Poetry
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We would be eating pie right now. That’s the kind of couple we were. Snipping like grandparents, teasing like kids. Sharing and stealing our slices in turn. That old Village Inn, with its peeling paint and faded sign, Has been replaced by a pizza joint. But that’s what memories do- Change. Four years ago we…
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The well ran dry. Where life once overflowed, only a clanging echo remained. Still, the hopeful still came with their pails. They patiently lowered their empty vessels, into the dark below. For they believed that which is empty can be refilled again.
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He’s nothing like you Excerpt for the way he stands. The same height and casual stance- Wrapped in black jeans. He’s nothing like you Except for the way he talks. A shouted voice full of mirth When excited in conversation. He’s nothing like you Except for that face he makes. Dark eyebrows raised, wide mouth…
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*A poem about feeling overwhelmed by life. May be triggering for some readers* I’m drowning in a self-created sea. Made of tasks, duties, and responsibilities. I asked for this. I thought I wanted more, but I’m in over my head. The water’s getting deeper, and I’m too tired to tread. I’m slowly slipping under- anyone…
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I can never go back to Tooele or I might pass that Greek Cafe and remember the afternoon we ate lemon-rice soup and baklava after shopping in the one antique shop in town. I can never go back to Tooele. Or I might drive up that canyon road and remember when we escaped to the…
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In the dead of night, silence dances to the racing of my heart. I sit in my bed illuminated by my lamp’s orange glow. Hours slide past as time stands still- I’m as calm and raging as flickering flame. And I gulp down herbal tea as if it’s the remedy to the manic anxiety in…
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I still think of you when I hear that song. But today, instead of the familiar stab of pain, I smiled, then laughed, then sang along.
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Coffee in the morning sitting at my desk. Tea after lunchtime- while I take a little rest. A Glass of wine with dinner, with a fruity plume. An herbal drink at night time, a nightcap in my room. My day measured in beverages, drank at their appointed time. A mug, a teacup, and a stemmed…
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I was never a good poet. My brain seems hardwired for prose. I can write a beautiful sentence full of metaphor and irony, but any attempt to craft that into something short ultimately results in something cliche and insincere. Still, despite my shortcomings, I never stopped trying to write poems. I still enjoy the genre…
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Every winter I seclude myself in my hobbit hole of a home. I surround myself with hot beverage, warm blankets, and fuzzy sweaters so I can pretend that the cold doesn’t exist. The short days drag into never-ending weeks of self-isolation and hibernation. All the hours pass by in a gray smog of monotony, fatigue,…
Bringing Mae Flowers 