My Poetry

Time Pieces Frustrations wound too tight angrily twisted our words before he rushed out the door leaving me alone hands clenched in the face of advancing moonlight. How many times will we pass under the night without counting the stars? How many hours will we watch life tick by without living ours? Emotions working overtime strive to unwind from the mainspring that dictates with the sharp punch of its card. We wait for the two-for-one sales to stock up on desires manufactured on Venus and Mars with no time out for each other. So, we fight to connect as we cling to separate Pendulums slaving for the Sands that demand a lifetime contract. ________________________________________ This is an old one from when my ex-husband and I were newly weds. We worked at the same place, I worked days and he worked nights. We never got to see each other. 

Misogynist She shouldn't need to consult cards or gaze into crystal balls to figure him out. He is cellophane stretched over her face and she isn’t even fighting for air. She lies still as a corpse for him to allow her a breath.   (he waits a little longer                           each time) His eyes are sand dunes His embrace stiff as a cigar store Indian. His heart is a hollow drum beat. In his twisted games, he tells her that the sun is the moon and she’s beginning to believe him. He turns things upside down twists them inside out soaks them in Bud punches holes right through memories. He spins things round and round until she’s puking her guts out like inconvenient facts begging him to forgive her  for what he did again. _________________________________ "The sun is the moon," is an allusion to The Taming of the Shrew by William Shakespeare....

The Carrizo Plain Driving down the washboard dirt road Soft and inviting like an old wrinkled blanket are the Caliente and Temblor Mountains with their contiguous rolling hills surrounding the flat, lonely, grassland of the Carrizo Plain. Soda Lake, the heart of the vale an alkali wetland, a three thousand acre ephemeral pool almost dry, it leaves a glistening breadth of sulfate and carbonate salts Wind picks up the particles and creates a majestic, white spire that swirls its way toward the heavens. The San Andreas Fault is unmistakable here the point where the Pacific and North American Plates join. A steep arroyo marks the site of their union. This unstable marriage has left scars on the Temblors with offsets thirty feet high. California condors forage this plain Sandhill cranes winter in the marshes. Spring rains nourish a variety of flamboyant wildflowers. Painted Rock emerges from the eastern grassland a distinct sandstone formation pushed up millions of years ago by a brutal qua...

Remembering the Moon I remember the moon how small it looks, even when it's full, on winter nights in western New York, no bigger than a dime suspended in the sky. I punched out at two a.m. Drove home through a black and white movie The moon’s reflection on the snow created long shadows and dark eyed silhouettes. Flashing red lights cut through the monochrome. Even before I was close enough to see the ambulance was in front of her house, I knew           Jenny lost her battle. Porcelain doll face knew from the age of twelve that she would never graduate  or walk down an aisle wearing white. Three years she fought losing all her shiny brown hair in the process. I watched life slowly siphoned from eyes not even old enough to drive         and the moon melted before my eyes. ____________________________________________ In memory of Jennifer Stanley 

This isn't like most of my poems. It is written as a stream of consciousness. There are different speakers and no dialogue tags. It's written the way I remember it.   Spinning  Pressure's dropping! We've lost the heartbeat! Give it a minute. Give it a minute? See if it comes back up. Everything goes white I grab at the sheet, scrunch it into my fist gotta have something to cling to feels like I could                         slip away... It's not coming up! I'm never covering another lunch! The ceiling is spinning. It’s exactly the way it looks on television?   My head is spinning My heart is spinning in opposite directions. Centrifugal force will soon rip me apart. I am going to die. I'll never hold my baby! His heart stopped! He could be suffering brain damage! He could be dying! Please, Jehovah, whatever happens to me, don't let this baby die. I will gladly give my life for him. We're going to cut ver...

Toy Soldiers It began hand to hand with stones and sticks at the dawn of time. As ingenuity grew weapons evolved into arrows, spears and knives. Long before Age of Bronze boys have marched into the maw of the meat grinder. Is it the cause or the cadence? Why do they willingly dive into death as if it were a swimming hole on a hot afternoon? Seduced by the GI Joe image boys play with toy soldiers on bedroom floors battling dinosaurs or Indians- knock ‘em down set ‘em up again.   And heads of nations play with young soldiers on battlefields send 'em in, when they fall, send more in. They're told to fight for God, for country for democracy. It's all lies and greed.  Boys become moving targets cannon fodder dough boys over-baked in trenches basted in blood. Tired boys in battle fatigues suffering PTSD. There is blood on Wall Street blood in our gas tanks the White House transfuses the blood of young soldiers into its foundation and campaigns and pretends to be sad about it. And...

  Places She Ran Albuquerque in October blazing sunrise  colorful constellations dot azure skies.  Eagle’s view fails to find fragments she left behind.  Ghosts of conquistadors homesteaders and warriors inhabit El Paso- desert  jewel reflected in the Rio Grande. Kings of the rodeo could not lasso her though- she ran to Memphis and shared her blues with Beale Street. Never found grace in Graceland only dreams pawned in glittery shops for a quart of gin. Reflections distort in the sun, where she took a pretty boy's virginity to replace the one she left under a willow tree. Vapid thoughts eased pain weaving through her mind. Xavier wasn’t her savior yesterday is never really gone, and Zion is not where she belongs. __________________________________________________________ I was raised in a cultish religion and I felt smothered by it, so when I was 17, I ran away from home. I hitchhiked back and forth across the country for 7 months.  Sometimes it feels like ...