Gentle Readers, guess what? A friend from college sent me the September 1987 issue of Kiosk, a literary magazine. He had saved several issues, some including poems of his own, and some with poems written by friends. A poem apparently written by me appears on page 14. What?

I have no memory of this poem, or of the literary magazine, or of submitting anything to same. Or much memory of college, to tell the truth. This poem is not among the small stack of papers I have stashed away from when I was Very Young. But there is no doubt who wrote “Springing,” is there? Wow.

Sharing on the Tuesday Platform with my Toads today, who I know will appreciate this! :)




I can feel myself retreating
into my own mind while wanting to tell
my friends I love them. I want to do nothing
but lie on the floor holding my kids in my arms
occasionally running off to bed with my husband.
I need to write but want to watch movies, read
a book but my body demands sleep. I want to drink
while sober, take a nap instead of exercise.
I’ll work hard but really want to quit my job,
resist yet surrender. Sparkle and glower. Holler
and whine. I want to run away but stay home.

For Sanaa's prompt in the Garden: OF INSOMNIA AND SLEEP


Little Bow Haiku

Back door wide open
to morning sounds, garden air
like nothing has changed


To/For, About, With

    in loving memory of Tracey McCartney

We balk
at the task of writing
about the life of a beloved
because it seems impossible,
the audacity of eulogizing her
rendering us wordless at first
but we try anyway.

We listen to Neil Peart
for inspiration
to pen stories and poems,
write songs and blog posts,
issue proclamations
using words like fierce
and justice, steady and strong,
talent and uproariousness,
passion and compassion
and love.

We search inside ourselves
for the same qualities,
wondering about the unnamed thing
that draws one person
to another
whether across time
and miles and constant change
or tucked in together
belly to back
every night for eighteen years.

We are drawn to her,
our brightest light.
We warm ourselves nearby.
We curl up beside her,
ever-closer as her flames begin to dim,
fervently scribbling down words
describing how much she means to us.

I wrote this poem for a Celebration of Life this past weekend in Nashville and it was read by Tracey’s spouse Nan. Deep sigh. Much love.

Sharing with the Toads on the Tuesday Platform in the Imaginary Garden.


The Judgment

Surrounded by beauty
needing no reminders
a peculiarity of souls
lines up to account
for thoughtless actions

The worst that could happen
is likely to happen
& souls judge harshly
but I will persist
as advocacy is my jam

As emerald favors pink
or as moths thrive in moonlight
I’ll observe from the floor
for as long as it takes
then dust off & keep on

I picked a tarot card as suggested by Mama Zen earlier this week, then responded to Magaly’s prompt: I AM MADE OF