
scent and a complete lack of sensibility.

My pillow will be a cloud of non-conformity,
my blanket a crocheted spread of garrulous stars.

And my dreams will be fireflies,
lighting the way.



April 23, 2014

blackbird fly {redux}


with your heart on your sleeve

and your trill shrill call

that echoes

off glass reflecting

water walls

your piercing stare

that holds no secrets

your chitter chatter

that says nothing at all


carry the seasons

on your shiny

black back

as one heavy load

that you never




a poem from 05/18/11


April 9, 2014

a bird {redux}

never needs a map

always knows

how to get there from here

in straight lines

on soft breezes

through storms


endless days


with sunshine.


my map

draws itself

with a pencil

of hope

blunt tipped


somehow still



another poem from another april

wishing you a week filled with hope


April 2, 2014

a collage, of sorts {redux}

If my life were a scrapbook
it would hold angst and laughter,
memories and monument,
pauses and portent.

If my life were a scrapbook
there would be glue, but no glitter,
colors running through the days,
small words pasted in the margins.

If my life were a scrapbook
you would see plain and pretty
mingled together on each page.

If my life were a scrapbook you would find
love and tenderness, empathy and turmoil,
rage and ritual.

If my life were a scrapbook I would cozy up by the fire
and flip through my pages with longing.

If my life were a scrapbook
you would focus on the shiny bits
pull them off one by one
and line them up
to create your own picture.

If my life were a scrapbook
there would be buttons
but no bows
bones and long rivers
and hawks would fly through my pages.

If my life were a scrapbook there would be no end
just dozens and dozens of beginnings.

If my life were a scrapbook I would
scream with loud colors and
whisper to saints in the darkness.

If my life were a scrapbook
I would hide by the cover
and watch as your smile drew sunset.

If my life were a scrapbook
the lines would be blurred,
the message would be lost,
and the end would reveal
the portal of midnight.






April is National Poetry Month

I’m participating in NaPoWriMo over at mrs mediocrity with a poem a day for 30 days, so I thought I’d re-run a few poems that I’ve previously published here. This one first appeared in April 2010.

Happy Poetry Month!