Same Old World

The world has not changed.
It is no more evil
Than the world of our parents.
We do our best
And face each day with hope.
We grow our children
To take over
When our time is complete.
We pray our grandchildren
Will live in a better world.
It is no less
Than what our parents did.
Perhaps more…
At least, we face our sin
Instead of hiding it in the closet.

Writing Fiction

I live in the stories.
The ones I build around myself,
Telling me, someday
My world will be right again.
I construct each story
Piece by piece
With silver linings and golden dreams,
Trimmed with sky blue hope.
Each story is interlocking-
Entwined with each of the others.
A card castle waiting to fall
With a slammed door
Or a raised voice.
And they do fall,
Over and over.
And I rebuild-
With greater skill each time.
Making each new piece of architecture
More difficult to part with
Than the last.

Fusion

Cast on the rhythm
Leaving enough tail
To weave in latter-
Neat and tidy.

Knit the words
And write each purl
In capital letters.

Slip, Slip, Knit
To shape the verse,
Pulling together
The variegated strands of life.

Create on paper
The human experience
For all who care
To try it on.

Day Dream

When I grow up
I will no longer be a mommy,
I will be a princess.
Then I will wear a satin gown
And a glittering tiara
While I dance at a ball.
I will live in the moment
And smile for my own prince charming…
When I grow up.


Some childhood dreams are just too good to let go of, this is one of them.

Night Science

What do I care of biology,
"The way of all living things"?
For it tells me not of fairies
Nor their tiny dancing rings.
And it overlooks the elfin men,
Who on their reed flutes play
Songs that fairies dance to
Until the break of day.


*my girls are fairy crazy and I guess they must come by it naturaly. I wrote this poem my sophmore year of highschool, most likely while I was supose to be doing biology homework.

Nana

She went to him,
twice each day
and fed him
from a spoon,
baby-sized bites of banana.
Some days he called her, "Mommy,"
others he saw her
as a stranger.
Very few days
did he call her "Dear."
Still,
everyday she went to him
to hold his hand.
For nearly a life time before
she had promised,
"For better or for worse."
And although he
would have known no diffrence,
she would have.


I wrote this poem in highschool, about a long time family friend. In the spirit of Valentine's Day, I felt compelled to share it now. It has been published under my maiden name.

Storage

In a four acre shoebox
they move in and out of days,
one hardly different from the last:
planting and harvesting,
living and growing,
laughing a bit too loudly
beneath the cardboard lid
to ward off the staleness of the box.

They are his treasures
and he has packed them away,
safe and secure
in four acres of wood and grass and chickens.
A beautiful shoebox,
but a shoebox the same.

Someday, maybe...
when he had finished his contract with the devil,
maybe then the will find the time
to lift the lid and unpack his treasures.
Maybe then, he will find
they are no longer his,
but have grown into their own.

The Adventurer

My love, he comes a bearing gifts,
Treasures from far away:
A wilted flower, smooth round stones,
Feathers of silver grey...

He is a grand explorer.
What adventures he does seek!
All through out the land of Yard
His trusty sneakers trek.

Come night he wanders home again
With treasures and tales to share,
But my favorite gift is a goodnight kiss
After his bedtime prayer.

Dance In Old Slippers

Dance in old slippers,
Play ball with the moon.
Dance in old slippers,
Sing out of tune.

Dance in old slippers,
Be afraid of the light.
Dance in old slippers
For blindness is sight.