Category: Poetry

Birth of a Poem

Eavesdropping on your observations with transcendental accuracy, the gleam of something half-buried catches your eye. You investigate it as if it were a valuable relic, bring more of it into the light where you can see it, turn it over with a delicate hand….

Cat’s Last Days

He was smart, for a cat – something people tirelessly admire in their pets. And in terms of being a cat, there was little his eyes didn’t see.  But then he became a crippled old animal, no longer a threat to mice, chipmunks or…

Fudge

I came across the recipe in your old index card box, alphabetically misplaced between Fruitcake and Fritter Batter. “I miss you”, I said aloud as I measured out the sugar, butter, salt and evaporated milk. The cat looked at me expectantly, thinking – as…

Savasana

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What I Observed Last Wednesday

Evergreen trees take a solemn stance, seem to long for rain in their crooked row, seem to pity the quivering cottonwood leaves, and decline to change for the coming snow.  

Prayer

May I see through the dark, without even looking. May I hear above the noise, without even listening. May I know beyond a doubt, without even thinking. May I trust in myself, without even trying.  

Sometimes A Rainstorm

Sometimes a rainstorm reminds me to sit in easy solitude as you have shown me.  They might assume you were once a bohemian clown with squash blossoms braided around your ankles, the way you lean back and cross your legs, bringing that demitasse cup…

Poseidon

Dear Diary, rainy morning, early, dreary.  The light coming through the water’s surface was the loveliest I’ve seen.  I’m exhausted, drained.  Aphrodite took it all out of me, then she took me on a wooden ship and showed me the absurdities of Men.  Now…

Six Thoughts On Mary Oliver

Mary, who helps us remember tenderness when we find an insect on our pillow, or a bat in the house. Mary, who reminds us of a hundred walks in the wilderness, even as we stare at lamp-lit sheetrock and worry about work. Mary, who tells us what we knew the moment we…

Constance

I wrote this poem to honor Constance Person, my English Lit teacher in my senior year of high school.  It was a large class and she always had the desks arranged in the shape of a square with an opening near the chalkboard.  But she spent…

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