Unfinished Minutes

Arms and legs snaking through
Soft tissue entwinements
Full bodied commitments.
Muscular expression amid
Unorchestrated rhythms that
Move and shape our language
Our tonation
Surpassing life’s uneasy diction.

There, that day,
Under a cooling fan
We unwrapped audacious famish
A windfall gift
Crisp with sheen
Bathed in unclocked moments
Unchecked movements

Peeling back
Masculine essence
A wolf wandering winter forests
Unfinished, on three good legs
Searching for Forever,
The stump’s reminiscence
The ache

Raw femininity
Rounded in moonlit shimmer
Hands reaching up and high
An uncloaking.

There is so much more
But this is me too.



Dilemma: Sickening “Well”

Some sicken well
Scheduling and attending
Doctor appointments
Following through with therapy exercises
Filling and swallowing pills
Swinging between handholds of
Woozy relief
Abject muscle wobbliness

Day by day
Every day.

Amid swirling mental drain
Anxiety about the when and how of endings
White physical pain snowstorms
Bodies thrown lopsided in
A twisted dilemma.

They keep strong, mostly
Inform family
Accept help
Without clutching onto anyone
While proactively listening
Seeking common sense solutions and
Sideways suggestions that
May not arrive
Plated in set medical menus
But Exist.

Others sicken poorly
Assume weight gain is inevitable
Resign themselves to a half lived life
Flattened and bottled up by backache
Fatigue, weakness

The healthy love to offer.
They want to share and help
And suggest Best ways of Being
Hinging upon concentrated will power
Measured progress.

The healthy become impatient and
Frustrated by the Sick’s lack of

How will you and I sicken
And what will we be like?


Generous: Successful People

What is your dream job?

Becoming a Writer.

If I were, I’d have chicken and root vegetables roasting in the oven while sitting at home learning and dreaming about new things, historical, future or fantastic time periods, places, foods and people amid fascinating scenarios.

If I were, I’d wrestle and tame thoughts to pen in ways that are true to myself and also delight others.

Feeling mentally bland, bloated and alone in some kind of inarticulate “loser, wannabe writer” status, I wonder where on earth do people get their ideas??

“Many people THINK they want to be writers but don’t really want to do what it takes,” the Editor and Chief of a popular local magazine once told me while our kids played soccer.

Likely, true, what does “doing what it takes” mean?

“A writer writes,” is a common saying. In her book, Grapes of Roth, Claire Bloom described author Phillip Roth as ultra disciplined–that he possessed a sort of iron will (my words) to write every single day.

Even though I have little idea about where I want to go with my writing and have none whatsoever about how to get there, I do know that I want to progress.

And, If I want positive changes, I need to commit to writing daily, however uninspired, which I haven’t done thus far.

“A writer reads,” someone told me and a group of friends.

In our early 20’s then, we were busy enjoying fondue over candlelight right at that moment. This person was generous with good advice because, well, his own cup floweth over with talent. After graduating from Yale, this “someone” went on to become an editor for the Village Voice and a well known published writer.

“I love writing because of the way it makes me feel and the person I am when I’m writing,” a cheerful acquaintance commented the other day while we hiked.

I respect and admire that viewpoint. I admit though that somehow, writing for myself alone does not feel sufficient. I must desire more.

…I just don’t know how to get there.


Hiking while Blind

Hiking in Colorado
Almost limitless

I fall more than others.

Tiny rocks crumble beneath
Betraying what looked
Like a smooth surface to me
Safe sailing, no
Leaving me sprawled out
Dusty and down while
Older children stop and
Glance nervously about.

“Place your feet where
You’re certain it’s stable.”

“Step lightly to be sure.”

“Then put more weight once you know
That’s a good place to be.”

Breathing tissue thin air while
Scaling tilted rock walls
Up and up
Appear to pose little difficulty
Beyond normal difficulty.

Good stepping
Even with less incline
Especially decline
Is harder.


Fragile: Teen Family Life

School year unfolds
So many checks to write
For teens, so up and coming
So engaged, yet also
Unwieldy, impossible to herd
Difficult to please.
Clubs, lacrosse, Speech and Debate.
Parent meetings in
Acoustically punishing Great rooms.

Amongst unfamiliar faces
Rosy with multiplied body heat,
I focus on the spread.
Tired lettuce and cheese filled pitas
Cardboard chicken salad croissants
But all the dolmadas, olives and feta
One can eat.

