Monday, September 1, 2014


So thanks to my current Artist's Way group, I have a new resolve to write a poem a week.  We'll see how long that goes. :^)

I am midway through my second Master's degree, which I'm also doing while working full-time.  Every Labor Day is an opportunity for me to contemplate, again, what I'm getting ready to do to myself.  This is a poem about that.


This is the breath you take
before the wave comes crashing over you.
Before you're lost inside it,
tumbling, clawing with
all limbs to find the ground.

This is the moment where
you contemplate the drop
between you and the canyon bottom,
watching toy trees and houses,
bones already aching
at the thought of the descent.

This is the pause you make
before boarding the plane,
or the bus, or the train,
or the bike, or the car,
assessing the scenarios of sudden death
and choosing to believe
or not.

Where something in you cries
not again, not again,
and something else answers
this is how we know we're alive.

Friday, April 25, 2014


Sticking with the familiar form, and a topic that's become very familiar to me.


As days pass, I grow
more aware of the weight of
them, wanting to slow them down,

each one glimmering
and fading, a chain of rain
drops, reflecting little worlds.

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

Morning Commute

Today, I offer my daily internal monologue in quasi-poetic form.

Morning Commute

Get out of my way, lady.
Oh lady, get out of my way.
Get out of my way, lady.

Every time I change at Gallery Place
I die a little inside,
herded among the somnambulant masses.

Every morning, the river shows me
another side of itself,
and every morning, I am grateful.

Monday, April 21, 2014


I'm three days behind, so here's three poems on my favorite topic, Resurrection, written on my balcony by candlelight.  I started out thinking I was doing sedokas but ended up doing pairs of 5-7-5 rather than 5-7-7. I'm sure anyone still reading is scandalized by my break with form. :^)


Hurl yourself again
at love... scarred, fatalistic.
Russian Roulette, right?

Stare down the shadows.
Generate your own light. Try
again and again.

Two thousand years is
a long time, but this morning
I'm only aware

of the hope I feel.
Cynicism is boring,
small-minded nonsense.

I have lost count of
my deaths and resurrections.
So many rebirths.

You are the graceful
Presence hovering over
it all, comforting.

Friday, April 18, 2014

Viernes Santo

So tonight I went to a Spanish language Good Friday service. This is an attempt at a poem about that in my terrible, terrible Spanish.

Viernes Santo

Anoche, yo entiendo solamente
que quiero estar aqui,
con Usted,
con la gente que quiere solamente
estar aqui tambien.

Todos nosotros estamos orando
delante de Usted,
estamos con ganas de que
nos escucha,
y nos da su paz.

En este momento,
no hay nada mas importante,
solo eso:
para que Usted vengas,
y pronto.
Estamos esperando por Usted.