Karen's Poetry
Welcome to the world of Docsterpoet. Here is where you'll be able to read samples of poetry penned by Karen R. Springer.
This section will be updated often so please continue to check back.

Click on the titles at the left to select the poem to read.

Good luck and Happy Reading!

*UPDATE* I've Added Music!

Please take a moment to listen to some musical tracks recorded with local guitarist Joe Alliegro!

Click the "Play" arrow next to the song

01 Oh To Be a Kid Again Blues
02 The Civil War Song
03 The Loneliest Number
04 The Saying Goodbye Song
05 Mothers Lament
06 Appalachian Woman
07 An Old Story
08 Ballad of Light Foot Harry
09 Nobody Loves Her Like He Does
10 Willful Womans Song
2017 The Vanishing Christmas
It used to be December
Was a month I held quite dear;
Before old friends and family
Began to disappear.
Now the berries on our holly
Have shaded into rust
And the silver of the tinsel
Has faded grey to dust
The Yuletide table burgeoned
With everyone we knew
Now my Love and I are eating
At a table set for two
The warmth of Christmas Spirit
Was the ambiance loved most
But that feeling now is nearer
To some specter of a ghost.
The presents used to overflow
I spent with little heed
Now all I give is money;
Which neither of us need.
Yet my heart is still not sad
This first year without my mother.
(Oh, the holidays we had!
Each one better than the other.)
I’m never one to live the past
And with quiet joy I find
The only things we have that last
Are the memories in our minds.
So I still celebrate quite grandly
Knowing one day I might be
The single soldier standing
Beneath our Christmas tree.
Eternal Life
Oh, lay me by a gentle stream
when all my days are done
where I shall decompose and dream
until earth and I are one.
But my poor passing
do not mourn
for my soul will not take flight.
Each springtime
it will be reborn
into a perfect lily
pure and white.
It's a fascinating word
though one that's seldom heard.
It means, “excessive pride”;
which is common place worldwide.
Try to use it, if you might
then everyone will think you're bright.
I just that I could find
a noun with which it rhymes.
River of Hope
I swam the River of Hope
in strong, atheltic strokes
to collapse on the Banks of Despair
like many other folks.
I traversed long in the sunshine
and climbed the Mountain of Might
then wallowed for days in Fear Valley
deprived of warmth and light.
I haved lived through the darkness and dawn
Been praised as both saint and sinner
Gone farther than I should have gone;
seldom loser and often a winner.
Now, pausing to take a deep breath,
I survey what might lie ahead.
This is not the time I should rest.
That can be done when I'm dead.
Mindful Monologue
When the pyche speaks, we listen
to the patter of the chatter
of our sometimes bodacious brains;
to the quiet quintesence
of a salient thought striking us
like Thor's arrow.
Time and activities are our teachers;
the comfort of repetition
the echolalic subtle speakings of doom
the panic of heat, cold, lonliness,
uncertainty, and misplaced bravado.
We desire to be right
(whatever that is);
to be wise, kind, loving, just and happy...
It can be done.
We simply have to talk ourselves
into it.
Giving Praise
Looking back on what's been done
battles lost, wars she's won
days in shadow, years in sun;
tears and triumph
fear and fun.

Hesitating just a while
reviewing each and every mile
bitter sweetness, bliss and bile;
the satisfaction
makes her smile.
To be loved
because of your goodness
in spite of your fulsomeness
but with honor
all the time
in every good manner;
To be loved
so thoroughly
that when your lover
is no longer there
to love you,
the cavity
which was your heart
is filled to bursting
with the scant comfort
of deep and diligent

Parting of Ways
It's bound to happen
and, on the compendium of time,
after almost four and a half decades;
it will be sooner rather than later.
But let ME be taken from HIM,
rather than HIM from ME.
He can exist on his own;
with enough sense of self worth
to fill his void
with meaningful activities
while my emptiness would overflow
with the drink and despair
of inexplicable self loathing.
He is my fountain, my sunshine,
my heady companion
who sources me with
strength, comfort
and safety.
Yes, I am selfish;
but he is my life
and I am his
poorly behaved
charming child.

It's not their ability to GIVE love
making felines such compelling animals;
Rather, the shameless, turn themselves
inside out voluptuousness
with which they ACCEPT love.
The joy they manifest
in touch, taste and feel
is so unchristian like
as to restore one's soul;
giving hope that pleasure is
indeed OK.
They struggle to snuggle,
poke your hand
to be stroked,
require your untiring
kindness and humor;
so that, by taking,
they selflessly give
of themselves.
That's why I adore cats.

The Appeal of Surreal
Sometimes it is good
to simply escape
into the subconscious;
slip into the safe veneer
of sleep,
meander onto the side roads
of one's mind
which can, at times,
seem even more vivid
than the occasional surrealism
of Actuality itself.
But what is the “What Is”?
How can we surely know
Truth and the expectations
engendered by it?
I question if we can;
which is probably
a good thing.

To Die For
For what would she die?
Philosophically asked I
For whom would she pass?
I queried in my looking glass.
For what ideal or cause
would she cease without pause;
to become lifeless, extinct
without even a blink?
Then struck the resonant chord:
When she's endlessly bored.

Brain Game
Each mind is a mountain
unique and complex
unto itself;
the Pyrenees, Tetons,
and Alleghenies
forming human kind.
Some are so shallow
and uninspiring
that they barely qualify
as mountains;
others are precipitous,
dangerous with crags
which can snare
and damage whatever
comes close.
Then there are those
with gentle, verdant slopes
of kindness and creativity
so unlike some others
consisting of seething volcanoes
spewing forth brimstone
and noxious gasses.
But all of these mountains,
for good or ill,
contribute to the amazing
scape and scope
of what we call Civilization.

