One Last Chance

One Last Chance

This poem has one last chance
to play the game, make a name
for itself. It (day)dreams of fame and
glory, the hero of a story staring
moon and muses. It refuses to give up –
turns up, tuned up and ready to poem
It’s running out of time, maybe you could
spare a rhyme – a little rosemary and thyme
But don’t worry my dear, there’s
always tomorrow

Just Out of Sight

Just Out of Sight

This poem has seen it all
Trends the come and go – waiting


around the bend to return in
a slim disguise that can not


fool this poem
Long hair, short hair, no hair, facial hair


Wide pants, narrow pants, no pants
streaking across a field


Spikey heels, flat soles, flip flops that
used to be thongs, but now that is


something entirely different
Pop beads, love beads, crystal beads


Moon rocks, pop rocks, pet rocks,
Rock ‘n Roll


This poem has watched it all come and go,
but it won’t stop looking until


it sees peace

About What Counts – a remix

About What Counts – a remix

He counts the birds of many hues
The names of most, he doesn’t know,
but they must count for something too.

His favorites are the noisy blues,
the yellows putting on a show.
He counts the birds of many hues,

this window gives a perfect view.
The black one – oh, it’s just a crow,
but they must count for something too.

He still remembers quite a few
it’s memories that do not flow.
He counts the birds of many hues

until they’re gone, all but a few,
and like them memories have flown,
but they must count for something too.

He sees a face and wonders who,
should he remember them – but no.
He counts the birds of many hues,
and they must count for something too.

A Reply From Narcissus in the Laundromat

A Reply From Narcissus in the Laundromat

When I stumbled into the laundromat I saw
you fluffing and folding and was instantly smitten.
People think I’m vain, egotistical even, but

every time I looked in a mirror or caught my reflection
in a window I was looking for you. I was daring to hope
that someone like you might be following me. Suddenly,

there you were, so I went from machine to machine trying
to glimpse your face because I was afraid to look into your eyes
in case there was no love reflected back.

* from Day 5 at NaPoWriMo

Not a Morning Person

Not a Morning Person

Morning starts with the raucous music of birds,
like a choir with too many sopranos.
I rouse myself from sheets tangled as if
I survived a shipwreck during the night and
stumble awkwardly down stairs that seem to
descend into the center of the Earth.
Only the whistle of the tea kettle, like a siren
call to a sailor, keeps me on course to the
kitchen and your smiling face – a beacon
into the safe harbor of your arms.

MacIntosh

MacIntosh

It’s an old tree, standing in my yard –
not ancient like the Sequoias, or
statuesque like the Redwoods, just

a squat little apple tree being the best
tree it can. I can imagine it wiggling its
roots in the rich soil, like the child playing

In the sandbox under its shady umbrella,
Deer come to graze on the bounty of
late summer and Robins build delicate,

twiggy nests in its branches, and I’m sure
I can hear it humming lullabies in the night.

Book Sounds

Book Sounds

Listen to

…. the slight whisper of a page being turned
late at night after everyone is asleep

…. the sharp rustle of paper as a page is
rapidly turned in anticipation

…. the final satisfying whoosh of the last page
turned, a book closed

Pondering My Fate

Pondering My Fate

I am the only one of the bunch left.
I sit alone on top of the refrigerator
waiting for someone to look up,

to see me here and think, “Oh
there’s still a banana!” Maybe
they will slice me and smother me

in ice cream and chocolate sauce.
Maybe they will cuddle me up between
two slices of bread slathered in peanut butter,

or lovingly slice me into a bowl of warm oatmeal.
Maybe someone will grab me on the way out
the door, on their way to yoga or soccer practice.

My freckles are just starting to show. I am the perfect
specimen, slightly curved, firm yellow skin, soft buttery
insides – just what the doctor ordered.

I know my days are numbered, here on the fridge.The longer
I go unnoticed, the more likely I have been forgotten and I will
slowly rot, until someone notices the smell. Then, I must join the

soggy tomatoes, the stinky potatoes, the furry grapes –
unfortunates destined for the compost pile.