Poem: Nothing


Spending time doing nothing

eating a carrot

sitting near the cat

staring off into space

or maybe this is meditating

thinking about what was

and the way it will be

writing a poem

in my head

being quiet

something I’m getting


better at




I’ve decided to start a project–a lofty project one might say. Someone gave me the idea this summer, but I didn’t think much of it then, but recently the idea settled in the back of my mind like a little ember and has been burning ever since.

My poetry is by no means award-winning, nor will it ever be found next to the likes of Oliver, Angelou or Plath, but in looking back, I’ve realized it has been somewhat prolific. Over the years of my blog I’ve written over 400 poems. 400! 400? I was quite amazed, and pleased with my writing self.

Some, of course, I like better than others; some are a mere silliness and some just bubble forth to lie down hard. But, none-the-less, they all exist in their own right. The thing is: they exist in the world of the internet and nowhere else. And this, recently, has become unsettling to me.

In our ever-changing world, ever unreliable and unpredictable–it seemed a novel and maybe even prudent idea to save these precious thoughts of mine in a more mundane and old-fashioned way–just in case. In case the internet collapses and goes away. Or, maybe even something less dramatic, that someday my kids just run across my journal where these poems are kept, and are stunned by the notions their mother had in her head.

So I have begun to transcribe all these words into a journal. Sure, I could have simply printed them out. But I wanted to wrap myself around them; taste them with my being as I write; re-live them. I feel like a medieval scribe, hunched over my parchment, cup of tea and sunflower seeds, scribbling, scribbling…

And some I read aloud. I close my eyes. Before me is a cushioned room and other poets such as myself, clutching their poems and listening intently as I share. They will be next to speak their truths, bring their gifts to the small group of unknown writers. Here we feel safe.

For no matter who we are or what we write, good or bad, it is a love of words and the joy of weaving them that unites us all.

Thank you for letting me share mine with you.


My Poetry


I’d like to take this time to invite all my readers and followers to feel free to ask me questions or simply wonder about my poems. I’ve had some folks be confused about them or describe themselves as people who don’t generally understand poetry. I suppose I have trouble with most poetry myself.

As I’ve gotten more into writing it, I know it can be quite obscure to others and maybe only makes sense to the poet. But maybe that’s the point. That we all interpret it differently. I’ve decided that’s the beauty of poetry. It’s more like a painting than say an essay which may try to make a particular point more emphatically.

With my poetry, I may get a picture or idea in my head. And many times it may be something that only I may understand to be a truth. Still, the words may resonate because they may create a picture in one’s mind or instill a feeling anyway. This is why I would hope you all will comment anyway without fear that you aren’t ‘getting’ the (my) gist of the poem. It doesn’t matter.

I’m only a novice. It is the joy of the words and the feeling when they make their way into my head like visitor getting off the train at the right station. Sometimes they just keep riding that train and refuse to step on the platform. But on the days they are happy to jump down and into my waiting arms–these are the days I feel rich.

So, remember: don’t worry about asking me who this visitor may be and what they are saying. I understand it may be a language you don’t understand. I will do my best to explain if you want. Or you can tell me what you heard this stranger saying to you…


Poem Art: Community

poem art 2

Today has been a dreaming sort of day. One of those days where I have looked at the life I have wanted to live and wondered if it will ever be possible and if I will ever follow through–or if it will always just be a dream. It was a day filled with research and videos, thinking and feeling things in my heart–even conversations with friends.

How many of us just have these yearnings that niggle at us? It is easy to let life pull us in other directions and I admire folks who just do what they want. It’s not that they are better or I am worse at living life, it’s just different paths. And it’s not that I didn’t do what I wanted, because obviously I did.

But what about all those ‘big’ things that we think about when we were young? Where do those ideas go?

Funny, but my next poem art sort of reflected my thoughts today without my trying. But the words I came across just floated out…and spoke the things in my head.

What are your dreams?

Nature Speak


It was a morning where nature seemed to be speaking to me. Giving me signs in its subtle and beautiful way to read life through the eyes of the natural world around me.


Even though I awoke kind of down, I saw things to lift my spirit –telling me to always look up and try to keep my soul flying despite those that may try to pull it to the ground.