We spoke yesterday
and the sonority
of his voice
was like a tuning fork
striking my very core.
It's vibration shaking
my viscera;
disturbing that which
I thought was dry and done
with any dark, urgent need
for greedy satisfaction.
But it was there
and I should have smeared
my forehead with ashes,
hung my head,
and walked barefoot
like a penitent
through the streets
of my psyche.
Fat chance;
Even the memory
feels too fine.
For what has been
has been
and what will be
I may still,
once again,
celebrate as mine
because I cannot
feel shame.

Her psyche resembles a calliope;
a cumbersome, yet intricate
and exotic roadshow
propelled at breakneck speed
down the super highways
of her mind
by a straining, full-throttled Ferrari.
She sometimes looses her way
and will, under duress,
request directions from some
seemingly sagacious stranger;
but generally she careens into dead ends,
then retraces her steps
to find a circuitous route
to her constantly metamorphosing
Such is her bipolarly blissful life.
A Quasi Scholarly Refelection on Two Dichotomous, Diverse Yet Parallel Souls
You and I seldom reflect
upon what has been:
We grabbed and got glory;
sweet moments of sin.
How seldom we lost.
How often we'd win.
But at the end of the day,
our guts and are grit
our wiles and our whit
made two tales that few
people could so craftily spin.

We gave what we got
but that was lot;
and some folks will recall
we gave them our all;
Lived largely, profound
and in black tie and red gown;
waltzed the world's ball.

So I hope you can see
that between you and me
there's more like than we think:
We live life full throttle
and when it comes to the bottle,
we've had our share of drink.
But, in truth ,we are kind;
two of the best folks can find.
And with pride, let me say
as this poem comes to and end;
through the good and the bad
whether angry or sad,
I am proud you're my friend.

Happy Birthday, Mr. Magic.
Angel of Mercy
She is the gift he gives himself
On rare occasions:
That glass of heady port
In an otherwise temperate life;
A ruddy ruby subtly illuminating
His sturdy gray flannel existence;
The piece of Godiva chocolate
Rewarding months of oatmeal and brisket.

She is his prize for practicality;
An illusive icon of sweet eroticism.
They speak so politely
When he calls her every week;
Then suddenly she says something naughty
And giggles like a schoolgirl;
Sending a flashback of flesh and feeling
Through him like a brilliant rainbow of electricity.

Their sparse time together is a respite
On an island of rumpled sheets;
An exotic exploration of touch, taste,
Scented skin and slippery inside/silky outside fire
Transmitting a rosy glow
To the darkened room; palling the slivers of sunshine
Peeking through the drawn blinds.
She is his secret; his almost innocent delight.
Long Dry Spell
Oh where did it go
my beautiful flow
of adjectives, verbs
and nouns?
They've just disappeared
my brain's totally cleared
There is nothing that's
trite or profound.
Dear soul of my muse
I'm very confused.
Won't you help me
craft one pretty thought?
No, you're silent as hell
I'm in one long dry spell
where a poem can't be
borrowed or bought.
Christmas Poem 2014-The Perpetual Christmas
I don't believe in Santa.
Religion's not my thing.
Yet everyday is Christmas
with just a little touch of Spring.
It seems that I looked back one day
on my more than three score years;
and found what I'd suspected:
There were much more smiles than tears.

I take no stock in blessings.
Prayer is not my bliss;
but I find myself confessing,
each day's December twenty-fifth.
For I, at last, learned gratitude;
in a very basic form:
For I've been loved and cherished
from the day that I was born.

The sun's been mostly shining
though at times I suffered clouds;
but always came the rainbow.
Makes me want to laugh out loud.
I could giggle like a school girl
when I hold my husband's hand.
He's supported and stood by me
far beyond a wedding band.

I've lived all my expectations
and even found some more.
Each year brings its' own elation.
I'm just smitten to the core
with what has been and what will be
However it may pass.
Life's dizzies still my senses.
It's a run I hope will last.
So every day is Christmas
Winter, summer, spring or fall.
This poem shall be my witness.
A kind heart can have it all.

Mirrors and magic
Shadows and smoke.
It's really quite tragic,
Sometimes life is a joke.

Mummers and madness
Bravado and balls
Smiling masques hide our sadness.
You just have to wonder
who's making the calls.

The Cost
How high a price is paid
to be head mummer
in a parade;
to know the answer
to every riddle;
play first violin
and not third fiddle;
to fly yourself high
only to bring yourself low;
then soar up again
where you're told
not to go?

So rich is the toll
that the barter's
your soul;
but not to answer
life's call,
is to have never existed
at all.

Woke up at 4:00 AM
eyes wide as saucers.
What's the matter?
Oh, (parenthesis-epithet
beginning with F
that can be used
as an adjective or gerund-
end of parentheses),
it's the semi- annual
rebellion of the bronchi.
Will not use the inhaler
(makes me want
to kill something
with my bare hands);
so have a hot cup of coffee
and an almost hotter bath.
Better, but still there is
the need to huff:
Hello airways!
(Don't ask to be petted now kitty.
Mommy's way too jacked:)

Cup O'Tea
She downed her first draught
of what she calls “winter tea” today;
swallowing hard the bleak taste
that embittered her tongue
and viscera,
even though it ironically comforted
her somewhat chilled bones.
It is a ritual signifying
the end of her summer spirit.
That is,
time to cast off the white vestiments
of July and August
worn to emphasize her tanned
(if a bit wrinkled) limbs;
her shorts,
shunned by most women of her years,
as well as the vitality
brought by swimming
and long walks.
Yes, sadly,
tea time has arrived;
even though the calendar
only admiits to
the beginning of September.
Guess it's going to be
a long winter.

God help us all.
Creekworthy Musings
She sits cross legged
like a perky old Indian
beside the wonderfully dank,
energetically ebbing tide
of her dear Diaz Creek.
Across the way.
a red, gold, green and brown
miscegenically rainbowed
copse of trees taunts her
with the mystery
of their distance.

