Category Archives: Poetry


Soft palette of morning light

Sweeps away the restless night:

Lilac, aqua, peach, and rose

Reanimate my fragile hopes.



Art by Annija Veldre

I thought it was you
Drowning me in words,
Said and unread,
Spilling over my head;
You blamed my mother
And the tide takes the dead.
The waves roll relentless,
Caring not of despair,
Crashing past joy
And agony the same.
At the end it’s all smooth,
A glassy blue plane,
As if nothing existed
And maybe we didn’t–
Why not walk into it;
Why not give in?
Sand hot and glistening
Hides bulleted bones
As well as pink stones.
And one wave grows stronger;
One ghost comes home.


Is it the wine making her tipsy,
Or the way he holds her gaze,
How he leans close and listens?
Even when she speaks in whispers,
He hears what she has to say.

The calypso music swirls her dizzy,
Or is it the wine making her tipsy?
They dance on the cold night sand,
Kiss in the blush of dawn,
A thousand lifetimes in one day.

His depth of darkness drives her on,
His mania whirls her crazy–
Or is it the wine making her tipsy?
Maybe she was sent to save him;
Maybe they’re both past damned.

Promises broken, promises made:
She grows giddy with his fusillade
Of excuses, but she understands.
Is it the wine making her tipsy?
Maybe just the clock’s soft ticking.

She drinks alone in her kitchen,
Windows misty, grey rain dripping;
Her mind circles ’round his mischief–
The walls go crooked, dipping, slipping…
It’s just the wine making her tipsy.


I’d like to thank Kiwinana for sharing her lovely poem yesterday and introducing me to a new poetic form Anapeat, which in turn inspired this poem.


I can’t seem to forget you
Or what you seduced from me;
Not talking about my broken heart,
But the vanished hopes and dreams…
I’m much poorer since I met you.

Creative Updates [RDP]

I was making good progress on the cross-stitch project I designed for a gift, but then my eyes got all itchy/tired at night again and I haven’t touched it for months. Boo! I hope when it’s a little cooler I’ll be able to resume working on it because it’s a really cool needlework.

When that’s done, I want to do a similar design in a needlepoint for another gift and for me. They are hamsas, which are good luck. (Dunno why my phone is underlining hamsa ~ it’s a word, dammit!)

I also have some yarn for a(nother) scarf, plus the kooky idea of making a poncho. I know it’s insanely ambitious, but I really want to.

As far as writing, all my WIPs are on hold because I don’t have a laptop right now. I’m only blogging and writing the occasional poem. I have to admit I’m enjoying this break from my self-imposed stress and the artificial deadlines. I just don’t need that after working a regular job and dealing with migraines. Yes, I know other people can handle all that plus more, but I’m not them. Idk if I’ll ever go back to writing for real… maybe after I retire. I’m starting to enjoy watching TV shows like a normal person.

When I was visiting my daughter and her fiancé last weekend, we had a super fun paint night. Actually it spilled over into the next day… so great to have the supplies at home and do the vids off YouTube at your own pace. I’m tempted to set up here, but no! I have enough going on.

Tourist [RDP]

Days blend in a haze,
Like coconut, mango, and rum;
Sometimes she can’t tell
When one ends
And another has begun.
She feels like a tourist
In the shops of her life,
But she no longer stops
For seashell postcards–
She has nothing to write.
Grey mist encircles her,
And she thinks it’s the end,
But it’s only afternoon fog,
Soon to dissolve,
Then sunlight once again.

The Porch

In New York,
We didn’t have a porch,
But if we did,
We’d have called it a stoop,
A place to hang with the fam,
A neighbor or friend,
Share a joke,
Bum a smoke…
Gossip and watch
The ‘hood for new scoops.

The South, so I hear,
Calls them verandas…
A long slow-moving word,
Like a lazy afternoon
With pitchers of lemonade,
Sweet summer courtships,
Over too soon.
The love seat meant for two
Creaks softly as night comes early.

We had a balcony in Queens,
Beach chairs on a slab of concrete,
Heard all the neighbors’ fights…
Gazed down on city lights,
Couple of plants,
An ashtray for my father,
And then we moved to the ‘burbs.

Finally a patio!
Porches in the backyard–
No one knows what we’re up to.
You can sunbathe nude,
Not that you would
(But you could).
Front yards are quiet, empty;
We grill and chill in private,
Neighbors by invite only.
We don’t miss the porch
We never had.

My Boo

He is mostly sweet and cuddly,
A soft and friendly buddy,
Who purrs and chats,
A lovely cat
Yet every so often
He launches a stealth attack,
A furmissile of teeth
And vicious rippy claws,
Once, twice, and done…
Then back to being my
Little boo boo honey bun.



The bee buzzed a secret to his friend the rose, who swore she’d never tell, but the days grew cold and her head drooped low, the burden too heavy for her withering petals; she whispered the words to a vagabond crow–what could it hurt, this wandering bird–but he sold the news for a scatter of seeds, the tree promising to keep the secret to herself, which she did until the sweet southern wind came around once more, tapping at her door, and her blushing leaves gave it up to him, which is why there’s no honey this sad, sad spring.


Via confidant.

Not Black, Not A Dog

It’s bright, it’s light, it’s
The bad cop, not
The good one. I’m in
A small stuffy room
Without a lawyer,
Without any water.
Every mistake on the table,
Spread out like a deck
Of jokers
Every one the death card.
Why didn’t you?
What were you thinking?
The questions bullet;
I have no answers.
Why what who where–
Tears drip onto faces.
Water comes,
I remember medication
Or meditation. End of
Twilight begins.
Welcome silence.
Not black,
Not a dog.