poetry, writing


The man frantically waved at the cars to stop.

A limo, a town car, and a hearse pulled out.

The other cars paused, a sign of respect,

For the grieving family mourning their dead.

The line of cars continued, at least 30 deep,

As the processional moved down the road

Then turned down a side rural street.

Off to say their final goodbyes.

poetry, writing


She dances across the golden dune,

her bare legs, lightly kissed by the sun.

Her body, wrapped in translucent white silk.

She extends her hands to the skies,

fabric floating freely in the breeze,

appearing as if she has wings.

Her raven hair rides the wind,

and dark eyes pierce through.

A picture of beauty and grace,

upon hot desert sands.

poetry, writing


A young lad or lass, hard to tell, frozen in time.

They watch over the garden by day and by night.

Their icy gaze chill all who approach,

Many move on, disrupted by the sight.

But to others, the figure appears serene,

especially when sitting in the light

Knees tucked up grasped by clasped hands,

The figure looks so right,

Hidden amongst the flowers.

Waiting on midnight’s showers.

Inspired by a statue found in the Temperate House at the Royal Botanical Gardens in Belfast, Northern Ireland

poetry, writing


She walked with downcast eyes

Everywhere she went.

Her lips were not curved,

Neither a smile nor a frown.

She moved with attitude

Emanating from her soul.

But she had been marred by life

And her story was sad and beautiful

All at the same time.

However, she kept it inside,

Letting demons feast on her soul,

While struggling to find her light.

Unable and unwilling to ask for help.

Pushing away those who loved her so.

Will she learn before its too late?

poetry, writing

Morning Flight

The ibis take flight

as the sun rises from the horizon.

White bodies contrast

against coral colored clouds.

They make no sound

except for feathery flaps

of their wings.

Off to start their day

in search of breakfast

amid blue skies.

What do you crave first thing in the morning?

poetry, writing

Good Night

by Carl Sandburg

Many ways to say good night.

Fireworks at a pier on the Fourth of July
      spell it with red wheels and yellow spokes.
They fizz in the air, touch the water and quit.
Rockets make a trajectory of gold-and-blue
      and then go out.

Railroad trains at night spell with a smokestack mushrooming a white pillar.

Steamboats turn a curve in the Mississippi crying a baritone that crosses lowland 
cottonfields to razorback hill.

It is easy to spell good night.
            Many ways to spell good night.

This poem is in the public domain.

To celebrate the 4th of July, I chose to share this Carl Sandburg’s poem instead of trying to come up with my own.

I learned of Carl Sandburg as a child in Chicago. The first part of this poem reminds me of fireworks over the city, imagining what it was like downtown to see them at Navy Pier. As a kid, I’d lay atop my dresser, (…I was six or seven…) and look out the windows in the corner of my room, watching the fireworks display from a near by forest preserve.

Happy Independence Day, USA!

poetry, writing

Ever After

The rocking chair creaked as she rocked back and forth,

Her bare feet leveraged against the wooden railing.

Her hair had silvered with age, and thinned as well,

but the curls still sprung when it was humid out.

Crows feet spread from the corner of her eyes

from all the laughter and tears of her life.

He walked out, the screen door groaning closed,

the way old screen doors do, and

he handed her a tea and took a seat beside her.

His eyes and smile still sparked a fire deep in her soul.

She dangled her other hand from the armrest

and he slipped his in, holding her tight.

They looked at each other and smiled.

It started with them and what happened in between,

well, there were many other lives and loves,

but their separateness helped them understand

what it meant to love and be loved.

And the sun set on them, together, in the end.

poetry, writing

Slow Mornings

I should be out walking. Yes, I know, I should.

My arm dangles from the edge of the bed, playing with Chance.

He flops on his side, purring, and begging for belly rubs.

It isn’t raining this morning. I really should be moving.

Chance wraps his paws around my arm, wrestling with me.

Get up, get up, he meows. He wants his treat.

So I stumble out of bed. Find my shorts, bra, and shirt.

Shuffling to the kitchen, reaching for his treats.

Here you go, boy. Good job getting me up.

Socks, shoes, and straighten up the bird’s nest on my head.

I’m going. I’m going. Off for my morning walk.

poetry, writing

Summer Heat

The bright sun above beats down, how hot can it get?

The glass of iced tea sweats, leaving behind a ring of wet.

The birds are silent; the weather is even too warm for them.

The dragonflies are hanging above, each insect they find a gem.

She waters the small garden, the heat makes her shoulders glisten,

The tomatoes perk up and the flowers and herbs brighten.

Being in the shade gives relief to some,

The warmest days are yet to come.