This has been her
Kingdom of Heaven
eight months of the year
for nearly three decades.
The Creek, the bay,
the sea, the sand
and the mystical forrest
have bemusedly observed
her struggle to, with
and through Maturity
as another chapter
of her sanguine saga
once again closes
until next spring.

Ode To Whatever Died Under My Deck
Why ever in the heck
did you drop dead
under my deck?
The odor's super rank;
but I can't see
beneath the planks.
You smell much worse than feces
so you must be a kind of species.
All I can smell is stinkie;
though not Ms. Blackie or Mitter Winkie;
and all the outside cats are fine,
so, thank God, you're not feline.
Perhaps you're something ferrell
maybe a chipmunk or a squirrel.
I have to find out soon.
Are you a 'possum or racoon?
Can't wait til the rotting's done;
as the temp is 91.
You're offensive to my nose;
so hurry up and decompose!
Close As She Gets to Goe
Perhaps there is
a Universal Soul
which is part of us
and we, a part of it;
a Positive Force
of good (or not)
that keeps
Life's momentum;
propelling it forward
until we,
like lemmings,
fall off
Fate's precipice;
tumbling into
the vast, eternal abyss
of that same Great Spirit.
The Cable Company
Lightning struck.
The Cable's out.
Looks like we're stuck
without a doubt.
It will be fine
I say with bravado;
But the truth is I'm
No TV, Internet,
or phone.
It's a safe bet
to say we're on our own.
I pick up my cell
nervous as can be
'cause I hate like hell
to call the cable company.
I'm put on hold.
The muzak sucks.
Truth be told
I'm outta luck.
Ten minutes pass
with high suspense.
A voice, at last,
says, “Two weeks hence,
we'll fix what's broke.”
in a croak like doom.
His neck I'd choke
if he were in the room.
I pray. I beg;
my nerves a wreck.
But I have him pegged;
he sends a tech
who mends it
quick as he can be.
God, I hate
that cable company.
This Old House
I walked away
from my ancestral home
for the last time today;
locking the door
and not looking back.
It doesn't pay to invest much
in the past
whose only remnants
were broken dolls
and musty clothes
in my mother's attic.
It is done
and the muted twilight
that is now mom's mind
will soon forget
the place in which
she lived and hoarded
for sixty-seven years.
Her only sibling
died last week;
so I alone
am left to bear
a loss much less tangible
than that of a house
built in the nineteenth century.
That is, living bereavement
for a still present;
but fading soul
on her tedious journey
to who knows where.
Stormy Weather
Once in a blessed while
in the most secret intimacy
of sound sleep;
my somnolent mind
strays to specters of us,
and you descend upon me
like a gossamer cloud
much as your initial touch
used to be
in the sweetly sordid surroundings
of a semi-darkened room.
We swathed one another
in the tenuous excitement
of forbidden delights
yet to come.
Then the climate darkened
and I was rained upon;
thundered and lightened
with a cleansing passion
not to be denied.
But always followed
by the vague,
faintly borialised dawn
of a true morning.
with eyes barely opened;
for a few seconds
I ache with the emptiness
of my body
and the true need
of wanting you.
Knife, Fork And...
She loves to
escaping with him
from the bechilled
crypt called Winter
to lie like
two snug pieces
of a puzzle or
twin fetuses
peacefully floating
in the amniotic fluid
of clean sheets,
two cozy comforters
and the heat
of their somnolent bodies.
She can feel
the gentle beat of his heart
against her back;
his hand passively
yet possessively
resting on her hip.
She is his.
He is hers.
Yet still they are
their own
A Heartfelt Ode To My Dear Friend, Peggy Girl
--and this IS heartfelt
and she IS my dear friend:
Sisters of the Spirit,
there is difficulty
speaking of her without
thinking of myself.
Her insightful,
razor sharp whit
could shave a peach
without breaking the skin.
There is an indomitable
sense of strength,
of what is just and right
emanating without
because that aura
glows so brightly within.
She has battled the adversity
of the generation
which came before me ;
just as I struggled
for the rights of women
spawned after my soldiering.
(We both did OK.:)
This freedom to dare and to be;
as well as the education
we so generously
bestowed upon ourselves,
gave her
that largess of character
and me the simple ability
to appreciate and honor it.
Perhaps that means
I should nick name her
Peggy Woman;rather than
Peggy Girl.

Dancing Up Hill With a Broken Leg
Fear always is near
But she pushes it away
Each tomorrow’s the beginning
Of a brave new day.
So why does worry
She's proven her worth
Still each day is a challenge
For a brand new rebirth.

February at Four
From the perspective of her porch,
it is as if the world is wretchedly wrapped
in a dank, gray gossamer shroud;
unearthly and all encompassing.
The sky resembles a blank chalk board,
absent of the gods' starry nouns and verbs;
adorned only by the slender grace
of a scimitar moon.

She is lost in the frost,
Nothing stirs.
Even the beat of her heart
seems but a silent reverberation;
a voiceless protest
to the hoary,
still horizonless morning.
Winter is like a diet
of stale bread
and vinegar to her;
the the hours before dawn
its cruelest time.

Then the paper man
drives by and misthrows
his wares like some
missile gone awry;
and her stray cat
saunters ups the driveway
for its morning meal
of dry Friskies and ice water.

One more day begins
with six more weeks
of winter to go.

Burn Me
I love the way your hands
Burn me. Burn me.
Cremate and urn me.
Combust me with lust
Until even Heaven spurns me.
Flaming fingers
Tantalize and torch me;
Palms like white coals
Scandalize and scorch me.
So spear me. Sear me.
Cook me well.
Burn me. Burn me
Hot as Hell.

