Tuesday, March 14, 2017



Spring is a fickle trickster.
She tiptoes by,
peeks in the windows,
curls her finger at us,
and tempts us outside
with bouquets of sunny daffodils.
She seduces us 
with trails of purple crocuses 
lifting their bobbing heads
in the warm sun.

Transfixed, we step out 
with smiles wide
to follow her
and soak in her light.

Then she smirks and spins,
and in an instant,
she turns a cold shoulder to us.
She disappears and abandons us
in a whirlwind,
leaving drifts of snow behind
to drape around
the drooping blooms.

Yet, in spite of her rejection,
we wait for her return.

Thursday, February 23, 2017

Point of View

Point of View

With whiskers quivering, the tiny, grey mouse
searches for seeds under the sticky milk pod.
Soon there will be no tall, green weeds.
No clover, no Queen Anne's Lace, no goldenrod.

Although the mouse is blissfully unaware,
a "SOLD" sign has been put up on the lot.
It is the last empty lot in the housing development.
Sales in the area have been running hot.

Soon the bulldozer will come
to dig a foundation for a new house.
No one will care or worry about
the tiny, grey, displaced mouse.

Oh I know, some will say, "This is progress!
A family will have a brand new house."
I'm sure that family will think it's progress,
but I bet you a dollar, no one will ask the mouse.

Tuesday, January 24, 2017

Poems Are Like Birds

Poems Are Like Birds

Poems are like birds we create
and set free in the world.
Some, in bright-colored plumage,
make us proud as they sing melodic songs,
and soar above the trees,
flying toward the stars.

Others with dusty, black feathers,
embarrass us as they screech and squawk,
flap about in peoples' faces,
and then perch on utility wires,
leaving their droppings behind
splatted on parked cars.

Saturday, January 21, 2017

Battle of Words

Battle of Words

Words roll and float,
jump and tumble,
in the mazes of my mind.

They splash and flash,
jerk and jumble,
(scrambling for a foothold
in a literary rumble).
The winners are the best
that I can find.

When a poem comes to be,
the words fight it out,
rhyming and describing
what life is about.

They decide
which one comes first,
and which one brings up the rear.
They decide 
if they will make you laugh,
or make you wipe a tear.

The words engage
in a knock-down,
drag-out fight.
All battling to be the chosen ones,
that will make the music
or spark the light.

*   *   *   *   *   *

Thank you to Jerry E. Beuterbaugh for including links to my blog at his site, SiteHoundSniffs.com. If you have time, visit there and wander around in the various categories. You will find a wealth of wonderful posts that will entertain you for hours.

Wednesday, December 21, 2016

The Gift

The Gift

Christmas packages 
stacked neatly
underneath the tree,
some for the boys,
some for the girls,
a few for you, a few for me.

All of them are wrapped neatly
in green, red, gold, and blue,
filled with surprises,
bringing joy,
making dreams come true.

But none of these gifts,
not a single one,
wrapped in shiny papers and bows,
matters at all, not at all
compared to the gift
of the newborn Christ child
wrapped in swaddling clothes.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, everyone!

Thursday, November 17, 2016

Saturday Morning Simplicity

Saturday Morning Simplicity

She struggles to surface 
from the soft sea of sleep.
Sunshine sneaks through 
the slats surreptitiously.
She stands and stretches 
and slides into a robe made of silk.
(She has an affinity for this slippery amenity.)

In the kitchen, she serves herself 
a slice of sugared, cinnamon bread. 
She smiles at her spouse (still sleepy). 
Sitting at the table, he is cradling
in his hands a cup of strong coffee.
Together they soak in easy serenity.

She savors the sweetness of the bread 
between sips of steamy sassafras tea.
In sync, they share a comfortable silence 
in this, their Saturday morning simplicity. 

Wednesday, October 26, 2016

Never Alone

Never Alone

The little girl gets lost in her books,
giving no thought to the way she looks.
She perches sideways or upside down in her chair,
her arms akimbo, her legs in the air.

Snug in her quiet, cozy spot,
she submerges herself in the twisting plot.
Her friends are the characters on the page. 
She watches them live and dream and grow and age.

She sees them struggle and make mistakes.
Other times, they get all the breaks.
Their lives fill hers and become her own.
They are always around. She is never alone.