Nose under throw rugs,
looking for what’s been swept aside;
or rustling about in back closets,
turning over the unused and out-of-date;
or straddling boards in the attic,
straining to ascertain new, if not precarious, angles –
the writer’s home of choice is seclusion.

(Image mine)



You may believe, Dear Reader,
that the words are mine to command
that I carefully contrive the message
form and structure succumbing
to my direction, syntax following suit

It has not been my intention to deceive
but, you see, I am mere slave to the whim
words hold the power, strangle my thoughts,
demand expression – they are haunting things,
rooted in urgency, and unwilling to bend

I would love to accept praise, pretend
a wisdom that is not mine, but words…
…well, they are born of some alien seed
growing within, nurtured I know not how,
and I am merely the vessel through which
their staccato voyage unravels

Stubborn as they are, silly things, really –
although I dare not say, for they can be vengeful
and vile, and I prefer the fluid passage
of expression than the painful, tearing,
slashing of words – monstrous as they can be
I  am rendered servant by their insistence

(Image my own)


Words, like crickets,
leap from my mind –
chirping pests
whose trajectory
eludes my dulled
reflexes, scuttling
around the periphery
of my awareness

Harmless, really,
in the singular,
a cacophony
in multitudes
to multiply further
and destroy any
semblance of sanity

I must intuit
their rhythm,
define the notes
in workable phrases,
capture the essence
of their meaning
and inscribe the message
before they disappear again.

(Pestilence of Words first appeared on One Woman’s Quest II, October 2016. Edited for this edition. Image my own.)

Living with the Unwritten

Impossible to ignore –
even though I’ve tucked it away
there, between the chair
and credenza –
a life-sized story,
waiting to be told.

As much as it compels me
to pay attention,
I am repulsed –
this is my life
we’re talking about

And not just mine –
the tale weaves itself
with tragic threads of others
and what right do I have
to expose that?

And yet, I don’t know
that I have the strength
to squash it – this living
breathing thing…
wandering aimlessly
about this house.

(Image my own)

The Minimalist Eye Project

Coordinated by the curator of our local art gallery, the poetry circle partnered with a photographer to create The Minimalist Eye. Yours truly has two poems featured in the project: Slanted Orange and Big Red.

To see the full exhibition, visit the virtual tour:

So fortunate to be part of a such a vibrant community. As a bonus, the collection has been published.


Words, like crickets
leap from my mind
chirping pests whose
trajectory eludes
dulled reflexes,
scuttling about
periphery of logic

Harmless, really,
in the singular –
cacophony of multitudes
threatening to multiply
take with them
semblance of sanity

Intuit a rhythm
I counsel self
to define the notes

in workable phrases
capture essence
and reason message

but the invaders
adverse to linearity
disappear beneath
the floorboards
of my conscious mind.

(Found this poem, languishing in my blog archives.
Edited, and with an updated title, thought it might
be worth a second look. Art my own.)