Once I found that I was made of water
And not of stone, my self could swirl
And ebb and flood and flow out
Into channels unforeseen, unlocked
From inner ice. Frozen feelings freed,
Shifting out of the safe, steady normal,
The person I’ve come to expect in
My reflections trickles out like tears.
I thought that I could rely on her –
But I see some of the girl dripping,
Some of the woman pooling into
Unexpected reveries and reactions,
Caverns in the resolute foundation:
Moving liquid life, caught in time’s current.

Written Fall 2016


Light Rays

I think in lines
Like light rays running
Backward to a weary
Sun so blinding bright
That I don’t see a future
Bathed white, undefined
By past time.

But rays aren’t real,
The lines can’t bind
To cremating identity
No longer mine.

The Second Voice

Twisting paper into waves,
Walking graphite across page,
Brushing imagined image alive,
Typing text black into blank,
We derive from air artistry.

At one table sit the artists
Heads bent, expressions intent
Chatting softly with one voice
While a second hand-crafts meaning
Out of paper, paint, perspective,
The noise of creativity singing
Somewhere above perception.

Lost Art

I took a rose from an artist
who didn’t think she was one.
It was inked on snowy paper
That was waiting to crumple
With all the others in waste-bin,

And I thought of museums
Never filled because the hands
That drew also crumpled.


One look and my apparel
becomes a box within
your mind, I fall down
and hide behind a label.

I grow smaller as the cardboard
morphs to wood to concrete
image of all I do, believe, am.
All that I wearing is a sign
understood, writing on the box.

You know my kind,
You know me.
The lid shudders shut.

Five seconds and my face
has vanished into some
corner of the enclosure.
I haven’t even said a word,
and now my voice is trapped
where you will never hear it:
safe in sound-proof


There are story lines in minds
More memorable than memory
More real than lived reality.
We are all written to stumble after
Faulty fantasy but never catch it,
For this is the brokenness of imagining:
The very moment we see clearly
The look, the face, the sparkling place
It folds away into impossibility.
A door locks, there is no key.
What we inwardly live so vividly
Can never be.

(And such is mercy, really,
For we short-sighted scribes
Would stifle and shrink our souls
And bind ourselves in a tangling
Web of threads plucked from tapestry.)

To Hope,

You renegade with feathers
flying fast where I can’t follow,
free to float above reality.
You mock my anchoring gravity,
For your reckless energy can’t
Propel me up to skies not mine –
Your longings do not lift me.
Come down, calm down,
For I can’t bear to lose you yet

I know that I can’t trust you
Little songbird, flying blind.