Saturday, January 2, 2016


The trees are tired
in this wild rush of fall,
tired of the leaves
constantly clamoring to be up
and bursting into brilliant flame,
tired of being awake.

They feel the frost nibbling at both ends of the day,
sense the coming of winter
when sleep and death
hover peacefully in the air
and all the leaves are silent.

This last effort is not for them,
the straining of the colors
and the trembling against the wind.

It's a lost cause, 
as they have always known, 
and all they care for now
is a still night with a pale moon
and the starlight
singing them to sleep.

Thursday, 9:15 p.m.

She was tired.

She sat on the couch, legs crossed (right over left) and arms folded (left over right) and stared at the silence.

She heard the hum of the refrigerator and the soft whoosh of the heater and a strange buzzing in her ears, as if her brain could not process the absence of children's voices and the sound of bare feet slap slap slapping on the stone floors. As if silence wasn't good enough, so it had to make up something else to hear.

She leaned her head to one side and her mind wandered into tomorrow, next Tuesday, three hours ago, a year from now.

She knew she ought to get up and do something, anything. To sit idly was more than frivolous, it was more than wasteful and wanton and wicked, it was heavenly. And it made her tired — at least, she accused it of making her tired, because what else could it be?

But the longer she sat, the louder the humming and whooshing and buzzing became, until it consumed her and she couldn't think of anything else and she didn't want to.

So she leaned her head further to the side, and closed her eyes and (just like that!) fell
into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Summer in the Desert

Excepting snakes, the desert makes night creatures of us all.

We wait the long day in languid silence
while the sun burns across the sky.
We hide in dark corners, fighting the madness,
until the evening drops, the light fades, the earth exhales.

When the night winds blow like the whispers of dryads,
when stars pierce the deepening blue,
when cicadas set down their bows and crickets pick them up again,
then we come alive.

We feel our old strength returning.
We have only been sleeping these hot, dreary hours,
until the sun went down
and we could see:
the lingering twilight
the bird shadows measuring the sky
the clear light of a rising moon.

True love

The flutters and excitement
Were pleasant while they lasted--
The pseudo imitation
Of a deeper kind of grace.
Though we pursued intently
After passion's bright illusion,
We were only chasing shadows
That dissolved without a trace.

After all the sparks went out
After all the flames died down
After life was back in route
Then we fell in love.

Ode to Facebook

I like to believe that
I will save the world from
certain destruction if
I immediately repost this
 - illuminating comparison of the similarities between two presidential assassinations,
 - thinly-veiled criticism of the current administration's platform disguised as an economics professor
   failing his entire class
 - little-known fact about ATMs that can help my friends thwart the next gun-toting thief to accost them
 - potentially life-changing article about how baby carrots are REALLY made.
Alas, but for snopes, I could truly make a difference.

I want to change the world.
And if I could cause five years of good luck
to rain down on the heads of thirty of my
closest friends, just by sharing with them
the most adorable picture of
 - a kitten snuggling up to a pig
 - a field full of organic, non-GMO, cage-free wildflowers (no animals were harmed in the taking of this
   photograph) with an inspiring quote from someone unknown but obviously wise and eloquent person
 - piles of money,
I would share in less time than it takes my heart to beat.

But I can't give what isn't mine.

All I have are poetry, stories, and (some would say) useless thoughts.
They're not airbrushed or photoshopped or perfect.
They're not anti-bacterial or peer-reviewed or politically correct.
Sometimes they're not even polite.

But they're mine, and they're true, and they're all I have to give.
And in some way, I hope they help.