POEM: Thinking in Poetry


“Thinking in Poetry”

Narrating my day
as I go about the hours,
silently writing in my mind
that the corn on the cob I examine
is yellow with absorbed sunlight,
its golden white kernels
its own clouds and sun,
huge globes plump with the rain
of so many seasons,
and the taste of spring

the drowsy sun fades
behind the black silhouette
of a springtime tree

the air smells of lilac
or honeysuckle or apple blossoms,
the pungent sweetness
of blooming spring flowers





*Thank you for visiting. I hope you enjoyed the poem.
*image courtesy of http://publicdomainpictures.net/


POEM: Serial Killer in the Laundromat


“Serial Killer in the Laundromat”


As he walks in the open door

I’m acutely conscious of


how alone I am


how athletic he looks

–the man that holds

the plastic garbage bag

big enough to hide a body,

                            thick enough to snuff my life

when slipped over my head,

                         the soft layered plastic

becomes a black sucking “O”

as I struggle to breathe.


How easily he pins me,


holds me down until my fight is gone,


my light snuffed, then stuffed

inside a plastic shroud

he dumps me

           so much garbage

                            in the bin

–or perhaps he takes

(what’s left of) me to a secluded

                                 copse of trees,

my remains remain hidden,

whereabouts unknown.


If I’d chosen the folding table closer

to the door instead of the dryers,

my escape would not be cut off.


I keep my key handy by my side,

                             to thrust

into the eye of my attacker. From the edge

of my vision, I see him stop,


      in my direction,

                    and begin


pulling clothes from the dryer

into the enormous shapeless sack.

I continue folding,

pretend not to notice him

until he leaves when I

breathe again


until next time

my clothes need washing:

I flash again on every killer,

every monster, every unsolved mystery,

and every abduction discovered

as I once more enter the

deserted laundromat.


POEM: Aging in a Cup


“Aging in a Cup”


When I was five,

there were no second thoughts

with that first cool sip

of sweet and tart–

the morning juice, the sugar rush

and tasty treat I was permitted

for the sake of a daily dose of vitamin C,

to be taken each morning

with a bowl of dry Frosted Flakes.


Now decades have passed,

and that cold glass of sunshine

is an act of bravery,

only possible when

taken with powder-yellow tablets;


stubborn determination tastes

like chalk on my tongue

and sours my stomach.


It’s worth it.


*Thank you for visiting. If you would like to meet me and some other local writers, please come to the Local Author Fair at Massillon Public Library on Saturday, November 11th, from 11am–2pm. I hope to see you there!


*image courtesy of http://publicdomainpictures.net/


POEM: Gathering




Sitting by the pool

my father and his friends drink

cheap beer from cold silver cans

I fetch for them from

a white igloo cooler.

My small bare feet make wet sounds

on the pale coral-colored patio,

mini splashes for each tiny puddle

in its pock marked surface.

My mother walks back and forth

between the kitchen and through

the sliding glass doors,

getting chips and dips

and anything else the men require

as they watch the game on TV,

drinking their bicentennial cheer

with a mixture of slow sips

and large cool gulps,

regulating their temperatures

from the warm Florida sun




*written last April for National Poetry Month, in memory of my father.

FridayFlash: A Dream Life


Cat sleeping on the bed by her feet, she dreamt of solitude, and why not?  The man she had given her past, present, and all her future prospects no longer cared for her. Her son would soon leave to start a family of his own, her oldest friend left her long before she died, and her parents were going, going, gone from her life and soon this world.

The background of her mind played soothing melodies as she travelled in empty trains, toured abandoned bookstores throughout the British Isles–wandering their brightly lit halls with noone to hurry her, no schedule nor expectations, just the joy of a world of literature all to herself. She walked with ease, knees and wrists bending readily and without pain; her body no longer betrayed her.

She was surprised she was not lonely, but the books themselves kept her company with the silent voices of those long gone. She hummed to herself as she perused each aisle, composing a little poem in her head:

Invisible or
ghosts…does it matter? This world, 
freedom hers alone.

Finally her journey ended in the far north of the globe. She took her paper pulp treasures with her inside the glass igloo, the Northern lights danced above her as she sat padded in covers within the dome–a miniature cosmos heated just for her from machines hidden deep within the earth’s crust. As long as she had food and shelter, books and a view, she could drink in eternity with her eyes.

Contentment filled her. The thought of being alone no longer hurt the hole in her heart but filled it with hope. Her child, the bright spot of her existence,  was fine and would be a great man despite his current growing pains. Her husband neither needed nor cared for her. Didn’t accepting her solitude grant her freedom?

Her eyes were weighted shut, her muscles stiff and unyielding,  but at last she pulled herself from her lethargy and forced herself to swim upwards, through the depths of her dreams, to open her eyes. The cat, the feline that had shunned her so often, lay curled at her feet. The woman smiled good morning, scratched behind the creature’s ears, then went to walk the puppies in crisp, white snow.

*Image courtesy of BigFoto.com.