Eccentricities of Life Before Coffee

Lashes hesitantly fall open,
hips pivot feet to the floor;
shuffle, shuffle in pink slippers
making light of the day.

Outside these walls,
lingers hate, but, I turn,
blow it away, softly,
like daffodils
swaying good morning
to the sun

and when evening comes,
thoughts encircle me,
like stars;
keep me captive

until Spring comes calling.


Welcome Sign


Driving through the desert,
I take blurry pictures of cacti,
find faces in clouds,
anticipating red rock formations
and an abrupt change of atmosphere
when we pass that welcome sign
that I can never capture on camera

just beyond the second roundabout
where our lives took a dramatic turn
two years before.

Despite two flights
and a long drive
from a ninety degree Phoenix
with a broken air conditioner,
and growling stomachs,

all we can do
is breathe it all in;
this place, this air,
this energy

this return to sacred ground

where horizontal and vertical
come together
in multi-colored stones

to form a cross.



I hear a voice
counting sheep for me
and patting my head

when it falls.

When the rain is too hard
to stand under,
he is my umbrella;
my shelter in the storm.

I see the sun breaking
through lace curtains;
the same light that led the way
when my feet were dragging

and the weight on my shoulders
was almost too much to bear.

When I speak,
unaware of the direction
my words may take,
I know he is holding my hand,
bringing ideas to fruition.

I only thought I was the poet.


June 23rd

Don’t you hate it when you hear that song;
the one that makes you reach out
when you never thought you would?

I left my heart in a linkedin message-
(that is the only way I knew how to reach him,)
Dear Dad,
never expecting to receive a response,

but, I did.

It was straight forward,
to the point:

“Thank you for getting in touch.
I am so glad to hear that you are happy in
your life, but,”

(that resounding word, ) “but..

I would rather not begin to get involved
after all these years.
I hope you understand.”
and it was signed simply:
“Love always.”

I wondered,
where was the love in that letter?

I could have crawled back
into my safe cocoon,
into that introverted little girl;
that want-to-be poet
that always wanted a daddy,

but, I had already blossomed.



Love Letter #48: Unnatural

I roll over,
but he moves closer,
his fingers finding the softness
of cheeks;
the fondness in a gaze;

my feelings,
without even looking,

like the way he seeks me
in dreams
on a white horse, rides in,
his voice awakening me
at just the right moment;
with gentle kisses
on the forehead

to hush the fear;
to soften the blow.

It has been said that our closeness
is unnatural,
like how his hand feels empty
without mine inside it
and how I still cry,
surprised by the pink roses
behind his back
on Valentine’s day.

They don’t understand
that it isn’t the fluff;
the perfect pink petals,
or the romantic gesture,
but the sweet look on his face
that I am still so in love with.



 Lips nibble the end of a pen

    as thoughts swirl

              like acrobats

       so close to the edge.

I can feel the tension


            fingers trembling

                          to tell a tale

      like the ebb and flow of waves,

            like the static between us;

the fine gold thread

     connecting each individual

       to another source of light;

                                of love.

Be my intercessor,

                my bridge

     to the constellations

             your words,

          beckoning my voice

  to spill truth


one syllable at a time.