Duende and Honey (a poem)

Duende and Honey

music headphones listen

Today I give you music.


to make your spirit




Harmonies like feathers stroking fur

rains pelting earth under glowing sun

stars streaking against inky blackness

I give you the old songs

that curl around you


like mother’s blanket

honeyed tea

to soothe your weary soul

I give you drumbeats




dancing with your heart

I give you fingers stroking strings

playing shivers

along your spine

and lyrics

golden poetry

to shine in your darkest places


to stoke forgotten fires

words to cure

words to lift

words that sail across this vast sea that

divides us

and whispers my name


Wings (aka: Two Poems on a Winter’s Day)

Ode to a Caterpillar


Oh little caterpillar

who brought such color to the world!

How I remember

tiny fingers grasping

heavy Mason glass


ready to catch, to observe

the free ones

the ones with wings

the ones who flew.

So much you learned, as you curled


in your small, loved home

until today

fragile walls tearing loose

open crack of wide, wide blue

cupped in hands

to test new wings.

Oh butterfly

this world is yours.



Night Angels


Eyes lifted toward darkened skies

strapped warm in leather womb

hushed voices mingle with

steady drone.

There I see it

flash of copper light

brief sight of wingless angel

flying in the night.

Warm sigh

fingers pressed, cold against glass


once more the darkness lifts

and angel glows.

One by one

on tall, steel legs

they dance

across the stars

halos burning in bronze glory

as my lashes droop

beneath watchful eyes.


To the Infinite Power (Poetry about Quantum Mechanics)

This morning, I read a strange but fascinating article about a new theory of quantum mechanics, which suggests that parallel worlds not only exist, but that the different universes interact on the quantum level. Okay, maybe the idea is a little out there, but my mind has been savoring the thought like an odd and flavorful wine. The result? Why, a poem, of course!

infinite universe

Infinite Me

One me

walking the way I walk

on my sole path

singing thoughts that swirl like colors

toes in the sea

wild of mind, tame of heart

wishing to be loved

wanting to be free

just me.


Another me.

Do you walk alone, like me?

Or do we skip together

side by side

like sheep

telling a different story

with the same words?

Do you sense my presence

when we fall asleep?


Infinite me.

We are all the same, but not

Different times

roads that split and merged

like land, sea and sky

Do we always dance alone?

Did we learn to be loved?

Are you the better me

or am I?

The Fighter (a poem)

He doesn’t know why he does it

he doesn’t know why he tries

but he shows up strong as they throw their money down

filling the air with their cries.

Like a rock he fills his corner

eyes focused on the game

dehumanize his opponent

as the crowd screams his name

“Hit him! Hit him! Do it again!”

a feeding frenzy of cheers

so he tapes his hands and he takes his place

as they shout and wave their beers.

Then bam! Here comes the money

and bang! Here comes the fame

the sweat and blood rain down like water

till the people love his name.

Black eye, cut lip, broken jaw

his gifts always the same

then he’ll sleep alone with an empty soul

while the people dream his name.

the boxer

Empty Suitcase (a poem)

Empty Suitcase

Some people carry it all.

different journeys, different places

sunny voices, stormy faces

arms that hold and hands that hurt

every silken tattered shirt

backs droop, shoulders sag

death grip on the heavy bag

burdened weight of moments gone

and the train rolls on, the train rolls on.

She learned to travel light.

skim the stories, brief cold look

take it in, then close the book

voices blur, words grayed

people drift and memories fade

blend the gray and golden days

empty suitcase, nothing stays

mouth smiles, heart withdrawn

as the train rolls on and on and on.

lonely woman suitcase wandering

Don’t Play That Tune (Two Poems)

listening for God

The Voice of God

So I thought God spoke

with a still, soft whisper

like the way the wind breathes life

into the trees and makes

the flowers dance

in the sunlight.

And I thought God moved

through gentle hands

that touch, that build

up the people when they’re down

and connected one heart to the next

like some kind of

love super highway.

So I thought.

But then came this group and that

With blanks faces and empty eyes

That look past the rest of us

‘Cause they’re wise

and we’re nothing.

They lift their hands in worship

to the signs they hold

and let their voices ring

like alarm bells

telling us the end is near

we’d better fear

we’d better wipe our faces clean

cause the world is mean

and the only God who saves

has the loudest voice and a face

like the President.

(Well you can keep your President).

But if I sit here in my dirty world

and hold someone’s hand

and let the sun shine

warm on my face

and feel the breeze lift my hair

I can almost hear the still small voice of

God – are you there?

the piano keys

Don’t Play That Tune


Your hand lingers inches from stroking

the piano keys.

Don’t play that tune,

the one that sings the scales of

my inner room

the one that knows the rhythm

of my shattered heart

the song that speaks of words

and love, and God, and everything

that wants to shake my spirit inside out, and

everything that wants to shock

the sleeper back to life.


It is a dangerous tune.

I place a finger on your trembling lips

that you cannot breathe a note

and make me taste

the salty sea.

Just like this, I must stay still




Green (A Poem)


In those days, the water ran clear.

The warm air carried the sweet perfume

of summer fruit

and the green was soft and mossy underfoot

and the green was cool and shady overhead

and the green was a melody that surrounded her.

But the world shook  green in her pocket

and changed its mind

turning the water to mud

plucking the fruit from the barren branches

scorching with rays that sucked dry the bones

of the earth.

And she wandered, bare feet sliced by the

sharp stones along her path,

a desperate thirst burning her throat and stealing

her voice.

Her sanity was a pocket

In which she held a treasure as precious as

the life of a child,

as essential as laughter

as salt, as rain.

It was a patch of green – only a remnant

but it breathed, and it cooled, and it quenched.

One small oasis for the journey

One small reprieve

as she trudged through the wasteland

living for her memories

knowing that the days of green

could never return

but holding them still

and dancing to the whispers

of the melody that

used to play.