There are many ways to get hime You can go on Nakoma Road, Old Sauk Road, Old Middleton, or Gammon Road. There may even be other ways, satisfying, interesting, dramatic, or dull ways; Yes, home; there is only one 805 Blue Ridge Parkway. One kitchen,…

Where is my heart scattered over the territory left outside of me resting, agitated, awaiting decree I shall attempt to define each piece before I reach a conclusion of totality’s transfusion I could take steps from my feet of pain to embrace a life that…

I am on my side centipede  For the sobs have drilled to the core already  Cracked and vibratoed  I have fallen into the aftershocks  The little trembles  When the ache is deepest Has dripped its way through my throat  Rested on my chest  Tripping over…

As she stared at the deep reds and the purple sunset She walked into the shadows of a red brick building That was her high school, her old school Along the library that smelt of old books Under the tree, where she spent her lunches…

Door cracked slightly ajar A slip of mid-morning light through a thin atmosphere of dust and cat hair This is where the past found me Terror in one hand Wonder in the other

It was a day Like many days past. Up, showered and dressed Tasty cereal down the hatch. It’s Saturday, fun day No work, only play But this day, this Saturday Is Poetry Marathon Day! Getting started for some Can start out a bit slow I…

  The Road to Somewhere     I made a small gesture by paying the ten cent toll on the trip that all my learning prepared me for though I didn’t know it at the time.   The small entry point to Canada welcomed me…

Imagine the late 1980’s United States of America A gathering with linking hands from coast to coast;   an unbroken chain of communities linked despite differences;   Hands Across America   in common cause a benefit to feed hungry Americans a frozen frame captures my…

Let the Journey Begin Didnt it really begin a long time ago?                                                                   …

one particular poet speaks my words she resonates in my consciousness I carry her thoughts as one with mine Sylvia Plath’s Colossus is me, not her father as one might think fragmented like puzzle parts, my mind has also tumbled down I hear this constant…