It is the first day of summer and my house in Flagstaff is up for sale. After six months of packing and repairing and painting and cleaning and arranging and rearranging. After seventeen wonderful years. It is now squeezed into eight hundred characters and thirty-eight photos. All that life and love we put into that... Continue Reading →
Laya's hands are small, almost childlike, and she is a short woman, easily a head below me, but she seems to tower above me. It's not the first marvel. She escorts me, with a bit of a waddle, to the massage therapy room, and I think, "This is going to be good." Something about her fragrance,... Continue Reading →
Survive high desert No hangovers, drunk dialing Not one shot, no lime Survive
century plant blooms once, celebrates with aplomb a round for the house
for my girls, even Riana, who doesn't like poetry The Cranberry Line Follow the cranberry line of dawn, go home reach far, the moon is only a lost star looking for sunrise, for the saffron tide; waves like Aurora’s children on the verge of morning, stretch and rub their eyes. Be a poet. Be that... Continue Reading →
My Dad Kneeling in Front of Flower Bed on Abington in Detroit I look for lilacs to steal or forsythia even lilies of the valley, those shy bells of fragrance any handful hanging over a fence in an alley along the sidewalk in this mountain town some forgotten flower I can take home each spring... Continue Reading →
Bear. I dream of grizzlies. Living with them, loving them, talking to them. Polar bears, too. All kinds of bears. They have appeared in my dreams so many times over the years I lose track. A totem? An ally? I don't know. I have dreamed that someone gave me bears to tend as I would my... Continue Reading →
A foot of snow has fallen. Or more. The world carries that post-snowstorm quiet. As if the snow pulled down all the noise and chaos. Lay it on the ground. Covered it in soft, calm, white. And let it go to sleep. I don’t want to shovel. I don’t want the snow plows to... Continue Reading →
Yesterday's hike revealed crashing waterfalls. Okay, not like Niagara, but nonetheless wonderful flows charging down the boulders. As I neared the mountain, or better said, as I left houses and neighborhoods behind--we're all on the mountain after all--I spotted several happy rivulets flowing near the trail, and sometimes across the trail. I followed the largest... Continue Reading →
It's rare here on the mountain. Fog. Not like Detroit. So many foggy days, foggy walks to school. Foggy drives. In 1979 my best friend Bridget and I drove in a fog so dense and large and lasted so long that we came to know it, and we named it; Fred.We were on a road... Continue Reading →
pocket poet 