I am afraid of desolate dark woods

Where we have no words

Poets without muse.

In thistle thicket budding

From the Wild Rose that Grows in Winter.

Outside my protected plot

Thriving in expert isolationist landscapes,

Hanging from bare honeysuckle branches.

Riotous and greedy

Star-lings, grackles,  blue Js,  Mock-ing birds,

Searching for sanctuary in my treeless bloc.

Now feeding on black oil.

and sunflower seeds

I want quiet here, away from word woods,

Without the noise of thesaurus, lexicon, and glossary

I want to drink at the first font

To quench thirst from frost forming at my temples

But I am at a loss for Words


Photo credit to Brianna Sargent

{÷} = $

Sighs of our tiempo.

my sisters, Ginny and Laura,

though a continent apart

in Cabo and Veracruz

together, recline on Sol’s  heated stones

pacified by Del Mar in Mexico.

while flurries pad Rocky.

mountain valley walls with feet of snow  .

aquifers diffusing.

through obstacles/ and (barriers).

to inundate faltering seas.

in time,

erasing every palisade and rampart.

oceans sing a  global song

to every winter.


I’m yours.  $ave me.  $ave me.

save yourselves.   <                         >




Second Day Chili

Potent comfort steams off thick blue bowls of

Yesterday’s chili

Seems that which is mulled, mused

Holds  solace flavored seasoning

Like poems that sit overnight on laptops


Into profound silence of approaching chill

Edging mostly eastward

Swarms of  Canadian and Snow Geese

Gyre as one

Undoubtedly distinct voices

Now that hushed Lawn mowers and leaf blowers

Are a muted majority

Reserved for emerging spring.


Hands cupped around the blends of Second Day Chili

We eschew cable tv

We devour  nostalgia from

Name that Tune

Boggle, WordTwist, CatchPhrase

Cackling brashly over the shadows

as our old brains try to connect

Nuggets of  timeworn Golden Oldies.


But mostly it about us.

Finding ties in times of disparate reasoning

Fueled by spices

Of second Day Chili



I have 10 rolls of aluminum foil in my Dollar Store basket

I know it’s foolish but it is my only recourse

Worried, nearly despondent

I clean out clearance Holiday candy

Like I don’t really care about my teeth anymore.


I have trouble focusing on what is real

What is fake news and which are suppositions.

What is bluster over bravado.

What is narcissism and what is buoyancy.


I buy foil just the same

Enough to line all my windows

In the event of The Event


It’s groundless and baseless.

Foil does not protect from nuclear fallout.

I know that.

Speculative news scrolls along a dozen store tvs.

A dozen different truths.

I go back into House Wares

And clean the shelves of foil.