There’s a flag on the play,
the way things are going
there’s a flag everyday.
One thing after another
and no end in sight. It isn’t right
to fight this battle every second,
but I reckon this is what I signed up for.
Life is not a game, the rules aren’t fair,
but they aren’t supposed to be.
It’s you and me against the world,
and I’m not so sure about you.


(Thoughts Escaping)

Random phrases float effortlessly in my mind.
Thoughts and ideas left from other mad fits of genius.
(Or not). But, I’ve got all these things to say
that in a way gives life to my minutia.
I run each one up the flagpole and salute you
for being interested enough to read my mind and worry.
(Wouldn’t life be easier if spoken in cloud-like bubbles;
all your troubles and emotions suspended
in an unending tirade or titillation?) There is no greater
frustration in speaking your mind only to find
yourself looking like an ink drawing (in a four panel spread).
I would dread the moment my eye wanders and
the onlookers can read my lascivious letching.
So, I’m left fetching my gum eraser and removing
any trace of thoughts (in an effort to save face).
But if you float it out there, your muse ever-hangs in mid-air.
An animated existence in this surreal deal called life (punch line not included!)



There’s no escaping this life.
Despite the strife that this life will provide,
you can’t hide the fact that
the lives you touch, touch so many others.
You’ll have enough sisters and brothers
to populate this burg, and any urge you have
to roam from your roots will have you
shaking in your boots. You carry home with you,
and it carries you in its heart. When we start
in this life we are required one thing:
bring joy and comfort to your fellow man.
And if you can, you will never falter.
You may go far on dollars and cents,
but your recompense comes from the sense
of community; an eternal unity that is clear
in the end. No man fails who has friends.
Welcome home, George Bailey.
You own this town!


You stand alone,
palms forward, feeling
for the faint traces of these
walls of your own devising.
It isn’t surprising that your cries
for assistance fall on the deafness
of the maddening crowd. For crying out loud,
won’t anyone help this man?
It is apparent that this transparent box
has him perplexed. Every exit is sealed
in his mind. If he can only find the door.
He stands, silent tears streaming
for this seemingly simple mute.
Maybe it’s time to speak his mind;
A bitchin’ time saves mime!


  I have invited a friend and fellow poet to join me as my first GUEST POET for my newest feature, IN A GUEST POET’S EYES. Khara House has brought a fresh voice to the poetic world and has been a favorite of mine since our paths crossed during the 2009 Poem-a-Day challenge at Poetic Asides. She had graciously asked me to serve the same function when her blog “OUR LOST JUNGLE” hit the web, so I guess this is “Payback”! Welcome Khara House!


KHARA HOUSE: I’ve been writing poetry since I was in Elementary school; frankly, if I could hide all the stuff I wrote back then and pretend it never happened, I probably would, because it was simply awful. Then again, without it I wouldn’t be where I am now … which is really just in a place of continued experimentation with form, personal style, and discovering where my own poetry can take both others and myself.

I just recently (in May) graduated from the Graduate program at Northern Arizona University with a Master’s degree in English Creative Writing. It also meant graduating from my work as the Poetry Editor of Thin Air magazine, the graduate literary journal at NAU, which was such a wonderful experience; I had the opportunity to work with wonderful writers and amazing poets whose work I absolutely adored.

Right now I’m working on a new collection of poetry focusing on some more personal themes than I’ve addressed in my work before, which is pretty exciting and frightening for me. My poetry has usually dealt with more abstract themes, working to liberate readers to focus more on the sound and “feel” of a poem than the “sense”—meaning and set interpretations—of it. Now, the poems I’m working on definitely have more “purpose,” though I hope readers can still find room for what one of my poetic colleagues once termed the “serendipity” of my work. I have several pieces out in the world hoping to be picked up by some unsuspecting adoptive mother or father who will put them on display for a wider audience, as well … Fingers crossed!

The poems I’m sharing are ones that fall into the transition-stage between where I was just a few months ago and the direction I’m heading in now, which is, again, a really exciting stage for me.

Flesh memory

How softly

the milkweed layer

of mind peeling back.

Flesh memory of mother’s skin

soft thighs pressed to my shoulders

fingers kneading

scalp like fresh dough.

I can feel your touch embedded in my skin.

This is barely brushing

the surface—her fingers

smoothing back the surface of my head

and fireflies. Her shadow.

You were the half of me always spilling over.

Keeping watch

over night, and now, the hum

of her hovering over my bed.

Etched on aspen leaves

The breeze lisping through ponderosa pine whispers

this is home.

No reckoning the distance between

where I started and where I have come—

the territory is a region of stars and shadows,

too vast for hands to hold and feet to fathom.

All soft bends and arching towers,

deep in red clay,

earth where soul meets soil and roots,

aching to rise and meet the sun.

How Icarus must have felt,

reaching halfway home,

only to fall back into the womb.


I do not trust my eyes—so I try hard not to see you

even as I look into yours—or my lips—

so I try not to touch you even as I press them

to your cheek. So much vagrant feeling in one brown hand—

how can the world sustain this bridge between us?

Because I know so many things—that I can puncture the air

with one breath and fracture a face with one breath

and bridge a gap with one breath—I do not know you.

I cannot touch you so I cannot hold you even as you wrap

your arms around me and I feel your warmth and want you—

because there is salt on your neck I could lap like cat milk,

because there is music between us, because you are being

and being and I cannot keep you from being—a you

I can smile but do not trust myself to have.

Memento mica crustum

The birds will come and eat your breadcrumbs, children,

so scatter your pebbles well.

Taste the bread wall but be wary of bread ovens,

hold your hands over your hearts, never your mouths—

keep your eyes peeled for pearls. Glide on

swan backs to your docile father, and hunt

your own daily bread. Remember some songbirds are worse than witches.

Judge for yourselves

if these starlings are sinners or saints—

hold them in reverence. Cry and chant and thirst for blood.

Taste the freedom wall. Devour your pastries

with traces of ash and remember

every Judas plays his part in salvation. Under moonlight

white pebbles shimmer like lost teeth—

the winged ones will let them be.

And remember all things burn under the sun.

Thank you Khara for your vision and your work. Again, check out Khara’s blog, “OUR LOST JUNGLE”


Time for a change;

a new look and new attitude

WordPress had been an experimental home for this poet’s heart. But now, the time has come to make the change more permanent. I will run both pages simultaneously until all the bugs can be exterminated. The Blogspot site will end September 1st.
My poetry and other works will be posted here under their own tabs to try to consolidate their function. The theme may change from  time to time until I find the look I like. Meanwhile, please continue to visit these pages and enjoy the view from a poet’s heart.


Un-billowed and furled
color splashed and swirled
across the nylon stitching
it stretches. This wretched
contraption missed the boat
and sits afloat my shipping table.
Have I a reason to be prone
to such treason as to let this parcel,
a morsel of sailing finery, sit unshipped?
Destination: Down under and his boat
sits asunder. Without the means
to make it go, this damn boat will
go real slow. I’m glad to regale ya,