Patience is a Virtue

I’m here, still here, and not going anywhere, but please be patient, gentle readers. I’m working on patience, and on being gentle with myself, too. I’ve never been particularly virtuous on either score.

I started a new job two weeks ago. A wonderful job! I’m pleased beyond measure about this change. The clouds seem to be clearing. I’m hopeful that I’ll be in a new groove soon, and that the pretty words will flow more regularly. Meanwhile, working on patience and gentleness.

A meme popped up over on Facebook with a wonderful quote from Sandra Bullock:

I’ve made peace with the fact that the things I thought were weaknesses or flaws were just me. I like them.

Love that. Working on that.


Rush Hour

Highway rocking chair
invites me to set a spell
inviting time-out
watching the traffic go by
to watch cars go by.


This Poem Wishes Things Were Different

This poem avoids negativity,
airs no grievances.

This poem cannot bear exposure.

This poem wishes
things were different,
cannot imagine a path
not paved with disapproval.

This poem settles.

This poem has lost 30 pounds,
doesn’t want to talk about it.

This poem needs a lunch break.

This poem is loosely based on Hanna’s Boomerang Metaphor.


On the Day a Plane Was Shot Down From the Sky

inspire starry wonder--
It’s as if the plane touched the ground.
fear fills, spills messily over--
Are you okay, Mama?
None of us is


Wading Pool

What if red ants
with big long antennae
are endangered?
We need to rescue them
from the wading pool!
The girl in the flamingo swimsuit
hones her bug phobia,
tends it with extinction concerns.
A spider might travel your leg
if you remain
perfectly still,
as you are part of its landscape.
Maybe you are its destination,
or its angel.
You surely are mine.


Angel Tresses

Sun at your back,
I worry about burn
but you,
framed in rays
glinting on your curls
like a halo,
are irresistible.
I swish hair
across your back,
pepper your light with kisses.



Watercolor sky fades
to chalky greywinkle.

No burst of orange,
no shock of lust-light

to ward off shadows,
defy Indigo’s assault.

Close your awful eyes,
go back to sleep.

Late entry using Grapeling’s word list.


Dance Tonight, and Tomorrow

In my dream everybody’s here
    and everyone lets go
of pain, affronting shame & blame,
    a miracle or so
            it seems,
        to dance as if in dreams,
            the same
        in daylight as in night--
Let’s dance together without fear
of being wrong, or right.

My occasional music prompt is up at Real Toads:


On Busting Through

your cloud tiers,
like a wedding dress,
all ruffles & chiffon,
showing a little leg,
& I thank you for that.

The ache
is manageable now.

Where before I bloated
with the weight
of all the absorbing,
now I’m lean
& mean to lift my skirts,
dance, inspired,
not in spite of you.

I’ll have cake,
toss handfuls of rice,
release myself--

To you, sincerely.

For Kerry’s prompt to the Real Toads: Conversation


Sailing for Searching's Sake

What if our days are better spent alone
than searching for that one partic’lar High?
The searching, seeking, wandering from home
that leads us out of atmosphere to Sky,
awaiting clouds? A perfect Rainbow roams
as far as eyes can see, to rectify
those years undone, so many songs unsung--
Our search for Self already has been won.

Outrageously late for Kerry’s prompt: The Yeats Octave


Sevenling (Life's Work, Strewn)

Penned pages torn,
discarded, scattered
across shorn lawn

where she wanders,
sighs lilac, shies
cracks for mother’s sake,

stuffs a fistful in her purse.

For Words Count With Mama Zen: Rule of Three


The General Guy

Straighten up!
Act spry
when The General Guy
stops by!

Steel yourself
to compromise
with The General Guy.
Lower your eyes!

Last prize.
Wait! The General Guy
will tell you when
you’re gonna Die.


And Skunks Come Out at Night

Din of starry night
echoes down cricket-worn streets, 
reverberates dreams.


Fart Poem

You should write
more poems
about farts.

You have no
poems about farts!


You should say

Because flatulence
is the scientific name
for farts.

*Dedicated to my children. Happy now?


When I'm Gone

I’d imagine
you’d want to clear out the junk
from my side of the closet
and the litter of toiletries
from the bathroom.
It’s only practical.

I wonder
when you’d notice
my jar of coffee beans
in the cabinet next to the stove,
and how long you’d leave it there.
Maybe forever.


What My Wavelength Looks Like

The thing about light:
It blues, purples, violets
till you're in the dark.


A Kind of Atlas

Of days
when nothing works,
months reflecting mistakes
mapping years learning how to be


Love x 48 = Lucky Lucky Me

It's my birthday. Reflecting on Forty-Eight. (!?!)
I'll go with words from national treasure Maya Angelou:

I'm a woman
That's me.


#YesAllWomen: Trust

What is it
that nearly ten years later
is starting to crack
and flow
like water pouring off our roof
when the ice dams broke?
You pull me toward you,
not to strike me,
but embracing me in greeting,
missing me
like the mountain that loved the bird.
My name is joy.

I remember
my head against a pool table
like it was yesterday,
and so I think
your hands at my collarbone
could mean no tomorrow.

I am strong, but you are stronger.
You cradle my head in your hands,
arching toward my lodestone.
You will lead my way.
Sound your horns! I have arrived,
exposed and triumphant.


This poem appears in my first book, Responsive Pleading.


Memorial Day

A coverlet of violets
spreads across these hills
to the edge of a lake
you’ve never seen,
though you are buried here,
a mirage at the horizon
where the water meets the mountain,
a single poppy
bobbing like a ghost.