Always nice to spend a week at home.  This poem is reality with rosy glasses as I’m sure my family can attest to! But all the warm fuzzies and missing home went into this poem when I wrote it half a world a way from family.

Take me safely home
To that spot where I fit just right
Snug yet loose
Held in relaxed tension
Of loving worry
I don’t need to because you do
I can fall because here I’m held.

Take me safely home
To the place of Kincaid light
Where even the dark is friendly
Cozy in the fog and
Sounds of crashing rhythmic waves.
No pretense
No façade
Monet and all his splotches perfectly
Formed into a picture.

Take me safely home
Where imagination questions all
Builds dreams
Embellishes the longing
Filling to overflowing contentment
Where repeated conversations
Round out the past
Fill the present.

Take me home
Where all is safe
In heart and soul
In rest and loud familial laughter|
In peace and busy supper preparations
Even in arguing
Quick hugs
Knowing looks
over understood space.

Reflection on a funeral

Now I know that it’s Christmas and all, so this isn’t very cheery.  I was at a conference at the beginning of December, and it was held at a church.  There was another event at the church: a memorial service and a funeral of a 14 year old boy who had died a sudden death.  For some reason, I couldn’t get it out of my head, and these are some of the thoughts that I wrote down.

Upon the Death of a 14 year old son

How do you fill the hole
Upon coming home?
A home that is
Unnaturally familiar
Due to sudden
To a mother’s heart
A father’s pride
The silence
The silence
The silence

How do you fill


the silence


Coming back from what feels like
Your own funeral?

How do you deal with reality
When the crowds of sympathy
Demand (for it’s all they know and understand)
A return to normalcy?

What do you do
When everything in you
Rebels against moving on?

What words do you say
when you’re afraid of betraying
Even the very meaning (if there is one)
Of his death?

What do you cry
When coming home
To your own voice
there is nothing left inside?

At 29 years…

This poem is here upon request of my friend Ruth. I hesitate as it’s a little obscure, and I feel a little ‘meh’ about it – like it needs slightly more work.  I was trying to play with the idea of opposites, but two sides of the same coin.  Anyway …

Welcome, please.
I can’t guarantee much here, but I will tell you
In Janus – style, you may not like me
All the while knowing
You will love me
though hate me
And never want to let go of me.

Through some gate of cold January,
You may find the summery July
Breathless in snow
Listless in the hot fly-buzzing days.
Begging in November – Slip-your-hand-in-my-coat’ kind of way
And you will (perhaps half desperately
Half gratefully)

I can’t even be sorry
For some how, though it is my burden,
It is also my delight
But the truth, yes
– it is my claim.
I have found
– though I have searched to the moon and back –
that I have no other.

This Old World, It Played One

Another one just for fun – I like trying to mess (and mesh) with different stories (as you can tell) 🙂

One flew over the cuckoo’s nest
One went wee, wee, all the way home
A wiggle and a walk
A fiddle and a cat
Jumped over the moon

When it rains, it pours
What if it snows?
Does the old man still snore?
A giggle and a talk
Mary had a little lamb
And the owl’s in the boat
With the baker, the butcher, the candlestick maker.

Up the stairs and down the stairs
Wee Willy Winkie
Is looking for Miss Muffet
Who’s chasing after Georgie Porgie
Not kissing her or anyone yet,
But helping Bo Peep find her lambs.

That’s what I like
And the rest
(Little Boy Blue, Little Jack Horner,
And Johnny Appleseed)
Are all wondering not what their country can do for them
But what they can do.

Still, Mother Goose is watching carefully
And we all wonder if the crooked little woman cares enough
To give some scraps to Old Mother Hubbard.
And she might.
And she will
And Willie Winky, Jack Horner, the baker, the owl,
And everyone else
Breathes a collective sigh of relief
And the cat goes back to playing his fiddle
While the rest dance,

Just for fun and fairy tales…

I wrote this in 2007 but thought it would be fun to share.

If he wasn’t and he wasn’t
Then, where is he?
I can’t sit in a tower
Until I hear, ‘let down your hair!”
I’ve left quite a few times.
Did I miss the sound of the hoofbeats go by?

And if he wasn’t and he wasn’t
Then were my eyes closed?
When did my foot not fit the slipper?
Or perhaps
the carriage turned back into a pumpkin too soon.
The bride back into the rag girl too soon
Or it left me at the wrong door.

If he wasn’t and he wasn’t
Then did I bite into the apple not poisoned?
I thought I fell into a death-sleep
Waiting for the life-kiss
But maybe I didn’t open the right door
For the right witch.

If he wasn’t and he wasn’t
Then was I just not that girl?
But I just didn’t want to use the loom
My finger is not pricked
Life has kept going.
Is he waiting for that chance to prove all he is
By busting through the vines
And finding my poor pale face ready for him?

If he wasn’t and he wasn’t,
I’m sorry, I just can’t marry a beast!