Sunday, October 23, 2016

Hello friends.  
I've been unable to write or connect with you during the last two months.  My husband has been quite ill after a surgery that became infected and attacked his nerves.  These have been difficult, nightmarish times, but after two surgeries, he is now recovering, his pain is subsiding and he is home.  I know, had I reached out to you, I would have received many good wishes and prayers but I was immobilized by my fears.  I am sorry.
During this time, I also had to put my beloved friend, Daisy, to sleep.  I am mourning her gentle and loyal presence.  How I miss my angelic dog.  

A few weeks before Daisy's departure.

It is so nice to be writing here again.  Life is beginning to normalize.  I've missed you.  Am looking forward to reading your poetry and resuming one of the things I most enjoy.   

                  To My Husband, 
                  re: Our Blur 

There are so many blotchy blurs of memory
We've stored during all these many years.  
The latest is already fading
Into the mist that is our past
Someday we'll remember even less 
But never will we laugh at the flashbacks
That remain
The pain
The fear
Future unclear
Multifaceted spectrum of suffering
Making us feel helpless, alone
Forgetful of our communion with all humans
Whose lives zig zag just like ours
between degrees of joys and sorrows
I wish, like the enlightened ones,
We could be grateful even for darkness.
But all our gratitude now
Is for the light we're beginning to see
Dispersing our nightmare
Forming a blur.

Sunday, September 4, 2016

I've been preoccupied with some life demands lately.  I also feel like I've forgotten how to write, which is one of the things that makes me most happy.  But, I'm just going to scribble a little each day, until I remember.


Every day the sun and I 
silently communicate.
It is the teacher,
I the needy student.
I don't like it when 
Clouds dim its light.
But the sun cannot always
Burn in my sight.
When it hides, 
It teaches me to wait
With faith that its fire
Still burns, 
With hope that I will see 
its radiance tomorrow.

(For Poets United.)

Sunday, August 21, 2016

Sunday, 7 A.M.

On Sunday mornings it seems
silence sings a sacred tune.
The air is crisper,
more real, cleansed 
by bird song's sound waves
through the breeze
communicating nothing/everything.

I feel
the strength of connection
as I listen
to the beauty of nature.
I fall in love again
with this earth
forgetting for a moment
threats exist,
knowing that love comes first.
Before I commit to defend it
I must wallow in my passion. 

On Sunday mornings,
I find myself falling
into the irrational,
incomprehensible seduction
of love's abyss,
attending to my love
with no worries about self
or how long this affair will last.
I simply trust the current
lust of lover and beloved

On Sunday mornings, at least,
I dwell in my little speck of infinity
with my love.

(For Poets United.)

Wednesday, August 17, 2016


When I was a child I had a cat.
Her name was Mishew.
We played cat games.
I chased her down the long hallway
of our train-like apartment
the way I now chase my inner joy.
Then she chased me.
I gave her little treats off my plate.  
We slept together.
We loved each other.

When my grandmother threatened to "get rid of her" 
if she didn't stop scratching at the drapes, 
I cried.  Mishew stayed.
One day, when I got home from school, Grandmother said
Mishew had to move to the basement.
She was going to have a baby.
She had several -
the tiniest, cutest kittens imaginable.
I visited them as often as allowed. 
I loved them too
until the grownups told me Mishew had eaten them.

I went to the basement where Mishew, wishing
she could speak, meowed so loud. 
She looked at me with pleading big brown eyes.
But I had been betrayed. 
I thought she was a good cat.
I was wrong.
She committed this vile crime.

I don't know what ever happened to Mishew. 
I never saw her again.  
I've chosen never to live with a cat again,
or love one.

Today I question the lesson in this.
But a life examined only produces more questions.
When did Mishew go out to procreate?
Did grandmother love Mishew just a little bit?
Did Mishew really eat her kittens?

What was truth?
Is it possible I've avoided, disliked cats based on a lie?
What other prejudices do I harbor, 
believing untruths 
that curtail my love?
How much of myself will I never know?

Perhaps to be human is to live a riddle.
Perhaps my answer is:
I need to love another cat.

(For Poets United.)

Wednesday, August 3, 2016



In the beginning 
was I a word
Intended to join in the chorus
Of the Cosmo's song?
Can my tiny, unmelodious voice
Contribute anything to a sound
So long, so loud we cannot hear it?
Does the Cosmos even care
That I don't really know
How to sing?
How can I, if I'm just one word
In one song.
I'm trying to translate the word
That I am.
But all I know for sure is - 
it's a verb.

(For Poets United where Susan prompts us to write about "The Song of a Single Word".)

Sunday, July 31, 2016



My words are not contained 
In any prescribed form.
They have no volume, flow 
They often have no depth.

But they are like glass
Blown, with little air bubbles
Inside that change the shape 
Of my thoughts, revealing
A transparent gloss.
Hopefully, they will solidify,
Become mirror of my soul.
Not crystalline
But perhaps solid
As a piece of coal
Evolving slowly
Into beauty.

(For Poets United.)

Wednesday, July 20, 2016

"Did You Know?

Why would a 17th-century writer warn people that a chapel was only for "private or secret suffrages"? Because in addition to the meanings listed above, "suffrage" has been used since the 14th century to mean "prayer" (especially a prayer requesting divine help or intercession). So how did "suffrage" come to mean "a vote" or "the right to vote"? To answer that, we must look to the word’s Latin ancestor, suffragium, which can be translated as "vote," "support," or "prayer." That term produced descendants in a number of languages, and English picked up its senses of "suffrage" from two different places. We took the "prayer" sense from a Middle Frenchsuffragium offspring that emphasized the word’s spiritual aspects, and we elected to adopt the "voting" senses directly from the original Latin."  


My vote, so precious, I give
To honor those who fought for my right
To voice my choice for society's path.
It's a symbol of hope, perhaps more of a wish,
Not just for my family, my country, but for all.

My vote, so precious, I give
With wavering faith,
Knowing the majority is not always right,
That politics is not a harmonious song
But a fight, (whose rules are not always just)
To win the power to direct
History's course, not for one, but for all.

My vote, so precious , I give
Aware of the system's imperfections,
As I transform that voting booth
Into a chapel, where my choice becomes
A prayer, not just for my family, my country
But for the good of all.

(For Poets United where Susan prompts us to write about suffrage.)