My Lips

My lips are not kissable
Not pursed and ready
They form a thin line
Boundary from takers
My cheek is not proffered
Turned away, visage downward
Gazing, or like some
Piebald, that shied away from
Unwanted affection
No doey-eyed gaze
No yes from clothes
Or makeup,
My being is not for you
I am gatekeeper of
Those now trembling lips
I turn the head away
Choose to dress my way
And all for
Nought, if you decide
Your wishes are more
Valid than mine




pexels-photo-66100.jpegCan’t count how many sorrys
Said to all or none
Hot guilt of errors
Burning bright my cheeks
Tears of anger pool below
My humble and hung head, Continue reading “Unapologetic”


pexels-photo-678248.pngseems I’ve been
unwound, pocket watch slowed
down, seconds lasting longer than
seconds should ever last
I hear ticking, slower
matching lub-dub heart
And blood sluggish
Flowing through tired veins
Blockaded arteries

Minutes passing
Grandmother clock
Refusing to chime…
Running out of time
The setting screw
Locked up tight

Can’t turn it anymore
The watch has lost it’s
Burnish and
The clock can’t be
Time, used to have so much
It passed quickly by
Hours just like seconds
Days could fly

Now I’m lagging
Torpid, morbid
I’ve lost my chime
Out of time
Waiting for
The very last

Arms Akimbo

She is awondering, akimbo arms angled,
head cocked to hear breezes like
bird dog whistling – attuned to wind whipping up
she is proud standing, eyes askance she ogles
what is it – a cloud – a storm coming over her
roll and boom of thunder,
crash and smash, arriving fierce
Wind bows her to her knees
but no fear here, no matter
all that water sheeting headlong
doesn’t quash her bravado – up she rises
dancing in muddy puddles
splashed up to skinny knees
and as it rumbles distant
she shakes off storm, unbent and
proud, unquashed she –
akimbo arms snaked into self embrace,
eyes full of grace, enduring after all

White Out


The words can barely skim the page
They dance, snowflakes spinning
Flurries of phrases, tossed by breezes
Pile into drifts of manuscripts
Soon blizzard is blowing
Ice crystals burning skin
Lost, wandering in white out
Each word spoken, whipped away
From frozen lips, barely speaking
Sound torn by gale forces
Tumbling thoughts never cease
But are buried in deepest white
Frosted, forlorn sentences
Having written them,
I take up the white out
And erase them all


I am a freed prisoner from my own negative
As I run I doff my black and white
Shackles fall from my feet, making them light
Cuffs slip from wrists that wave, released

From bonds I can almost float
Skim the earth, barely touching, glide
Through air that rings freedom’s bells
Hear them chiming future possibility

Shake a hint of doubt, regret and uncertainty
My feet find the path despite all these,
Leading a way toward refuge, to
Salvation promised me from long ago

There I rest, imbibe that
Chilled wine of no inhibition
Become drunk on freedom of speech
Blurt out reality that isn’t welcome

My hand unbound can take up pen
Use it like a chain-gang hammer
To sledge out pain and release
Once-fettered joy that radiates

Out from loosened heart-strings
Hands draw the bow and fire
Arrows of once-tied remorse
To kill that negative for good

I am a freed prisoner
I can fly

Owl Calling


I hear it calling and ask
Why – what is the haunting
Cry and from whence it comes?
How can something so melancholy
Bespeak of love?
To whit, to woo –
Where do they roost,
What tree in which forrest
Echoes with longing or desire
Like a tender wing, held out
Against cold night?
Who chooses this dark hour,
When all is still and chill,
To cry for loneliness to be
Relieved, heartache soothed?
Is it him who calls to her
Or her to him ?
Who, who is sadly perched
High above on bough
Bereft, forlorn and hoping
Against hope, for some



They are lines of departure and arrival
When we board that train
See those parallel tracks
Stretched to infinity
No idea they will become tracks
Of tears on our face
Footprints on our heart
Scars on our soul
Or tattoos of the divine
Or profane, left upon our skin
Thin lines of razor,
Stigmata, or texts of revelation.
They might mark
A twisted path you follow
A secret, untrodden way
Or another four lane highway
Speeding toward nowhere.
Railroaded toward oblivion
Or you hiked mountain trail to nirvana
Only to stumble off that cliff
And fall from grace
Trails of neurons
Blazed through prefrontal cortex
Brilliant sparks of light
Or dark and meandering
Lines full of despair
The rails that carry coffins
To the flaming crematorium
They are tracks of departure
From this mortal coil
Or arrival into the unknowable next

Cross Country


Green Eggs, toast,
Jelly, Jam
“We do not like
Green Eggs and Ham”
We penned it on the back
Of a napkin from that diner
(Yes, the eggs were really green)
So we giggled, and left
Traveling cross-country
In a camper with our friends
Our tour of ‘Scenic Bathrooms of America”
Dreamed up by my best friend Karen
Only a horror-ridden tribute in our mind
So bad we had to laugh:
Drooped across sweaty seats,
Hot hair stranded across damp brows
No AC for many miles.
Then chatter turned bitter
Laughter less and less
“Don’t turn there, don’t stop
Drive more carefully, why are you
Doing that? Stop it now!”
And so we stopped
The dream fragmented
Fractured into tiny stars
Each remembered in the
Night sky of memory
We did not like
Green eggs and ham
No more sweet jelly
No more sticky jam
Just like those stars
Those pin-pricked holes
That fade out or wink
Or close their eyes.
The napkin crumpled
Camper scrapped
Did we scrap our friendship?
Give it up
Or let it fade
And forget to say goodbye?

Conflagration – Grasping at Straws


Today, my fist is full of straws of anger, resentment, self-righteousness. I hold onto them tightly, locked in a grip of iron, steeled by my resolve to never let one ever hurt me again.

Yet, when contemplating this I feel myself on the brink of the abyss of anger, I teeter. Do I fall into the pit of rage or swan dive into it’s brimming cauldron? That way leads to the pits of hell. My fistful of straws will feel the lick of resentful flames flickering inside my heart like the fires of damnation. Compassion lost: slave to the swell of feeling that wants to erupt and swallow up the cities of the perpetrator, their streets flooded with hot lava to lap, burning, at their soul. I want the furnace heat of my anger to anneal pain into them like my pain, to scorch their ego into nothing. I want to forge a hammer on my hating anvil, to bash their heart into tiny pieces that mirror the pieces of my own. Pieces strewn along the path of pain that is seared into my existence.

This holding on is holding my mind captive, all good thoughts locked inside a cell, inside a citadel once graced by love and mercy. Now there is no room for love inside the four walls of my confinement. The Prisoner that is my ego shackled with iron handcuffs of determination to hold only my negatives…the positives held behind the brick walls, the mortar my will to continue. In fantasy I am the torturer, lashing with a whip of stinging words. Wound by wound, eye for an eye. I detest myself in detesting that very one who robbed me of my self-love, robbed me blind.

So I stumble on sightless, grasping at the smouldering straws and stuffing them deep inside. Robbed of sight, I scent the air for ashy waft of hurt so I can suck it in and hold my breath. Refusal to expel that anger, that resentment, that self-righteousness has locked air out of stifled lungs. I search groping for a piece of forgiveness, hands touching tentatively along the cobble-stone path of regret. Carefully drawing in a breath and finding one iota, searching on again for another. Following the trail of breadcrumbs of compassion, I continue…nourished more by their yeastiness and than the dry straw embers. My throat aches as I remember and thirst for the fruity wine of love that evaporated so long ago.