Tuesday, November 18, 2008

What the Conch in the Reef Feels

I rode on a hermit's back,
was left for another.
Now free of his scratchy skin
and love for travel, I sit
content in the sand.
It moves over and under me, smooths

my surface. Soon I'm hugged
by an algae sweater, followed by
a barnacle brooch. Fish lips
tickle my shoulder as they snack.
I smile inside,
happy to supply their buffet.

A current provides a dizzying ride
as I bob and roll and finally
rest in a coral bed.
Starfish glide over me, kiss
with hundreds of tiny tube feet.
I dance with urchin and anemone

in my sea forrest, brushed by
tentacles and leaves. As I ride off
on my new hermit's back,
my insides scratched, I await the day
he grows too large, and hope
it's in the reef.

Sunday, November 16, 2008

The Artist

Some wish life was like
a new box of crayons.
I don't mind
my favorite shades
are worn.

I've colored my life
with praying hands
folded for my father,
knowledge that an army
surrounds me.

Some see
broken crayons.
I see light through darkness,
a rainbow, the first
tulip of spring.

Thursday, October 16, 2008


Blue is the color of rain, of
Lounge chairs on bright beaches
Under blankets of sky, of indigo
Enlaced like thread through a rainbow

I write so
I can see the sound
of sunsets
of geese that
migrate in a V

Dream Catcher

I was your yesterday,
a dream of what might have been.
I heard you whisper your heart
and I wore your pulse as my necklace.
I sustained myself on moonbeams and smiles
but the best smiles were yours.
I wanted to catch your laugh,
seal it in a jar like a firefly
so I could bask in its glow daily.
Instead I caught a scowl
and now my storm jar is all
I have to keep me company
as I wait for you, trapped
on the edge of tomorrow.

Thursday, July 31, 2008


Pale trees fall, sapless
in the eerie wood
as last leaves shiver
to the ground

Monday, May 12, 2008


sun hides at day's end
earth's edge an eyelid
allowing sleep
one hemisphere at a time
your memory slips by
a loose eyelash
I brush from my cheek

Sunday, May 4, 2008

Taco Bell, Prune, a car crash, What do these have in common?

My latest dream began with me being at Taco Bell with a client of mine and a co-worker. My co-worker told me to get the club chalupa with double meat but I was arguing with the person at the register because I saw a commercial that it came in a combo with a dessert and the employee was trying to tell me one individually wrapped Sunsweet prune WAS my dessert. Apparently something was resolved because next thing I know I was in the passenger seat of my car and my client was driving. This is odd because she not only has mental retardation but also wears coke bottle glasses and can't see very well with them. Anyway, she's driving and I kept yelling for her to slow down and she kept saying "I'm trying" all the while continuing to accelerate. The dream ends with my car flying Dukes of Hazard style into the woods. (I woke up before the crash).

Friday, May 2, 2008

Writer's Block

I haven't written a poem for a week or so now. It seems I can't even think of a topic to write one about. I say "seems" because I've been here before. I don't really believe in writer's block per se. I think, at least in my case, my brain needs time to rest. I spend a lot of time writing, reading, and critiquing poety but sometimes the writing needs to step back a bit and wait for inspiration to come. It is after these times of apparent drought that some of my best works follow.

Wednesday, April 30, 2008


Dreams are weird things. They come from this strange land inside our brains where all the parts of our life swim together in one big pool. Work, social, family, and all the other parts of our lives mingle with one another without regard to the usual compartments we set up to keep these things separate. I tend not to tell people my dreams anymore because they tend to look at me like I have 3 heads or something. I do need to start writing them down though. They'd make some good inspiration for poetry. For example...last night's dream...

My grandma brings me something (what it is is a mystery) at work that I need to fax. She looks more elderly and fragile than usual. I help her walk to this big office center we don't really have at work, a really nice one with 2 fax machines. I am bummed because the repair man is working on the nice one and I have to use the older one. My grandma does not remember the number she needs to fax to, but for some reason one of my clients, a man with Autism, holds the key. While I am trying to get the number from him another client is talking, someone is paging over the intercom and another staff person is telling the client I'm getting the number from to be quiet so she can hear the page. I answer the page and it is another staff person freaking out. She says, "Is it true?" I ask, "Is what true?" She says there is a news report out about toxic shock syndrome and because of this new information our company is forbidding all staff persons from using tampons. I assure her it is a rumor and the dream ends.

Weird, huh?

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Why do I write?

People don't understand it. My drive, desire, passion to write. Not just words on a page, no, it's not that simple. It is who I am. Sometimes I think it is a curse to be creative. I buried this part of me for years and only let it out again last fall. I was happy on the surface, but down deep it felt like a part of me had died. So here I am again. Writing. Only this time the addiction is much worse. I carry paper and pen with me wherever I go. Books about my craft are a part of every ensemble. They are hidden in my desk drawers at work. I twitch thinking about the next time I can get one out. Every walk, interaction, everything I do or see is potential inspiration for my next work. So the answer is...I write because I HAVE to, because if I don't I will burst.

I Am

The color blue, in the shape of a spiral. A crashing
wave against a bright summer sky.

The number eight, artistic yet stable. I won’t
tip no matter what side you stand me on.

A cat, I curl up beside you and purr,
back arches with your hand's stroke.

A maple, I provide inconspicuous shade, but
occasionally show bright red plumage.

The moon overhead when you sleep outside
and the dew on your face when you wake.

Afraid of nothing and everything, exploring
unknown things and not reaching.

A collector of images and words. I keep them
in a treasure box behind my eyes, a pen my only key.