Poet Dreaming No sky could hold so much light. —Mary Oliver Poems are nomads paddling through darkness collecting words from the arms of Orion, Sagittarius, and Perseus before camping in a poet’s dream. She sees souls as colliding galaxies, holes... Continue Reading →
Out of the Fog This morning came galloping with a hot vengeance after I had only three hours of sleep. Oh, to roll time back, make the hours a black umbrella. Even the gas pump is impatient. When I lift... Continue Reading →
Poet Census Numbered like centuries of chipped stars, we stood, waited to be counted, categorized, divided like sheep and goats by poetry’s crooked staff. Angelou, Atwood, Oliver were lined behind Browning, Dickinson, Rossetti, their mouths fat with words, tongues thick... Continue Reading →
Shadows “Poetry is the only art people haven’t yet learned to consume like soup.” -- W. H. Auden I want to slip acceptance into a bowl of Campbell’s Alphabet Soup. Maybe she will swallow it then, give up this fixation... Continue Reading →
Memoir of Shoes This box packed with shoes is the history of my mother’s feet. Will these soles continue to tell her story after this container is hauled away? Especially this pair of black pumps she wore to church. The... Continue Reading →
Guilt Eradication You can smell the past --Zahi Hawass-- It’s hard to live under layers of guilt— thick as scents of cinnamon and garlic. I inhale and exhale my mistakes as though they are who I am, not what I... Continue Reading →
Poetry Breakfast 