Oh lay me gently, sweetly
into the cold, dark ground
and cover me completely
for peace at last I've found.
The joyfulness and pining
are no longer what they seemed.
Now I'm a bright star shining
and the rest has been a dream.

Encase me in a downy shroud
but say no masses over me
for I have lived long, hard and proud
Sing off my soul then let me be.
That the war I had been waging
was not needed is now clear.
Our life's a river raging
and each of us a single tear.

When there's no more time to borrow,
you will see me through the mist;
then I'll meet you on that morrow
And greet you with a kiss.
By the zephyrs we'll be lifted
the Great Infinity to know
When with all wisdom we are gifted.
I swear to you it shall be so.

Unto Myself
The potent semen of my inside tears
Have fertilized my soul for years;
Commemorating the myth of Me
Celebrating my androgyny.
A Paleolithic piece of stone
Crudely honed, breast, belly and bone
The Mother Good, Generator of us all
Creator of Nature’s primal call
Free, strong as a pillar Greek
The hip-alter men seek to worship and revere;
The voice, clarion clear, of strength and perpetuity.
There will be no end to me nor my sisters.
We are deities, reviled and mighty shapers of life's cycles.
Our imperfections are beauty itself.
We are men’s comfort and wealth;
Serene in our strength/ Survivors/Thrivers.
From daggers and deserts, we mend our hearts
And drink the sand.
Oh, Holy Soldier, you have made the journey
And will now rest like the Walkure
With shield and sword.
Their metal is your mettle.
You are your own Lord
As your dress your wounds with victory’s perfume,
Gentle, once more. Yes, you are weary;
But rejoice you have won the holy war.

The violin fiddles
And the knife busily whittles
While we all wallow a little
In life’s shameless, blameless claque.

Old, lonely people waste away
We kill the hapless, helpless stray;
The same price, each of us will pay.
(Did I tell you that I own a big red Cadillac?)

Christmas Through Mama's Eyes
We took her to our house
on Christmas Eve day;
(She used to drive herself
but last year she lost her way.)
Mom loved our decorations;
especially the tree
which brought back recollections
of past holiday memories.
She saw my grandmom's creche
and thought it just like new
though the Wise Men's robes had faded
and Christ was held together with glue.
She asked what happens Christmas eve.
I said, “We have great fun
eating pizza pie and cheesecake
then open presents when we're done.”
Mom feared she had no gifts to give.
But I told her Santa's elves
dropped off all those packages
I had bought and wrapped myself.
Our tokens and a thousand bucks
really made my mother smile
then mama got quite weary
and dozed off for a while.
I watched her sleeping like a babe
and thought that's it's a sin
how her Christmases have faded
until now they are quite dim.
But the love we share
shines fitfully
thought I wonder with a sigh
if perhaps one day I too may see
Christmas through my mama's eyes.

Silent Farewell to Her Venerable Hebrew
They were friends and colleagues
for over thirty years;
as well as occasional lovers
for half the duration
(“Same time next year”
and all that good stuff!:)
But she shed him
like a gossamer mantle
Turned herself away
from that good man;
one of the few
who broke her fall
when she tried to climb
too quickly
Spoke the truth
too honestly
or demanded what she deserved
too loudly.
He was proud of her triumphs
believing he was part of them.
Yet she turned away
without a word
because she could feel
that was what he wanted.
His former delight in her
now made him feel less manly.
Their relationship fell victim
to a quadruple bypass
and too many statins.
But he was still venerable
though now he also felt vulnerable.
How sad, she thought,
that simple physicality
could turn him
sour on her.

Angel Man
You are my kind and gentle lover
Covering me with kisses
That fall upon my body
Like dewy rose petals;
So worshipful
That I cover my face with my hands
Quietly overwrought by your holy ardor.

Autumn on Dias Creek
The reeds' once golden tuffs
Now silvery puffs like clouds;
Their green ballerina bodies
Encased in dowdy brown shrouds;
The marshes' reds and yellows,
Migrating Monarch's orange wings,
Fleeing geese in chorus bellow.
We will meet again next Spring.

In melancholy regression,
The sad, sanguine sap slowly proceeds
To crimson the leaves of my green maple trees
Whose languorous limbs, once supple and lithe;
Writhe in the winds, sharp as a knife.
Bleak, balding branches sway to the beat
Of the weakening rays of a sun on retreat;
A farewell bittersweet, making me numb
Preparing to meet the winter to come.

Leap of Faith
I want to take
I have to take
I need to take
My leap of faith
The outside chance
I’ll break my leg.
I can’t renege
I’m too astute
My brains will be
My parachute.

Windmill Thrusting 101
It can sometimes be chaotic
make us feel a bit psychotic
other times we wax rhapsodic
Wine's our favorite narcotic
(We're occasionally erotic!)
But getting older's not Quixotic.

Texas Tellie
He called her all the way
from the Lone Star State
just to say “ I LOVE you”
(emphasis on the second word).
“I love you too, my friend,”
(emphasis on no particular word).
She was performing the sacred rite
of Recreational Shopping
in a popular department store;
and nearby two portly
middle aged matrons
surreptitiously slipped her
an envious glance.
She was probably
ten years their senior;
but was pert for an old broad
and certainly no longer portly.
“I have always loved you BEST.”
he stated; (emphasis
on the last word)
which probably meant
he believed he held her
in higher regard
then his wife
of almost sixty years;
even though, in the past
almost thirty seasons of their relationship
this odd couple had met less than
a dozen times in various areas
of the country.
“I can't wait to hold you
in my arms. Why haven't
you been in contact?”
“Thought you might have
died.” she explained.
“It's been over six months
since your last call.”
(She did not add, “You old fool”;
although it had crossed her mind.)
“I'm 83; but feel like a twenty your old,”
he boasted.
“and want to be with you
one more time before I die.”
“Come to A.C.” she coaxed.
“It will be our Vegas by the sea.”
“I shall! I shall!” he swore
as only a trash talking Texan can.
“Because I LOVE you!”.
He emphasized the third word
and she almost believed him.
“Well, I'll love YOU til Juneteeth and beyond.”
she promised(This time emphasizing word four)
“Will be in touch real soon, my friend.”
The words made them both smile
as she hung up.

