The Process

Mindful verbosity
irridescent gems within my mind,
words shiver flutter, push for prominence.
Ideas flow through synapses
sometimes like scattered leaves
rearranged by sudden gusts.
Poetic musing wrestles reality.
Cacophonous silent noise
atonal at times,
until the coda appears.

She Liked to Taste Life

Sample the edibles
while sauntering by a vendors’ stall

savor the sour and the sweet
lemon tarts with a marzipan carrot beside

devour her lover’s kisses by night
and wake up to humorous tidbits

and some evenings, dine by candle light
lick beads of moisture

from her wine glass
while supping alfresco by the sea.

She fancied herself a chef
stirring the pot

and turning up the heat
if it simmered too low.


Written for Margo’s Poem Tryouts, which I recently found thanks to Chalk Hills Journal, a wonderful blog.  Margo asked that we find highly-descriptive words relating to a ‘simple’ subject, make a list of those, and then write to those words. I chose the “simple” subject of eating. Photo taken this past summer on the deck in Provincetown….indeed, eating alfresco!

Behind the Myth

The myth behind the woman loved by many,
richly layered flavorscultivated to impress.

Miss Popularity, Miss Luther League
years later, a doctor’s wife
mother and choir member too.

Chameleon of many faces.
24 hours. 10 stories.
A runaway drama, no one really knew.

Instability lurked behind her masks
until the show of the week
forever changed her life.

Ripple effect
wider than a tidal pool.

Knife in hand, surge of passion
husband prostrate at her feet.
Murdereress.  A new role.

Impromptu, adlib,
shocked by the script.

Masks-01                            found

Prompts from WP Writing 201:  faces, found poetry, chiasmus. Found Poetry: scissors and newspaper in hand, cut out words and phrases and arrange them in a poem. Words from THE WEEK, September 18, 2015 edition.  Chiasmus: a reversal, an inversion (title to first line).

Mrs. Jester

She was a primary color kind of gal
young at heart, year after year.

Neon chalk streaks adorned her hair
blue moon ice cream colored her tongue.
She wore bright yellow boots to walk in the rain.
Smiley face balloons attached at the wrist,
always her shadow of choice.

Her happy place
was wearing a clown-face red nose
making you laugh, wherever you met
in a car or a train or a bus or a van
or rocking in chairs here at the home.

We missed her after she died.
But the old man now in her room
wakes every day with a smile,
seeing the large crooked rainbow
painted wheel-chair height,
directly across from his bed.



One Sky


The same white clouds,
the stuff of wispy filaments framed in blue
float o’er my head in quietude.

And soar above bright sunflower fields
flower heads tilted to the sky
in warm rays that beam on me.

And witness from above
far away killing fields
acres of blood with heads askew
eyes frozen grotesque in pain.

These same sentinel clouds,
all seeing
all knowing
how can that be?

Cape Cod Muse

Dawn of a new day

Sea breeze carries a slight chill
as she pulls the sweatshirt close,
sips hot strong coffee under rising sun.

Later that day, sweatshirt off and visor on
she palms lotion between her hands
rubs coconut scent upon her limbs.

Feet on rail, notebook in hand
ideas float as gulls hover overhead
pen hits paper as birds dive into sparkling sea.

Sun shifts westward, coolness returns
she dons layers again
like words stacked upon the page.

Days in this place
turn into moonbeams
and she retires to be born again.

on table                                IMG_0916 (1)

Cape Cod, Provincetown, little piece of heaven on earth.  AND:  this turns out to be my first poem published!  Provincetown Magazine, October 1 issue, 2015.



That dog bit me.
Out of nowhere he came flying
like the proverbial bat out of hell
only bigger, with big teeth
a big bite
not like those feasting mosquitoes
on our sand dunes bike ride
not like the needle bite from
the tetanus shot
when you rushed me to ER.
So where were you this time?
When the dog bit me.