I recollect
That time I called collect
From a payphone so scarce
I could scarcely recall how to use it.
The numbers came to mind
Without having to be reminded
From a time past
When the timing was off.
“Use this,” he had said,
“When you’re done using him,”
And he penned them on my hand
After handing me a beer.
He got lost in the crowd
While I got lost in my thoughts.
Summer passed, then fall and winter
And I found myself falling
For the stranger in the bar.
Barring logic, I was his
If he would only pick up
On the upside of town.
Here I stood calling collect
Hoping I was more than a recollection.


On Cloud Nine

She was far above
The skyline
Skipping from one
Cumulus to another
Completely enchanted
By his touch
So much so
She was blinded from
Cumulus to cumulonimbus,
The lightning strike
That would arrest her heart.


for fear of being misunderstood

blinking cursor beating to the rhythm of racing hearts
the dance begins all over the keyboard
fingers plopping down on keys
like juicy raindrops splattering on asphalt.

thirty paces forward then back- tap!, tap!, tap!
some other word to fill the space
thoughts are materialized, immortalized, then vaporized
with the command of an index finger and key.

seven lines in and the breathing begins
reiterations turn into incantations
as the lips whisper the words in hurried pace
progression, possession, obsession.

closed lids and I hit “send.”



Her mother,
Punctilious and overbearing,
Picked her apart
Like a carburetor.
She cut off her fuel supply
Loosened her screws
Removed her float and jets,
All the things that helped keep
Her head above water,
And gave them a scrupulous cleaning.

But she left the pieces out to dry
And demanded her daughter
Put herself back together
So that the family car could run
Without complaint
And free from criticism
From the outside world.
If not, her clock would get
Cleaned again.

Sometimes, water is thicker than blood.



Alliteration isn’t at the top of my list for favorite poetic devices, but somehow it hijacked the following poem. The prompt was to list a periodic element as the title.


Tin roofs and tobacco fields
Spotted cows
And whippoorwills
Pigtails and petticoats
Smoke from stacks
And water waltzing over pebbles
My heart, my home.
These things
Punctuate the Parkway.



Every April, I participate in the Writer’s Digest PAD (poem a day) challenge. Some of my favorite poems have been a product of this challenge. Not only do you push yourself to write every day, the poetry community at WD is just that…a community! I’ve enjoyed reading and sharing with others there, so I’ve decided for my weekly posts in April, I will be sharing several of the 30 poems I hope to write.

I know poetry isn’t everybody’s thing (just ask Brent who suffers through reading everything I write), but maybe some of you will enjoy it. To me, there’s no greater fun in writing than employing sound devices and figurative language so you can smoosh a volume’s worth of meaning into a handful of words. It’s the ultimate downsizing, which just so happens to fit into my minimalist wannabe attitude on life.

The prompt for this first one was to “write a beginning or an ending poem…or both.”


The rule is simple:
Break the ice.
But unless your words are
Sharp, straight, and pointed…
Well, good luck!

And if you break through that layer
You are expected to jump in
Feet first, of course
Because plunging into the sub zero
Headfirst is just silly.

And while you splash around
Trying to find a great catch,
Hypothermia setting in,
You remember how good a hot cup of cocoa
Tastes while sitting in isolation.


For the Record

It’s time to celebrate national poetry month. If you want to practice your writing skills or just have some fun, go to http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/2014-april-pad-challenge-day-1 to begin writing! Each day in April comes with a new prompt. You can both create and enjoy what others are writing.

Their first prompt is to write about either beginnings or endings, or both.

Here’s what I came up with:

“For the Record”

The popping of a switch and the movement begins.
Round and round and round in the quiet,
Until trembling forefinger and thumb lift the cartridge and lay it down.
Together, the black groove and needle dance
Allowing the notes to escape incarceration.
Lifted head, lowered lids,
Breath and heartbeat synced.
For an hour, here is paradise.
Every end comes with the option to begin again.