Taking It One Bref Double At A Time


Were you the one who loved?
Or was it I? Unsure
I write and rewrite poems
To tell it true at last.

But whose truth is most pure?
Not mine. I know my secrets.
Yours stay hidden. Is this
Why we ignore the past?

What have we left behind?
How many outgrown homes?
No space is big enough
To hold us both. This vast

Expanse holds no allure
When love’s set free to roam.


I Need Cheering Up


Come sit with me awhile, spin your tales.
I long to hear of lives and loves not mine.
Remind me once again that good prevails.

Though darkness reads my story line by line,
The final chapters still are left to write.
I long to hear of lives and loves not mine,

Courageous tales of holding back the night.
Inspire me to open wide my heart.
The final chapters still are left to write.

Bring hope, bring life. Encourage me to start
A new adventure, passionate and bold.
Inspire me to open wide my heart,

Breathe youth into this tale grown stale and old.
Dare me to believe what grief denies:
A new adventure, passionate and bold.

I listen to night’s whispers, sorrow’s lies.
Dare me to believe what grief denies.
Come sit with me awhile, spin your tales.
Remind me once again that good prevails.

a Blizzard, a Migraine, a Tuesday


One constant in my life, this wish for death.
Each day a disappointment I must face.
I wish to stop my heart, silence my breath,
Escape the fractured memories of this place.
Life poorly lived, more failure than disgrace.
Not worthy of remembrance, not one tear,
For none would mourn were I to disappear.

New Month, New Form


My hands grow cold on winter eves.
The brightening sun my heart deceives.
This cold, this cold surrounds me still.
My feeble warmth can’t fight the chill.
Lost am I, like autumn’s leaves.

Will winter keep what she receives,
While summer’s child hides and grieves?
I hold what winter aims to kill.
My hands grow cold.

There are no stays, no late reprieves.
Her actions prove what she believes.
Hungry, she demands her fill,
This winter goddess cruel. Until
New love winter’s spell unweaves,
My hands grow cold.

We All Think We Need One Sometimes


You let me cry on your shoulder,
Held me while I gasped for air,

Tears flooding, lungs aching,
Drowning in a grief too deep.

I thought you had rescued me,
In over my head again.

You let me cry and held me,
Head on your shoulder, my tears

Rolling off your back,
Gone before they got there.

Your shirt dry as your eyes
While I cried. My pain cutting

Sharp, blood mixed with tears,
All mine. You let me cry.

With your dry shoulder and far
Away eyes, my tears rolling

Off your back. You held me
Without touching or feeling.

You let me cry on your shoulder,
But you were never there at all.

Spring Cleaning


I thought I lost your love.
When I noticed it was gone,
I looked everywhere, but
Couldn’t find it.

Only now I realize it was
Never lost at all, just
Set aside. Packed away
In the last box you sealed

Before leaving, filled with
Memories you discarded,
Boxed and left for me
To find in my own time,

To find when I dared open
Locked doors to empty rooms.
One box left behind for me, to
Prove I didn’t lose your love.

You set it aside, packed it away
With such care. Your love for
Me. Outgrown, unwanted, but
Left for me to find again

And remember that part of you
Was always mine, to keep
Or to discard. Your love for me,
Not lost, but left behind.

Friday…Feels Like Tuesday

Do you ever feel like you’re trying so hard, but the harder you try, the worse your writing gets? That’s where I’ve been lately. I’ve started and scrapped several posts this morning. Nothing is working, and the poetry sponge is wrung dry.

I’ve been telling myself alternately to give up or to keep trying. So far, I’ve hated just about every word I’ve written today. So much anger for something so trivial. This is supposed to be fun. A creative outlet. Something for myself in a world where most of what I do is for others. Not today. Today, it’s magnifying the feeling of failure that pervades the rest of my life. Maybe I’m too hard on myself.

I live with a deep sense that I wasn’t supposed to be this person, that I took a wrong turn somewhere and ended up in the wrong life. I adopted a persona, played a part, but lost touch with an essential part of myself along the way. Now my memory of that self has faded, and I can’t get her back. I’m stuck here, as this me, with nothing to show for it. I’m alone on stage in an empty theater, but the final curtain never drops.

Who am I really? I wish I knew. My own words get stuck in my head on when I’m feeling this way. I wrote this years ago, and I’ve posted it before. I change the punctuation sometimes, and alter words here and there, then change them back depending on my mood. But here it is again, in case you want to know me. My theme song:


Who owns the words that tell you my story?
Who keeps the rhythms, who sells the rhymes?
Who knows the where-ofs and why-fors and so-whats?
Who’s heard my weeping voice time after time?

What do I do with an untold life story?
Wrap it up softly then throw it away.
Are there boxes for keeping the old fading mem’ries
Of times past and times spent and grey yesterdays?

Who will listen? I call out and ask the wind gently.
Who can hear me? I whisper though no one replies.
I am trapped here, a stranger in green shining meadows,
Alone in the world under threatening skies.

All around me life whirls in a dance unfamiliar,
Only I stand immobile not knowing the song.
As my feet tap I long so to join hands together,
And dance till the music is finally gone.