From space they look like pollen, (the umbrellas blooming on the beach) row after row by the shoreline, like a pollen garden planned and plotted on a grid (this section for yellow blooms, this one for the blue) with precision, obsession, waiting for the wind…

wow what an orgy of bright flashes and radiation the dashing and dancing it’ll leave you white the distraction becomes very obtrusive the swelling florescent green it supplies opens my reluctant eyes while the curs-ed yellows attack like wasps eager to burrow into my skin…

Sunshine on the hanging baskets Greet the flowers there The trees stand still Silhouettes on baby morning blues Bushes and an apple tree Awaken the birds in the yard.

I am watching the rain falling, in torrents cascading off my roof ala Niagara Falls the images are overlays the same, yet incredibly dissimilar, as are the sounds water crashing off roof to the soggy ground the rain itself, pelting glass, the walls, the roof…

Six weeks, they tell me, is just long enough to build a habit; I listen and I act impressed. The inference here, of course, is that I will soon forget the old while at the same time I create the new. But what if these…

There was a way she held her head, cast her eyes across the interior of her hands, then looked to me for help to understand. There use to be a presence upon the mattress beside me, a softly breathing heat that I would listen to…

My true calling? What is with All the questioning   Pointedly objected Forever scarred Early on, from ones she loved Now weary, scared   Exhilarating- freeing In creative be-ing But it’s not a job   How to change that feeling Dig, further in It’s okay,…

Most of my life, I’ve been petite.  A dancer, personal trainer, five-foot-three, size two. Then I became a writer. Paid to sit and pen my words. I’ve put on thirty-pounds over two years. Honestly, I love writing, it’s the perfect job. But I must say,…

The lovers took to the mountain and lay under the sun in the grass, his hand on her thigh. She said, I cannot surrender a gift so precious but this memory will be yours to keep. She laid his hand on her breast. The sweet…

  Better to start with what I Haven’t missed. I haven’t missed the meals I skipped When the choice was art or Bread I haven’t missed money Unless I was broke and begging But I’d miss any page gone from these shelves I haven’t missed…