Colorful Caller

Brightly lit with morning sun,
a cluster of tiny purple flowers
sways in gentle rhythm
with the breeze only
to be bent
by a black and iridescent blue swallowtail.
Rice paper wings flutter
and the visitor is gone --
a fleeting moment etched into life’s eternal memory.

Just Musing…

I’ve decided to post some of my older poetry… the stuff that never saw the light of day (Incident at the White Dove Laundromat was written sometime last year). As I come across my little thoughts stuffed in drawers and "lost" in mounds of office clutter, I’ll share the ones I feel are worthy. However, rest assured that this blog is about staying inspired and creative and not about reliving what was. I’ve been published repeatedly in college literary mags but that was years ago. I guess now it’s more about the poetry and less about being recognized as a poet. Goodness… I guess I am getting old. ;)

Incident at the White Dove Laundromat

Three weeks of laundry
unceremoniously stuffed into six machines
cramming every crevice of a dollar-fifty wash.
Ignoring the accusing stares of my fellow patrons,
I plummet into a pre-molded plastic chair
to watch the waves of fabric
churn clockwise
then counter-clockwise
then spin
in a tornado of clean clothing.
The heavy-duty industrial washer sounds off
like a jet on a runway—
shaking like a rage-filled beast
ready to explode.
Bleary-eyed, I sit
directly across from the spectacle
wondering what will kill me—
the impact of a self-destructing spin cycle
or the realization of having to fold
three weeks of laundry.

2:30 Cubicle Crawl

A digital clock does not “tick-tock”
and the absence of sound disturbs me.
In the system’s vacuum of atomic time
the mind-numbing monotony of pushing paper has reached
its pinnacle
and I sense the fugue descending –
silent and insidious.
Rubbing arms for warmth and failing
an attempt to re-focus,
I fight
the bubbling resentment of a basket full of bills
and losing lottery tickets –
without which I wouldn’t be here.
A digital clock does not “tick-tock”
and without sound
there is no illusion of progress.


Hiding behind a bitmap mask,
I place the plate on the public platform
and watch
for signs of interest.

Fearing finicky palates that would find my fare
too sweet,
too salty,
too bitter,
too bland,
I cross my arms and lean 
against a nonexistent support
and wait.

And Here I Am... Again.

It seems I run in circles... chasing my tail in an effort to come back to who I am. I guess I am not so different from a lot of people - especially as I face my 42nd birthday. Middle-age. What does that mean exactly?
I have been struggling to "get back to my poetry" to "find time" to "come back to center." Trying... and therein lies the problem: trying and not doing. Very recently I have searched for a writing community for inspiration and camaraderie and I've come away dissatisfied and restless. I do not fault the online and local communities. It's definitely me not them. So... here I am again looking at the computer screen and realizing the gift I was given so many years ago. The Nun never goes away. She just sits, contemplates, and waits for me to come home.

The Goddess Project: Mielikki

I was first introduced to the Finnish goddess of the forest years ago when my brother and I were creating characters in AD&D. Mielikki w...