Stations of the Lost
She'll almost casually converse
with her conception of the Universe;
but, I wonder, can you call it prayer
if she believes no god is there?
No Muhammad nor Kali from some Paradise Lost
no Druidic goddess nor Christ on the Cross
just omniscient black
on its perpetual course
slipshod and slack
with no remorse;
But still she relies
upon It's Positive Force:
desultory yet decisive
reverent yet derisive
cogent yet obtrusive
potent yet illusive.
The dichotomy
of ever lasting life
and perpetual demise.
She thinks we will not rise again;
just be atomic pieces of the skies.

A prehistoric creature
this snail without a shell
with slime its prominent feature
a beast come straight from hell.
It lounges on my porch
inside a cat foot dish
to light it with a torch
is my soul's most fervent wish.
Then one morning like some dreadful dream
perched on my coffee mug;
was five inches of horror
that made me scream,
“Lenny, come kill this ugly slug!”

Nacht Stimme (Night Voice)
Sunset is terrible in its beauty
descending, red, throbbing
inexorably indomitable
yet yielding
to the hoary, white weight
of the moon's smooth
but mighty palm;
and it is time for day
to become a glorious,
if ignominious psalm
to the birth of darkness
and peace.

Morgen Stimme (Morning Voice)
It is dawn
and a rouged, randy sun
begins its sacred stretch
over the horizon;
melting the stars
and terrorizing the moon
until it disappears.
It is the hottest of heat;
blooming the flowers
emblazoning the berries
as we bask
in the pagan majesty
of Amon-Re.

Your deeds cannot be left undone
No speakings of the heart unsaid
Our souls must soak up all life's sun
For we shall be a long time deal.
Think not about existence's end
and what may lie beyond the tomb
Let every day become your friend.
All questions will be answered soon.
For decades roll like waves at sea
So heed this poet's sound advice:
Ponder not; but simply be.
Nobody gets to do this twice.

The sea reflects
the sunlit sky
with azure opalescence;
and humble creatures
such as I are awed
by its omniscient essence.
The milky foam
which churns the loam
is a force no one can tame;
but soul and sea are one with me
by this primal pool
from whence we came.

Slow Spring
It was a slow Spring:
Nature seemed to ignore the Vernal Equinox
April was not anticipatory
and much of May
gave the muddled memory of March.
But the buds finally burgeoned
the west wind returned
while the sun, at last,
kissed the earth
like a recalcitrant lover;
bestowing her bright blessing.
Thus the promise of renewal
was once again fulfilled.

Sweet Little Winkie
Sweet Little Winkie
is not so little anymore.
The once “petite chat”
looks more like a
blond, furry manatee;
a kindly fuzzy little eunuch
who loves his
mommy, daddy
and, though she occasionally
gives him kisses,but not usually;
that huge feline
we all respectfully call,
“Mrs. Blackie”.
It is thus he passes his life:
hogging the heat vent
on cold nights,
Dominating his domicile
where he's
Count of Cat Chow and
Lord of the Litter Box;
supervising our fat squirrel population
from the Florida room,
and otherwise
delighting our sensibilities.
Yes, we love our “Mitter Winkie”
because everyone is born to serve
a higher purpose.

The Elder
I am the Elder
and summon the others
of my generation
to burst forth from the shadows
as a comet soars to zenith
in some god's black heaven
for we are wise and beautiful
patient and soothful
pliant but unbending
with the love and joy
hate and hurt of a lifetime
reflected our eyes.
Yes, we are the Elders;
Society's secret
unspeakable to the young
as if venerability were catching.

Vegas Vignette
Always a natural,
Originally pristine, but showy;
Like the eighteen yellow roses
He sent to her hotel room
All the way from Texas.
She enjoyed the flowers for five days,
Then placed them in the sink for the maid.
By that time, they resembled each other even more:
That is, still eye-catching;
But a little brown around the edges.

The Gentle Thief
At a quarter past twelve
she drove from her home
in search of a present
which was not hers to own;
to claim one afternoon
that was feral and fine
though Fate hated to grant her
that short warp of time.
It was the gift of an old love
with its tender sweet power;
that was thoughtfully given
in less than an hour.

Now it's there in her psyche
hidden deep in her head;
And she'll sometimes retrieve it
after she goes to bed.
Sad Projections
When I am old
And comes the night
When your side of our bed is bare;
I'll remember how you held my hand
As both of us were lying there.
My grief, it will be the more profound
Than earth has ever known;
When the great love of my life is gone
And I am all alone.

Proffacy Fulfilled
It was the first of many poems I wrote about him
some fourteen years ago.
Besotted by our new found passion,
the final lines read,
“I think one day we will meet at the opera;
politely shake hands, introduce us to our spouses
and smile the secret lover's smile.”
Then yesterday that very situation was upon us;
disconcerting our psyches
in a quiet, pleasantly surreal way.
I sat next to him, my shoulder touching his;
my head slightly inclined in his direction;
while my arm entwined with my husband's
as we listened to Pagliacci sing of infidelity.

Never Enough
There is never enough love; no never enough.
Even though it washes over me, pours into me
wraps its arms around me and covers me with kisses;
there is never enough love.
Even though it is stenciled against me each night,
caresses my cheek and holds my hand;
there is never enough love.
So the dark, stark core of me;
(the Shadow Woman of this Sunshine Girl)
pours forth the whoring ooze of greedy need
for still more love; for there is never enough.
Though I wallow in it, swallow it like water in an oasis,
am inundated with floods of it,
and it rains down upon me in lusty, gusty torrents;
there is never enough love.
Patriotic Christmas
There’s a soldier in the desert
In a broken, war torn land
With a picture of his family
That he’s holding in his hand.

