photo by Toni Frissell
photo by Toni Frissell

something kept me up

all night

body still but mind

churning, burning

caffeinated thoughts chasing

each other like children on

a playground

tag you’re it

I wait for waves of slumber

to drown the bustling mind

tomorrow I’ll try warm

milk and a bedtime story

My Shoes


You may walk a while in my shoes

Nifty white sneakers

Cherry red heels stud-

ded with carats

Tall boots gussied up with chains

Go ahead

Walk a while in my shoes and

you’ll always be late

You’ll walk outside, in the

rain, wind, boiling sun

You’ll follow the weedy path

But if you don my favorite

straw hat you will

not think my thoughts


the past beckons

inviting me to sit for

a while

to relax with a cup of tea

“we’ve had such fun. remember

when …… ”

it tempts me

it’s comfortable there


it would be easy to stay

embraced in the arms

of Postverta forever

but I must stumble forward

something’s stirring just

around the next bendimage

Morning Quandary


will this be a plain butter-

yellow day or maybe a purple

pansy kind of day

does it feel like a Van Gogh

sunflower morning

it might be a white pot-

tery day with nothing written

on it full of potential

definitely not a royal china

red rose day

standing in front of an

open cupboard, choosing

the right mug for my first

cup of tea, I ponder the

possibilities of this new day

Retro Rockin’


pandora in a box

releasing notes written

with ink on paper

twisting and shouting

back to the girl teen-

ager care-

free dancing

in the streets


who lives

in me


Heroic Victims

She sent him off to war

Her husband, lover, friend

To topple empires and

Destroy kaisers and czars

It was the Great War

The war to end all wars

they sent him back a child

Gassed in the trenches

With only simple thoughts

left in his head

For the rest of their lives

She cared for him

Like a mother

(remembering my aunt & uncle)

Battle Lines

her armor is a pair of baggy garden

jeans with clay stained knees

and frayed seams – her boots

bright red rubber

armed with hose and spray

nozzle she does battle with

the truculent sun trying to

reverse the siege of

parched earth

her knuckles are scratched,

pricked as she carefully

tweaks each flower –

off with their heads –

then stealthily browses along

stria searching under


leaves for invading insects

knowing if she slacks off

she will lose the war

the sky begins to turn

pewter a sign the present

skirmish has come to an


she hangs up her battle gear,

bows her head, bids farewell

to the retreating sun