I am from strength and salt waterThe craggy Maine coast and a cottage called Whispering HopeThe home of my American grandparentsI am from gathered-up seashells and chipped sand dollarsBright plastic pails of sand and squeaky styrofoam surfboardsThe warm smell of slippery suntan oil and the chilly embrace of deep-blue waves I am from tradition and reverenceThe … Continue reading Home
I walk toward the ocean breathing in the briny salt air The stretch of sand seems much smaller than what I remember as a childAnd yet everything else feels reassuringly the same Wispy blades of dune grass sway in the breeze as clusters of seagulls squawk overhead White-capped waves join the chorus crashing gently against … Continue reading Maine
Tall, swaying trees The wistful sound of leaves Rustling in the wind Nature’s playful whispering Soothing, sibilant declarations Of movement and memory I happily surrender myself To the even-flowing passage of time And the sacred stillness of life.
April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. ~ T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land It was chilly that morning. You woke up early and Ambled down the long, carpeted hallway And into the dusty back bedroom Where you lay down on … Continue reading The Third of April
A loose collection of sundry ideas Poems yet to be written Stories still to be told Ideas not yet imagined Oh, that I could reach inside and Grab a handful of brilliance Toss it upward and outward Letting everything scatter And then neatly fall into place.
Blue like the sky or the ocean, clear like cold rain? Or is it the hot yellow of blinding sunlight? Perhaps it’s faded pink, like dead dried-up cherry blossoms. Grief is deep red, a rich crimson— a wound right through the heart.
Furious raindrops Beating down on The rooftops I hear the wild dance Of nature.
So many voices whispering your name out loud you were deeply loved.
I can recall the long-ago image of a leftover casserole meticulously wrapped and stashed in the fridge only to be ravaged during some nocturnal scavenger hunt. Our family kitchen became a place to linger, in the present moment, all hours of the day. Now when I open the refrigerator door the light from inside illuminates … Continue reading Kitchen Stories
One day when I was young My father whispered Did you know That the safest place In all the world Is in your papa’s arms? I tucked the words inside my head And went to bed each night Dreaming. These are the days I find myself half-smiling Remembering those moments Of happy whispered promises And … Continue reading Awake