Little Johnny’s almost seven
Tiny Sarah’s nearly three.
What he wouldn’t give to see them
Staring wide eyed at their tree.

At a thousand home town tables
People sit down for their feast;
And they leave just one chair vacant
For, somewhere in the Middle East,
Is a father or a daughter, a mother or a son.
Let’s join hands and pray together
That this Hell will soon be done.

All our houses shine with bright lights.
Parents tell the Christmas story
While unknown heroes fight this season
To perpetuate Old Glory.

Christmas trees still wear their tinsel
And don festive colors true;
But interspersed among the pine so green
Is the flag’s red, white, and blue.

And the Christmas star’s still shining
But this fighting takes its toll.
May God bless our precious soldiers
Then bring them back complete and whole.
The Sacred Lighthouse
A mighty ship found itself adrift
on a stormy sea one night.
The date:December 25th.
No sign of land in sight.

One thousand souls had paid to board
from many stations of life;
and, deep down with the poorest hoards,
was a carpenter and his wife.

The thunder boomed like tympani.
Monstrous gales the vessel tossed.
The passengers cried in cacophony;
believing all was lost.

The lightening, in fierce flashes,
Almost set the ship ablaze.
Against rocks it nearly crashes;
thrown like flotsam by the waves.

First class passengers recited Psalms
Then, of a sudden, in the sky;
they saw a burning beacon
and heard a baby softly cry.

They descended down to steerage
and, in a bed of humble hay;
found a mother, nestled with her son,
on this fateful Christmas Day.

The sea became as smooth as glass;
Of a storm there was no trace.
The trouble and travail had passed
like a miracle took place.

The boy, the mother and her spouse
were worshiped by all of them.
You see, the beacon was no a lighthouse;
It was the Star of Bethlehem.
The Story of the Madonna Medallion
It's just a small medallion
my grandmom gave to me.
She found it down the shore
back in 1953.

It's been inside my jewelry box
for almost sixty years;
but what will happen to it
when I finally disappear?

It's just a small medallion;
and the fact is sad but true,
I'll out live any family
whom I can give it to.

So I held it to my heart
to see who my soul could find
to pass it on with worthiness
and the name, “Peggy” came to mind.

Now I know we're not religious;
but it's a special amulet
filled with the innocence of childhood
we both cannot forget.

So take this small medallion
and gently pass it on
to your wonderful granddaughter
who can think of us
when you and I are gone.
Christmas Poem 2010
A mighty ship found itself adrift
on a stormy sea one night.
The date:December 25th.
No sign of land in sight.

One thousand souls had paid to board
from many stations of life;
and, deep down with the poorest hoards,
was a carpenter and his wife.

The thunder boomed like tympani.
Monstrous gales the vessel tossed.
The passengers cried in cacophony;
believing all was lost.

The lightening, in fierce flashes,
Almost set the ship ablaze.
Against rocks it nearly crashes;
thrown like flotsam by the waves.

First class passengers recited Psalms
Then, of a sudden, in the sky;
they saw a burning beacon
and heard a baby softly cry.

They descended down to steerage
and, in a bed of humble hay;
found a mother, nestled with her son,
on this fateful Christmas Day.

The sea became as smooth as glass;
Of a storm there was no trace.
The trouble and travail had passed
like a miracle took place.

The boy, the mother and her spouse
were worshiped by all of them.
You see, the beacon was no a lighthouse;
It was the Star of Bethlehem.
A Christmas State of Mind
I've been known to be a cynic
When it comes to holiday time
But this year's been a boot camp clinic;
So I'm in a Christmas state of mind.

There's no need for wreathes and sleigh bells.
I' m as happy as can be
Putting one foot in front of the other
With my beautiful, new left knee.

The concept of feeling gratitude
Was a sentiment I declined.
But it no longer is a platitude.
I'm in a Christmas State of mind.

Friends and family stood beside me.
That's the greatest gift of all.
And this Christmas state of mind
Will last through summer, spring and fall.

So great thanks to all my Santas
For thoughts generous and kind.
I've learned I'm loved,
Am walking proud,
Game face back;
And in a Christmas state of mind.
Christmas Poem 2008
This special time of year
When I look into your eyes
(Two beautiful blue cosmos
Which time has made so wise);
I am lost in recollection
Of our Christmases before,
Vignettes of precious memories
That number now three score:

There were Christmases of childhood
With Grandmom, Grandpop there;
Aunts and uncles, cousins, friends
While Pop’s cooking filled the air.
You both watched me open presents
Then I gleefully would play.
I thought that Santa brought them;
But they came from Sears on layaway.

Then I grew up and got married;
Many loved ones disappeared
Our table was not quite so full;
But it was still our favorite time of year.
And daddy soon became the kid
As he grabbed his gifts with zest
Each year he’d tell us happily,
“This Christmas was the best!”

Our first holiday without him
Was the saddest one we saw
I know how hard it was for you;
And heart breaking for us all.
Our family now is down to four;
Yet still at Christmas time
That table’s filled with loved ones
In the archives of our minds.
A Christmas Poem for My Mom 2007
Mom, your heart is full of Christmas
In a very special way
For you give so much to others
Every single day.
Your inner goodness radiates
Where ever you may go
How highly you are thought of
You can’t begin to know.
Your soul is full of courage
You bring such happiness.
Yes, to have you as my mother,
How greatly I am blessed.
New Years 2006
She sits cross legged
On their big brass bed;
Head held high
Palms toward the sky,
With great anticipation
Of the year ahead:
A perpetual journey
Of striving to win
To uphold her reputation
Never be a has been
To keep her gold medals
All shiny and bright
To maintain other’s envy
And fight the good fight.
No dowager queen
On her laurels to rest
She needs to be seen
Made to feel she’s the best.
At the top of her game
with so much to give.
She’s always the same.
How largely she lives!
The Heart of Christmas 2005
It’s not expensive presents
Nor decorated stores;
Not red and green foil paper
Nor wreaths upon the door.
It isn’t even Santa
With Rudolph and his sleigh.
It’s the fond and distant memories
Of a childhood far away.