It said never stop believing in myself or my song. And to sing it loudly, with my own voice and wherever I land.


To climb to the highest places I can imagine and not let barriers stop me no matter how daunting they may appear.


And that sometimes beauty is in the same place you walk by every day. Suddenly it appears bursting forth after being hidden. You may have to kneel down and look hard for it –but we can usually find it if we are determined it’s there.


That it’s OK to sing many songs and make them one. To incorporate the melodies of others to weave my own hymn to be sung proudly from the highest branch.


There can be light through the heavy limbs of darkness if only we look. Use the darkness to help the light illuminate more fully.


If you’re facing a storm at least keep your back to the sun.


When walking on that high wire, never go it alone. Try to bring a friend along with you to help you balance and keep steady.


And remember to slow down. Stop and see the world around us, hear its music and revel in its magnificence. For all earth’s creatures and plants have much to say, we just need to listen.


This perfect poem was in my email today. He said it way better than I ever could dream of doing it.

The River Note

And I behold once more
My old familiar haunts; here the blue river,
The same blue wonder that my infant eye
Admired, sage doubting whence the traveller came,–
Whence brought his sunny bubbles ere he washed
The fragrant flag-roots in my father’s fields,
And where thereafter in the world he went.
Look, here he is, unaltered, save that now
He hath broke his banks and flooded all the vales
With his redundant waves.
Here is the rock where, yet a simple child,
I caught with bended pin my earliest fish,
Much triumphing,–and these the fields
Over whose flowers I chased the butterfly,
A blooming hunter of a fairy fine.
And hark! where overhead the ancient crows
Hold their sour conversation in the sky:–
These are the same, but I am not the same,
But wiser than I was, and wise enough
Not to regret the changes, tho’ they cost
Me many a sigh. Oh, call not Nature dumb;
These trees and stones are audible to me,
These idle flowers, that tremble in the wind,
I understand their faery syllables,
And all their sad significance. The wind,
That rustles down the well-known forest road–
It hath a sound more eloquent than speech.
The stream, the trees, the grass, the sighing wind,
All of them utter sounds of ‘monishment
And grave parental love.
They are not of our race, they seem to say,
And yet have knowledge of our moral race,
And somewhat of majestic sympathy,
Something of pity for the puny clay,
That holds and boasts the immeasurable mind.
I feel as I were welcome to these trees
After long months of weary wandering,
Acknowledged by their hospitable boughs;
They know me as their son, for side by side,
They were coeval with my ancestors,
Adorned with them my country’s primitive times,
And soon may give my dust their funeral shade.

June, 1827

Poem: Learning To Live Again


Maybe I will just quite my job

And go back to school

Become a student again

And walk snow-covered paths

Into busy brick buildings

Filled with kids just starting out

They will look at me like I’m some kind of nut

The gray-haired lady in English literature class

Because maybe I could really learn to write a poem

After taking “Poetry Workshop”

Or maybe I could take a class called “Writing In The World”

And get a job as a reporter for NPR

(But I would have to change my name because it’s too boring)

I’d walk from class to class

Take notes

My daughter in college would laugh at me

While helping me with my homework

Or tell me not to bother her

While she was doing hers

Either way it could be no worse

Than being at work

Where the laughter is not the same

But coming from some place outside

Where my walls must be built every day

Like a sandcastle built but washed away by the tide each moon

My comrades in class could joke

But In the end

As the semester drew on and

Midterms and finals and study groups were formed

There in the circle was the gray-haired lady

Very much like someone they know

Back taking that step forward

Learning to live again



Poem: Pearls


I am not a Poet like you

Making words leap from the page

Like a gazelle

To be caught

By my hungry and wishful hunter’s ear

And strung together

Pried from an oyster

Creating a gem

How do you find these words?

I learned them too

In schools and essays

Teachers tugging them from my weary brain

Black scribbles on white paper

Staring at me trying to make sense

But yours are different

They rearrange themselves

Like intricate ice patterns on glass

Beautiful, yet transparent

I am not a poet like you

Yet continuing to listen, love and learn

Some days just sitting spellbound

At the simplicity your poetry

Paints in my heart