Tuesday, September 22, 2015


Basically I screwed things up,
He said, when I asked him about his job.
I worked too many hours and never saw my kids,
And then I did stupid things.
I screwed up my whole life and had to start over,
He said, his Boston accent slurring over the
Rough edges he copped to.

But he seemed so happy with his new wife
And little boat;
His life, putt-putting into the town
For coffee on Saturday mornings.
He had to smooth things over with the kids, too,
He said, and I thought yeah, me too.  
Even if we don’t screw up our whole life,
We still have to smooth things over.

He grinned, then,
And though I hadn’t recognized him
When they first pulled up,
Now he was the same mischievous
Red-headed kid from high school.
And though I never knew him well,
I thought – this is a guy who has been schooled. 

Sunday, August 9, 2015

My poem, Piercing Beauty, published in Clementine Poetry Journal!


Clementine Poetry Journal

Tuesday, July 28, 2015

Things They Carry With Them


Months have been spent on the jettison –
What to pitch, how to downsize.
Sentimentality has been given no quarter.
Beds, flowerpots, side tables –
Nothing sacred, nothing beyond the swinging axe
Cutting ties to just-a-house, merely-a-town.

But things will be carried.
Wine, of course, to toast a new life,
New jobs, new perspective.
Dogs, because poodles don’t stay behind.
And ghosts will accompany them, our shadows –

Spirits carried on the long drive,
And through the unpacking of boxes.
Heard as voices ringing in their ears with advice or kibitz,
Seen as images flashing on bike rides or ski runs;
Felt in quiet moments, when
All our thoughts will be conveyed.

Thursday, June 11, 2015


Under their bridges they plan their
Attacks on the innocent.

Lurking and rubbing their hands in glee
While I fall into their trap –

I respond, I argue, I give them the time of day.
I waste my wherewithall

Fretting over erroneous statements
Proffered with a dash of outrage.

They invent and ascribe,
I defend and explain.

They disguise themselves as humans and I buy it.
I offer reason and sound arguments

As they retreat to their caves and mountains;
They laugh at me, I’m sure.

I swear I’ll stay away –
I’ll take a different route home

To avoid their snares.
Yet as soon as I let down my guard –

There they are with their tricks
To lure me into the darkness.

I’ve heard that when exposed to sunshine
Trolls turn to stone.

Saturday, May 23, 2015


Two swings required –
Close together, preferably,
So we can hold hands
And keep swinging
In tandem, in synchrony.

Legs pump back and forth
Building to frightening heights
Where, suspended momentarily,
The chains catch on reversal.

Two swings required
So we can discuss
The day’s events
And float above
The day’s events.

My hair flies out behind then forward, across my face,
Air rushes past my ears –
I hear only what I want to hear; you laugh,
We speak without words.

Two swings required
So we can stretch
Our legs to the sky
And touch stars
Together, hand in hand.

Wednesday, May 20, 2015

Piercing Beauty


On the news they showed a stunning image – 
Hovering in the distance a perfect, luminous rainbow
Missing only a pot of gold to be the stuff of fairies.
And just left of its midpoint,
The perfectly formed funnel of a tornado,
Penetrating purples and blues.

Such uncommon beauty –
Noisy color amidst dark clouds, 
Clean lines of the horizon 
Holding up a faultless arc,
Brimming with boundless prospects.

And the cone, so perfectly formed,
Its ridges narrowing to a point – 
What is its point? 
It exists only to destroy. 
And why today – why was this particular moment of beauty
Chosen by that funnel, piercing through, 
Casting no rainbows, leaving no treasure.

Wednesday, April 15, 2015

Summer House

The birds have returned to the spot below the window.
I never find the nest or evidence of feathers so well camouflaged.
Yet every spring they return
And I hear the coo, coo, flutter, tap, tap
As they open the summer house.
Rearranging and tidying up, moving furniture out of storage
Hauling mattresses to rightful positions on bedframes,
Sheets aired on the line
And pillows clapped to air out winter dust.
Cobwebs wiped clean and
Some paint to refresh the corners,
This year may be different as the children have grown
And may be in and out,
May not even be there together, at the same time.
But the nest must be readied.
Old sticks must be replaced with new bits of fluff
And perhaps a snag of an old baby blanket.

Thursday, April 9, 2015

Guest Poem!

My husband is also a poet, and he recently wrote this beautiful poem about his father. I wanted to share it.

Your Suits                                by: Thanassis Mazarakis

You wore a pinstripe suit on that lazy evening after work
When you dove to catch the soccer ball I kicked to score
Past your imaginary goalpost defense in our game.
And in that suit my mother rushed you to the hospital
To treat your broken arm while I was hiding behind the couch.

It was your signature tweed jacket you were sporting, 
the one you wore on weekends,
When you visited our new apartment on the Slope
To meet my newborn son, your namesake.
You got up from the armchair to take your leave,
Cat hair on your back, and 
Sure that it would get you mad, disgusted or quietly upset
I did not say a word.

I stuffed a picture of my growing children,
The one you told me you had liked a lot,
into the breast pocket of your favorite dark grey cashmere suit
Right before the funeral procession honoring your life and character
To keep you company but also to remind or reassure me
Of their closeness to your heart.

So it was no surprise, I guess,
When I saw you in my dream last night.
We were inching up a rocky incline, silently,
Your arm steadying your fragile body with my own.
It was a rainy day, or so it seemed,
Because the blazer I remembered from my youth 
was soaking wet.
But I was dry, or so it seemed, until I realized,
Awake again, that I was crying.

Tuesday, March 17, 2015

Public Exposure

Your voice carries your legal struggles
And lurid details of betrayal across from your table to mine –

Too much information for those of us
Whose involvement you compel without our concurrence.

We become embroiled in your lust for justice
And shudder as your voice rises in anger.

You glance at me as you hang up and I sit, condemned
Along with the putz of a lawyer I heard you fire.

Disregarding other patrons’ conversations
And crowding us with your overflow of files and fury,

You insist on our attendance
At your strange party.

Wednesday, February 4, 2015

Published in Clementine Poetry Journal!!


One of my poems was published in the fairly new journal Clementine Poetry, edited by the wonderful GF Boyer, poet and teacher extraordinaire. I'm in pretty fabulous company, as you can see from the other poetry published so far.  

Here it is:
Comments in the Dark