If I could decorate a pine
Standing straight and six feet tall;
You’d see no tiny lights that shine
Nor Jesus in his stall.
If I could fill my Christmas tree
With the most precious treasures known;
It would hold a thousand memories
Of my holidays at home.

Sweet childhood recollections
Hung like tinsel from each limb
When life had few expectations.
Oh, to relive what has been.
Through Remembrance's Windows
I see it each December
Through the window of my heart
The love that I remember
When life was a work of art;
My mom was busy baking
While daddy trimmed the tree
And joy was for the taking
All I had to do was be.

Before I knew ambition
Before I had my drive
I lived in the condition
Called “just glad to be alive”.
Yes, Christmas time is glowing
Seen through Remberance’s pane.
Guess I’ve done too much growing
To have it ever be the same.
Haiku-Christmas Blush
Mistletoe on bough
Stand under. Kiss me quickly.
Cheeks like Santa's suit.
Cemetary New Years Eve
I paid Daddy a visit. No one present but me;
So I sat by his grave pressing my palm to the earth
Where I though his heart might be.
The soil, it was warm there and soon became wet
With sweet liquid memories the soul can't forget.
My lips kissed the picture we placed on his stone.
I hated to leave. Daddy seemed so alone.
I rocked back and forth as my litanies came
Of grief, loss and sadness time cannot tame.
Pop, the old year is over; a new one begins.
Between you and me, Death is life's greatest sin.
God knows I'm not religious
(no pun intended);
but, as the decades pass,
and the once blazing sun
is about to set;
I see ever more
of the wise and venerable
suffer on the Crucifix
of Infirmity.
Their brittle bones
are as fragile as their
gossamer swathed cognizance.
Those beloved by them
become a mystery.
The past is there as unrecalled history;
and is viewed as one sees
a foggy moor
of defunct memories
from the life over which they had once presided.
Living in the waiting room of Death
in that strange place
called “home”;
they watch Reality diminish
and consciously pray
that soon they can say,
like Christ,
“It is finished.”
Dogged Dogma
Over the edge
Yet still on the brink.
Time she should swim
(No way will she sink)
Tripped just a little
(Not a problem with that)
Time to pull another rabbit
From her big black top hat.

A pathway she traveled
For so many years
And trinkets she gathered
With kudos and cheers;
But the hype and the heartache
Were pulling her down
So she’s rerouting her footsteps
To the strange side of town.

Never a cynic
With ambition to burn
Each day is a clinic
(There’s so much to learn!)
The rainbow’s behind her
But sunshine’s up front.
Life’s a whole brand new ball game
Watch her step up and punt.
It's a dirty little secret
those who know
will never say:
If we live to be
a certain age,
our minds just go away.
Exactly what
that year will be
is different
for us all;
but, in the end,
there is no doubt
we each will take
our fall.
Society would delude us
that all ancients
keep free will;
though nothing
can preclude us.
Memories go
before death's chill.
And grown up children
have to bear
one sad endemic fact:
What made our parents
who they are, is gone;
and never will be back.
Conceited One
A friend of mine has braggadocios
Flows from his mouth like halitosis.
He starts to talk and I think, “My stars,
I’m sick of hearing how great you are.”
When we converse, it’s enough to make one cry
He starts each sentence with a capitol “I”.
This life of his has gone to his head
Thinks he’s good at everything; (especially in bed).
Can never wait til his speech is done.
We don’t dialogue. It’s a conversation of one.
The Mermaid
I want to be a mermaid
Lounging midsea on a boulder
Washed in the froth of foaming waves
With blonde hair past my shoulders.
I want two breasts as white as snow,
Round, incandescent moons;
A tail of teal with scales that glow;
And eyes like lapis harpoons.

I want to dwell in an ancient wreck
And with seaweed interweave
A wreath of pearls for my fair neck
And, every summer's eve,
Arch myself poetically
Upon my ship's listing bow
While passing sailors yell frenetically,
"Hubba, Hubba! WOW!"
Pseudo Mom
All of a sudden
I need to be
the mother to my mother
that my mother was to me.

To ease her through confusion
say,”I love you” endlessly:
I'm the mother to my mother
that my mother was to me.

To comfort her in sickness
or make her laugh with glee:
I'm the mother to my mother
that my mother was to me.

Reminisce with her the old days
and our long passed family:
I'm the mother to my mother
that my mother was to me.

Spend time with her at my shore house;
let her sit beside the sea:
I'm the mother to my mother
that my mother was to me.

Treasure all our time together;
but think back wistfully
to when my mother was my mother
and how much she means to me.
Dowager Amazon
Raped by Infirmity's merciless hand
Defamed and disowned in a pitiless land.
Dismissed with brutal brevity
For her crime of time: Longevity.
Fiercely unflinching Society's branding,
In life's emotional army;
She's the last soldier standing.
In my bathroom mirror,
What is it that I see?
Why, the happy face
Of a zestful life
Grinning back at me.
I stare at my eyes squarely
And neither of us blink
For I've lived both hard and bravely;
Not fearing what people think.

