Good news!

I received word this weekend that my photograph “Light Under Pier” will be published in the next issue of Off the Coast. Exciting news for me!

Also, my first attempt at visual poetry, Words Left Behind was selected for publication by The Artistic Muse.  You can view it here:

Thank you for sharing my good news and my writing and photography journey with me. 🙂



Run away with me, the moon

is waiting.  She follows me

knowing what no one else does.

She tells me to be silent, and listen,

and I do.  She whispers in blue

and piano notes strung together

like a sonata echoing across the water.

When I am still, she wraps me

tightly, in a blanket of secrets.

She is always calling to me –

come here, come here, come here,

with her gentle face and soft voice,

and so I go.  Run away with me.

The moon is waiting.



started to write

good bye

letter this morning, but then

i remembered

i had an appointment to convince you

that i’m ok

that i’m not a danger to myself

i can’t cancel

or you might worry that there’s something wrong

so i put myself together

picking up all of the pieces from the floor

and i’m here

before i left,  i checked – clean clothes, clean hair, clean teeth

i know what you look for


but as i’m telling you i’m ok i start to notice cracks in my normal

my socks don’t match, my nail polish is peeling, scratches all over my arms

i am not convincing


but you let me go when i assure you i will return in one week

i leave

relieved and scared, normal enough to return

to finish





The Spotted Pony

The spotted pony bears out

winter with thickened coat and rugged

resolve by the edges of the worn field

where the bitter wind blows less harsh.

His grayish hooves solidly clap frozen

ground as he grazes on what’s left of autumn’s

golden grass.  Midday sun streams through breaks

in the pines, blessing his shaggy, rugged body.

He stops to rest in winter’s calm, so few

are those days.  When storms pass

through, spotted pony waits them out with tail

turned toward the wind and head hung low.

Pine branches reach down, giant

arms of protection. Like the hill

and the rocks and the pines, he belongs

to this place.  The spotted pony bears out winter.Imagep

Weekly Writing Challenge: Mail It In

Dear Doctor,
I sat yesterday in your office,
the one on the top floor, at the corner.
You were talking in that calm voice;
did you notice I was watching the cars
running the light at the intersection below?
And I was tracing a line where sun drifted
through onto the table, and noticing
my shoe was almost untied. And then
your phone buzzed and she said that your next
patient was waiting, so I got up to grab my purse.
You stopped me at the door to ask if I was ok,
and I nodded, but the elevator door was already
opening so I didn’t catch your eye. But now I am
home, and I remember that I should have told you
some things. You see, I’ve been having double
vision again, and the right side of my face is numb.
Oh, and I fell down the stairs the other day. Twice.
And my hands shake now all the time, and I hear only
ringing in my right ear. I know I was supposed to tell
you all this yesterday, but I was looking at the cars,
and the sun, and my shoe. But I thought I’d write
you an email, anyway, so I don’t have to see
your face when you tell me what this means.
Remember when you said you couldn’t do
anything more for me if the tumor grew back?
I remember, Doctor, I remember. So, I thought
I’d enjoy the sunshine in your office yesterday,
and you can just print out this email for my records.


Crumbling Castle

Crumbling castle of mixed up dreams,

maybe I wanted too many things?

The cracked tiles, broken staircase, dark

hallways that echo with chaos, they say –

It was here for you, but not enough.

Gardens overgrown, out of control,

Like my spinning mind that says, it

crumbled beneath you.  You didn’t do

enough, be enough, to make this castle

shine.  No, you stared out the window and

cried, as bit by bit fell with your tears.

And you didn’t care, really, because

it had all crumbled long ago.


Writing Poetry

Always somehow ripped

at the corners, wrinkled

down the middle, and looking

like day old coffee

stains have more weight

than the words on the page.

Printed again, it still turns

out the same, so I leave

it there, on the corner

of the desk to soak

in early morning rays and

to whisper to me, though

I turn away and sip my coffee,

tired of its dusty words.

I am you, it taunts, with its stains

and wrinkles, rips and fades.

And knowing the words on it have never

lifted it past the desk, no one

has said yes, yes, but only no,

its torn corners wait, and I rest

my coffee mug upon it, leaving

an uneasy circle across my words.Image

Mean Girls

When mean girls don’t feel

pretty, they hiss and hurl

words like bolts into beauty.

And if they don’t feel

love, they will watch

for it and strike it down like a viper

upon prey.  With rumors and back

stabbing, hissing lies, little snakes

gather to take down their

victim. Mean girls threatened will hurt

with impunity, slither on the backs

of others. They are so full

of their own emptiness, that they spew

hatred until they crack, and fall

to hollow pieces on the ground, leaving

their dried up skins behind.



we stopped in Vigo, wandered cobblestone streets, and vendors pushed forward

things Americans buy.  i didn’t need Spanish souvenirs, but i watched with an easy smile

as my daughters examined everything that day had to offer – the pottery pigs with silly faces,

and jewelry made from Spanish coins, and little dolls in polka dotted dresses.  delight eased

out of them as they murmured to one another about each rare find, such things they had never seen,

sweet child hands hovering over the tables, picking up each piece as a treasure of new secrets.

and then the little one saw the dress, red with black polka dots and fringe, hanging high above her head.

i saw her wide eyes follow it as it fluffed and blew in the late afternoon harbor breeze. the shop keeper

saw her face, too, and knew it well.  he pulled the red dress down in one motion and had it in her hands.

“You want?  You want?” he pleaded, though her face told everyone nearby.  she looked up, clutching

her dress, already dancing her mind.  handing the shopkeeper the wadded up Euros, she ran down

the cobblestoned hill clutching her dress and giggling, oblivious to the shopkeeper holding out change.

she was already peeling off her shoe and sock by the bottom of the hill, tripping over the cobblestones

and the hem the dress she clutched.  the rest of us, caught up in her glee, trotted behind.  back at the hotel,

we could only sit and watch as she spun and flew in her own private flamenco, eyes closing

to the salsa in her mind.  the fringe swung one way and then another; she didn’t take her eyes

off of it.  she was in Vigo on a balcony in a red polka dotted dress, Spanish dancer for a day.


Self-Portrait, Words

blue, and always searching,

looking for where the sun shines

down, so I can turn toward it and grow

like the peaceful sunflower.  always

feeling darkening clouds gathering

behind me, threatening me, chasing me,

that I may go from sun on my face

to a cold, shaking ball on muddy ground,

driving rain, lightning strikes and fear

things change so fast.  i can’t keep up.

alone, but searching for like hearts,

holding light, pulling it in, spreading it out

blue and light, reaching alwaysImage