Sitting alone, deafened,
Watermelon plate piled high
Teetering with luscious
end of season slices,
How will I enjoy
Without upturning the
Fragile triangulated balance
Creating magnificent chaos?


Surface: A Game of Thrones’ Coming Up for Air


One morning during a snowstorm I sat alone and wondered how to unfold my day, now unmarked with cancelled plans with a friend who was nervous about driving in this weather.

My fall had been filled with major tumult pertaining to life decisions about marriage, relationship, children and lifestyle identifications. I made many good choices the latter part of the year, some bad ones. All were hard fought with a struggle to balance family needs and individual desire. The year had left my body and soul limp, yet also oddly stiff with lingering anger.

I picked up the first book of Game of Thrones that day just because we had it. At this time I knew little about this world except that the TV show captivated many people.

Quickly, the book transported me into a world so rich with distinct characters who came to life amid their agendas, regional cuisine, customs, attire, weapons, housing, religions and horses. Chapter after chapter swept my emotions away from my own doubtful universe left unstructured while children were at school, into a panoramic panoply of impressive intrigue, suspense and unfatigued description.

The door opened and cold air rushed in.

The kids had come home from school. I looked up and had to come back up to surface.

I returned again and again for intense savoring, a devouring reinforced with fierce note taking. There began my 2-year love affair with fire, dragons and the Seven Kingdoms.


Sidewalk: A Dead Body’s “Splat!”

I saw your body outlined in chalk there on the corner, cold and alone.

Being dead leaves your mouth ajar but empty of twisted words, for once.

I knew it was you by the way the body’s skinny appendages, once gesticulating wildly to prove your viewpoint had to be right, lay, defeated and limp now.

The protruding glasses, shattered into a thousand loud mouthed shards after a disgruntled obsessed viewer pushed you, could only be yours. Eyes certain that they could ken absolute “Truth” that the rest of us–the “fallen,” godless, unsaved–could not, now blankly stare. Dark blindness surrounds you now.

So devoutly Christian and a regular church goer, You’ve assumed that you will go to a better, holy place.

Will you?

Blocked off by crime scene’s yellow tape, random people remark on how the “SPLAT” of flesh falling from multiple stories on to cruel sidewalk left surprisingly little blood.


Cake: Put Your Face in it…

Afternoons are never my good time.

If I haven’t been a steady beaver working on projects, accomplishing, I wonder where the day has gone. Looking around at 4:15 pm, my messy house remains complete with empty wrappers, boxes, jars and clean and dirty dishes on the counters and sink.

A leaky roof, tricky tree roots growing underneath fence lines and concrete, a new door, a broken porch light and a temperamental 1920’s boiler all need tending.

Keeping everything organized, neat and running is a unending adult battle that I, stuck in a kind of teenage vortex, rarely win.

I am highly irritated that growing up is some kind of requirement–that sticking your face into a cake and then licking your fingers without worrying about the mess or calories is unacceptable–and thus fight the process every step of the way.

How do other people embrace growing up so well and figure all of this out?

Instead, I want to so badly to blossom into a billionaire child genius of genuinely positive feelings, candlelight dreams and fully rounded laughter for the ages.





Shiver: An Exposed, Connected Moment

Veins run through her arched neck. Light refracts off athletic sheen. Tall and slender, she would have been a former, local runway model.

High strung, she is already a nervous mare. Her owner slaps her mouth frequently which makes her even jumpier, especially around people she doesn’t know. Slow movements, no quick raised hands.

On cross ties, she tosses her head and sways, agitated about being exposed out in the aisle with the chance of being hit.

I approach slowly from the side and pause so she sees me. I place fingers on her lightly, briefly.


A voltaged shiver.


Eclipse: An Introvert’s Outlook

Fungus mushroom grows healthfully
Within deep dark breaths
A moldy forest of discovery.

Miniature stature
Smoothed capped exterior
Eclipses sutured gills underneath
Prolific spores

Distinct wit
Pungent observer
Of people, Self
And any series of unfortunate events.
Resourceful undertaker
Picking at both the dead and the living.

How many hairs up your nose
Make you rub your face and turn away?
How far will your hamstrings stretch?

I am impish and odd
But love something fierce.

Might be poisonous
Enough to prick
Depending upon which
Foliage you select and cultivate.

You pass by
Leaving me unnoticed.