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wishing flower, vulnerable and beautiful

Let’s just say, I’m not an early morning girl.  Those who know me appreciate this and quietly leave me alone until I’ve had a chance to emerge from my pre-coffee zombie state.  However, there is a bird glee club that begins at about 3:30, yes in the morning.  It’s lovely and melodic; leaving me no choice but to listen.  Translated, this means I’ve been up before my norm.  The youthful hours are warm, but fresh; they beg for a walk, and so does Isabella.
Yesterday was a little cooler so our pace was speedy, at least for my little legs.  We passed cars and bushes and bugs zipping around … and the rejected weed.

pulled up by its roots discarded wishing flower tossed aside left at the edge of the sidewalk
the sun beat down life ebbing from the slender stalk, leaves drying, privately curling desperate to hold onto being
funny, how I noticed the thrown-away on a morning walk my thought to stop and pick up the mopped, fluffy head
full of wispy seeds of would-be, it held a fundamental artistry lying i…
Recent posts

ode to a stranger

There was a day I was walking in the park with Isabelle. It's a daily activity that's pretty easy for me, now. But, several years back that wasn't the case. Discs in my lower back were pinching nerves, causing the most piercing pain I had ever experienced. 
Walking was the worst; and I loved walking.
i saw you walking in the park alone birds chattered with squirrels together i saw you bent, moving slowly coping willows shifting in the wind sky lit and sparkling balanced i saw you and i was sad until i saw your smile inspiring

After infinite physical therapy treatments and injections and chiropractor visits my doc said a fusion was needed. I freaked, but at this point had nothing to lose and my very movement to gain.

Seven years later, I can hike and bike, kayak and snowshoe. I'm grateful for the mobility I gained.
So, seeing this woman in the park brought a flood of emotion and empathy. She was as bent as branches on some of the old twisted pine trees. I was sad for her struggle, feelin…

i'm reverting to what i think i always was

Writing sometimes takes floaty, old-school music. Right now I'm listening to a Zombies radio mix and specifically Steppenwolf's "Born to be Wild" that fades into "Venus" by Shocking Blue.

All these songs used to stream out of my sweet black transistor radio when I was in Jr. High, now known as middle school. 
We were so cool with our stick-straight hair parted in the middle, wearing white go-go boots and micro-mini skirts. Yes, the stuff of Austin Powers' dreams was groovy reality, baby.

All of this musical randomness slipped around in my thoughts as I experimented with another poetic fall piece, but Crosby starts tuning "Wooden Ships," so I pour a glass of 19 Crimes and light the candles.

Curtains are drawn. It's dark and quiet outside, while music blares in the house. 
The notes return the past, like Jr. High dances. How awkward we were, waiting for a slow song and the excuse to cling onto each other. Or, Strawberry Fields Forever when we&…

autumn waning

My laptop sits on a makeshift desk. It's situated in an east facing window. From my window I see the neighborhood where I live, and an intense ruddy maple tree. At the base of the tree is a dry creek bed  we created this summer. It's now full of the red leaves, recently blown from branches. 


Allowing my gaze to go beyond the maple, a tall pine stands and the pale medallions of the aspen glint in the afternoon light. The colors and splendor of the dying and drying leaves affects me every year. I wish I could capture the enticing beauty with photos and words worthy of the display.


Copperhead Road plays in the background. The name kind of goes with this piece; a nice strong beat vibrating, much like my heart when autumn arrives.



autumn sun rises slowly,  splintering the horizon into blushing skies that appear to the strain of birdsong

wild geese honk their lonesome ballad,  taking flight in early morning mist falling gently on grassy fields

thick dew lays over the breaking dawn,  illum…

the hedge, on the edge

Walking past the hedge, on the edge of the broken pavement, the path constricts as branches brush past my cheek. The way is narrow and thin; a reflective pace unavoidable.

There's life in the hedge - birds and bugs, spiders and the sort. Life seems well designed for creatures of nature. They exist in the hedge and dine on what comes their way; a small interactive society.

In some way or another, we all live in a hedge - our town, our community, neighborhood and home. How much we participate in the movement of our hedge depends on us.
Take the spider for example. She spins a lively tatted web and then waits, luring in her food. On the other hand, birds flit and flicker, seizing what have you's here and there, and then  return to their nest. Other living things fill additional elements of the hedge. All have a useful fragment of the being.

I walk by this hedge most days. And, most days the phrase, "walking past the hedge on the edge" goes through my mind.
I originally th…

leaving las vegas

Leaving Las Vegas, a line made famous in movies, song lyrics and billboard slogans. For me, it’s more than a catch-phrase. It pierces my heart, now more than ever.

You see, previously, people were there drawing me back, but as pages are torn from the book entitled “Life,” I’m more aware of how fleeting and transient things are. Change is a given.
My heart feels - each word expressed - come back, don’t be a stranger. I know they’re wondering if they’re losing all contact with the family of ones deeply loved. I wonder, too. And while I also know that’s how things happen, I don’t have to like it.

So, I stare out the window of the plane, the sun bringing light and heat to the day in shades of pink and pale orange which burst against the blue sky. My thoughts are pensive, questioning, seeing only the rugged ranges with striations of soil and color veining them. As the plane climbs we soar above the clouds stacked on each other like mounds of whipped sweet cream. Contemplation is as thick as…

lunch with Cait

People come and go in our lives. Some, we spend time with for a short season, while others remain. My friend Cait, although I’ve only known her for a short time, has a way of leaving impressions that last an eternity.

Back in January of 2017, we met up for lunch. She was preparing to take a trip. I don’t even remember where she was going. It didn’t matter. After we parted, I jotted down my thoughts with the full intention of finishing the poem. However, the more I’ve lingered with it, the more I love it in its incomplete state. 
An ordinary lunch with an extraordinary person We ate tacos and pupusas and talked of adventures small and grand A weariness in her eyes as she prepared to leave  She’s brave and adventurous and vulnerable like a child all at the same time But then, aren’t we all?
My friend, I’m so excited about the chapters you are writing in another place with other people. I hear your passionate words, “Stop the glorification of busy!” So true. And I’m stopping to think about my…

lonely has no boundaries

She came into the shop to purchase barbecue sauce, usually 3 to 4 bottles at a time. Her eyes were clear blue, and she had a ready smile that was mixed with quietness and melancholy.
I remember one particular day she came in with eyes red around the edges. I asked if everything was ok. She looked at me with her clear blue eyes and said, "Yes, but there are days you just need to cry." I agreed then, and I agree now.

Today is one of those melancholy days; not a need-to-cry day, but one that's on the side of sad and contemplative. So, it seems appropriate to share this post that's been sitting as a draft for weeks.

People are lonely, desperately crying to be noticed.
I've been lonely. I've had conversations with people who are lonely. The unfortunate thing is, it's not the outcast, recluse living in the hoarder house down the street. It's the chipper girl at the coffee shop who only wants another couple for her and her boyfriend to hang with. I think to m…