Wednesday, February 22, 2017


In my house
There are boxes full of  pictures
Next to an old rocking chair in a room 
Covered with the dust of death.

One day I'm going to sit
In that mausoleum room
Rock myself to comfort
While I look at those pictures,
An attempt at life preserved.
I remember how I cried
The last time I disturbed that dust.
How its mist floated in air,
A moment of resurrection. 

I'll cry in that room
When I find the courage again
To juxtapose life and death.
While I mourn, delighting in sadness/gladness
I'll inhale tiny particles of death's dust
As the mist settles to rest.

Sunday, February 19, 2017


I envy Leroy
He sticks to basics.
Eating, walking, pooping, playing,
Allowing his self-love to manifest
As love for me.
The simplicity of his being
Gifts me with joy.

But he is unaware of my complexity
Or how there's an invisible thread
That connects him to me.
Making him happy, excited or sad
Depending on where I am
On the spectrum of my feelings.
So often, he is my reflection

Leroy doesn't realize 
there's a multitude of threads woven
In this tapestry called love.
He is unaware that he and I are sad now,
Not because I'm hurt,
But because my daughter is suffering.
Her pain travels to my heart
Through that strong tether
That makes me feel what she feels.

I guess I'm actually a lot like Leroy.
Perhaps, there's no need for envy.

(My daughter is waiting for a date to undergo some serious back surgery.  Ironically, my husband just recently recovered from back surgery.  An infection caused him a lot of pain and long hospitalization.  My daughter's surgery is going to be more intense.  She is now in lots of pain and is scared.  Of course, I suffer with her.  I know poems should not be explained.  But I'm nervous and wrote this quickly so I feared it may not make any sense.  Still, just wanted to join in today.)  

(For Poets United.)

Wednesday, February 8, 2017


I'm afraid of space travel
The way I'm afraid of my future sometimes
When my gut feels like stone
My heart thumps out of rhythm
My mind is threatened, attacked
By dooming thoughts

"Not again," I pray
Watching the sunset
Knowing darkness follows
Not really certain
If I can land on stars
That don't twinkle

"Yes again," answers the sky
Smiling at my fears
So irrational
It waits
While I'm still
Then it beams 
Even through night
When I finally chose
To blast 
Into its vastness 

(For Poets United.)

Wednesday, February 1, 2017


Santa Clause gave my 3 year old granddaughter a ucalaly.
She immediately composed some lyrics. 
"Silent Night holy troll song." 
This made sense to her.
She played her instrument, sang (as loud as she could)
Her passion for the troll movie, 
Combined the reverence of a hymn,
Then offered us the delight of witnessing her joy.
We all laughed, clapped for more.
Such a happy moment.

I see the simple truth in this:
But there's a larger truth.
Innocent too.

Granddaughter had faith in the
BIG truth contained in the
jumble of stories she'd heard.
She believed,
Transformed a gift into a larger one
Then shared it.

I'm trying to be more like her.

(For Poets United.)

Sunday, January 29, 2017


Too often lately, I dwell on sadness. 
It's not typical or extreme.
More like a slowly creeping weary fog.
This winter is so cold for us 
Who prefer nature's warmer, kinder side.
The beautiful one with lands of liberty,
Rocks, woods, templed hills, mountain sides
From which we sing, swelling the breeze
With joy and freedom from our hearts.

But this winter is bitter.  
Its coldness constricts.
Our hearts are squeezed tightly.
There's a strong, frightening threat
Of a global freeze.
Even my mountains have snow caps now.
I feel them shivering like they never did before.
Are they predicting the future?

My shoulders droop as my thoughts descend.
Then my smiling husband announces plans for his garden.
I feel comfort in his faith, 
But just a little.
I'm sure Spring will arrive again...

The situation in our country, which is affecting the entire world, troubles me deeply.  I don't consider myself particularly patriotic.  I am a citizen of this world.  But I borrowed the italicized words in my poem from a very patriotic song, My Country 'Tis of Thee.  I remember singing it in school.  You can read all the words here.

Hope you  have a peaceful week.

(For Poets United.)

Wednesday, January 11, 2017



I've been in a strange mood.
At the bookstore, while drinking coffee,
Instead of sitting with a friend like Mary Oliver
To remind me of nature, beauty, 
the goodness in this world, 
I sat with Charles, 
a guy I don't even like.
He drinks too much, smokes stinky cigars, 
Objectifies the nakedness of women,
Glorifies his drunkenness,
Exposes himself,
Lets everyone see 
His brokenness.

He drank a little coffee, 
but preferred hits from his flask. 
"Don't be so naive," He exclaimed.
"Every night is New Year's Eve.
Every body's drunk.
The world is going crazy, 
The bad could inherit its evil.
Goodness could go blind.
Look around, don't fool yourself kid."

I had no response
For the words he spewed
Through his cynical smile.
I judged him, despised him,
I closed the book on him.

But later, I heard his words
Translated through the filters
Of my mind.
"Ugliness and darkness
Can't help but be ugly and dark.
Their door has been opened,
They are no longer hiding.
Instead, they're exploring
Barren lands.
Let them shock you sober.
Then open your own door wide."

(Charles Bukowski - Wikipedia
His writing was influenced by the social, cultural, and economic ambience of his home city of Los Angeles.[4] His work addresses the ordinary lives of poor Americans, the act of writing, alcohol, relationships with women, and the drudgery of work.. The FBIkept a file on him as a result of his column, Notes of a Dirty Old Man, in the LA underground newspaper Open City.[5][6]
In 1986 Time called Bukowski a "laureate of American lowlife".[7] )

For Poets United.

Sunday, January 1, 2017



I have trouble with goodbyes.
Even if each ending that rips time
Creates a demarcation, a space
For something new.
Today I want to change.
I want to accept that the past 
Leaves good and bad traces,
Like the wrinkles of time
On our faces, the maps 
Of what we've lived,
Perhaps of what we've learned.
Every day is day 1.
Calendars lie, as if 
A number can contain
Each huge and tiny wave 
Of the ocean. 
On day 1
I want to approach life
As if my thoughts, my eyes,  
My skin, my organs, my face,
My arms, my hands
Are wrapped in one heart.
Each day 1
May we live the way 
A good, strong
Healthy heart 

Happy New Year!

(For Poets United.)