Walking home from junior high. Clarinet case and arm full of books. Heavy with maybe something that happened in class, anticipated living room lecture of what was done, or not, night of dreaded tests to prepare.
There, at end of the alley, the sky turned dark, quick as the wind kicked up. It looked like night. And as the driveway was reached, the light. From the kitchen glowed, knowing supper was in it.
Intense minutes seeped in memory. Warming, comforting. Simply seen as yesterday. Replayed as flashes of mom. Unconditional porcupine meatballs, green beans, and salad. As everything at the table would be. Security fed deep in me.

As Mine

The shrink of the family,
Be still in heal thyself
Shelved beside missals
Of what else is left for

Us to climb, a vine that
Snaps, sucks the sap
And turns yellow before
The sun, one pain, sad,

And one permanently
Mad, sarcastically as
Markers with laughter
After thoughts perhaps

It’s not, evaporated as
Reason drinks the line
Fine tipped and defined
Like diploma’s unsigned

Like Perfection

Dragged the garbage bag
Down the stairs around
Ten, happened to look
Near full moon, north star,
A temperature so perfect
There’s not an adjective
That feeling, bare feet on
The patio, grounded and
Dreaming into the night’s

Bright Blue Inside

Lack, slack, talent
And feeling foolish
By my writing hand
Extended into the

Heavenly blues, I’m
Smiling, uselessly,
As a penny sent in
A blank check, yet

Sweaty as actually
There, full of life,
I’m talking back to
The masters, and

I don’t care what’s
In print, it’s nothing
To what’s singing
Ink Into my eyes

It Was Sunny

I said not to,
Sips to music
Influences it,
And it’s not an

Inspiration, I
Can’t shut up
But, my sister
Liked the beach

Deleted in sun
Set typically
Breached, in
Me, somebody

Sunny, seen as
Sweet, salty,
Like I’ve known,
Shown, I wished


And another, because I’ve noticed
The foam forms snowflakes down
The glass, clinging like humidity on
These curls frizzed across my eyes

Laced, placed in four four time, I’m
Innocently brushing them back and
Blushing at thoughts, caught, brought
Out of luck, knee deep, happily stuck

At nothing to cry about, wet, forgets
All about the cold, dripped down the
Ice, twice, frosty like nobody cares,
And there it is, glorified, warm inside



Pancake breakfast
In a town of 500
Stomachs in support
Of hooks and ladders

Fatter by the local
Pork formed in
Fingered links licked
Like flames on maple

Tabled lines waiting
Beside like pews
Leftover of Sunday’s
Family’s community


My little niece curled up on the couch and thanked me for the book. It was the one about a shepherd’s take on the 23rd psalm. We’re a lot alike, a little shy, yet talk nonstop within our travelling minds of authors, Europe, and feelings. We walk into each others thought scenery’s as we listen. She asks questions and makes me think, deep. It seems as we’re two bookends, facing outward, yet full of stories. And if I could write, I’d like her to be the main character.

The doctor draped her lab coat, no, Beneath the Eiffel Tower she spied a flower, At the oval office. She laughed at that fortune cookie and threw it on the counter. We have that in common, too. Old enough to grasp, and young at heart to disbelieve. She makes me real, (most kids do), but, with a light seriousness dove into, as we keep our heads above water. Neither one of us likes chlorine up our noses, and we both want to learn to swim.