Category Archives: Poetry

My neighbor’s yard is overgrown with daffodils, oxalis, lilies white as wax amid their leaves. Emplanted in the center of the rising green, a tri-fold lounger, blue and white, is left with head and foot ends pointing up. They look … Continue reading →

I’m always meeting folks who want to work too hard too young to save to play too old. I wonder why so many opt to jerk themselves in straps and blinders. Someone sold a sorry bill of bads, and gave … Continue reading →

The more we age the more we stay the same. For just as I bore babies but they bore their personalities and quick became themselves, unlike to me, beloved more apart who held my heart but ever took another path … Continue reading →

Innately odd or early turned, I keep perceiving differently what’s under rocks. I note when others don’t – they tend to sleep more time than I; they tremble less from shocks, as if they’re comatose. The scholars list the relics … Continue reading →

Now I have things to say to you That I don’t think you want to hear. I plan to voice them anyway But not today, my dear. You cherish thoughts I want to know, Opinions stark and feelings sheer, But … Continue reading →

The caliber of poetry and song I hear is woefully inadequate. The writers wedge in words that don’t belong, or clashing sense, or syllables unfit for rhythm or so tritely overused they only reinforce cliches. I flinch when I attend … Continue reading →

Each petal of wisteria appears a miniature orchid, scaling white through lavender to purple. Lavalieres of lacy petals dangle in the light: spangled pixies on the new chartreuse of leaves unfurling. Underneath that berth a clutch of irises, like Ws … Continue reading →

Her fingertips were icicles within the pocket where his shoulder met his neck. She shocked him into consciousness with skin as cold as water on his face. The wreck of sleep was pushed aside; my brother rose from rumpled sheets, … Continue reading →

A little sadness circulates in me this week, like oatmeal in my blood instead of soup. I doggy-shake my head to free my neck for fantasy, but still I’m dead to flights of fancy: feet of clay in mud that … Continue reading →