Behind me is Convention
He tisks and shakes his head.
And with no condescension,
I tell him to drop dead.
Beyond me is my conscience,
And to my mind she tends.
We are smiling at each other,
For I'd do it all again.
A Protest
Romans at the Colosseum
Picking in the fields per dieum
Music wired to your head
(I wonder if Elvis really is dead)
Email and text
Never talk
Get up each day
and walk the walk
Obey the priest
Just say, “Amen”
No C.O.L.A ever again
Play video games
Make people die
on the Fourth of July.
Bread and circuses, work and wine
We're living in a warp of time
The millionaires increase their wealth
Then tell us to fend for ourselves.
Seems a third world country
is what we'll be
and there's no one to blame
But you and me.
The Truth
A bit miffed
When you didn’t call on my birthday;
I was, all the same, somewhat charmed
By the innocent moxie (and usual concern)
Of the message you left on my answering machine
A few days later. It made me want to ask

What do you think of me,
My fellow good doctor?
What do you REALLY think of me?
That I’m a cherubic tart, quick-witted and smart;
Ephemeral, easy, too kind in the heart?
A good observation my dearest of friend.
It’s part of my destiny; a piece of my Zen.
I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again.

So what do you think of me,
My conspicuous conscience?
What do you REALLY think of me?
That I love life’s dark side
Live by my guts and my hide
Have the soul of a sparrow
With an Amazon’s stride;
That I’m greedy and needy
Have a streak that is wild
The fight of a Viking
With the guile of a child?

Perhaps; but forgive me, my angel.
For between you and me
Is the essence of intrigue and dichotomy:
The yin and the yang
The dark and the light
The hot and the cold
The day and the night
The quiet/ the bold
The pride and the shame
As our story unfolds:
The moth and the flame.
Nothing lives forever
except the essence of love;
that inexorably quintessential memory
of bonded, enamored souls
entangled, ineffable
invisibly wafting
on the air of infinity;
transmitted throughout
this mindless universe
on rays of hope
like miniscule cosmic dust.
Yes, love is what perpetuates us and is the only god
in which we can put our trust.
I won’t give in. I won’t give up.
I will not keep my big mouth shut.
I will not walk if I can run.
I will not quit until I’m done.
I won’t sit down. I won’t relax.
Won’t let life halt me in my tracks.
I will not blink. I will not flinch.
I will not give a single inch.
I will not lose if I can win.
I won’t regret a single sin.
I will not stop if I can go.
Diaz Creek
I sit on my dock where the silence of the marsh
Is only breached by the harsh strident screech of gulls;
While my soul is lulled by the bawdy brackish water that lingers
To invade each candid crevice of my wading fingers;
So reluctant to dismiss its languid liquid kiss
That lays me and sways me
Cosmic deep as post orgasmic sleep.
No more to life than this:
My marsh and me.

And the muskrat’s wake as it paddles through the reeds
To its hogan hutch making Lilliputian waves
Where the egret feeds on minnows in the weeds
And the dragon flies touch
The salty rippling rug as they hover.
While the potent pungent breeze
Brings me to my knees
With primordial perfume,
Musky as the womb/ humid on my skin
Insinuating/inseminating deep within
My secret places
Leaving me flush-faced as a lover.

Dead crab belly up
Fretful quacking of a mother duck
With her downy brown babies
Searching for their supper.
Snapping turtle, heron black
Red hot sun upon my back;
Ebb and flow of life and tide
From Diaz Creek to ocean wide
Stones and snails, oak and pine
Mud and mussels, muck and mind;
Then calls the world for it is time.
The ecstasy is over.
You are my marsh.
Oh beautiful liaison,
We will tryst again
Age Rage
She will NOT fade away
And she makes that quite clear;
Not in her fiftieth, sixtieth
Or seventieth year.
There’ll be a time when she’s gone
(and some people may cheer);
But until she drops dead,
She’s very much here.

Her profile’s still high
And her skirts are still short.
Decades she does not deny
But her style they’ll not thwart.
Her spirit’s a General
In the Army of Life.
Her face has no wrinkles,
They’re just service stripes.

She won’t take up knitting,
Stereotypes not embrace,
She’s not into quitting,
And she’s right in your face.
She’s tanned and she’s tough
She walks with a strut;
And her profile’s not bad
When she sucks in her gut.

Her brain’s never been bigger.
She’s sharp and she’s smart.
Her reflexes: hair trigger
And she’s got a huge heart.
She still burns with ambition
And, with pride she will say
In Time’s War of Attrition,
She’s doing OK.
Gilded Cage
From gossamer prison
I look through a veil
Obscuring my vision
And voicelessly wail.
And no one can hear it
And no one can see
The piece of my spirit
That’s missing from me.

Daintily fettered,
With quills cruelly clipped;
Perhaps for the better,
I waltzed then I tripped.
And no one must realize
And no one can know
I patiently wait
For my feathers to grow.
Nature's Child
Blue herons fly on witches’ wings;
The Egret, on angel’s feathers.
The black, the white/the day the night
Who is to say, one is better?v

I live my life in sunshine;
Fight hard for every ray.
I walk the straight and narrow;
But sometimes loose my way.

I ride the high, wide rainbow
Am struck by lightning bolts.
I wonder at the thunder;
Wild-eyed like a colt.

I am a springtime spirit
Locked fast in winter’s frost.
I fight it though I fear it
To be warm again at any cost.

For I live my life in sunshine
Will not wallow in the dark.
To be and do ‘til its been and done.
I will have left my mark.
Ode To My Thundering Thighs
Hungry! Hungry! Hungry!
I’m always on a diet;
And “thungry” when I’m thirsty too.
My stomach’s never quiet.

It’s screaming for spaghetti.
I could eat it by the yard
With lots of locatelli.
(I’m DYING for some carbs!)

But I’m just digesting green stuff
With balsamic vinaigrette.
I’d rather have some Rocky Road
Or a scrumptious Crepe Suzette.

A piece of pizza would be nice
Or a sour creamed potato;
But all I eat is plain brown rice
Or a tuna fished tomato.

To get chummy with fried chicken
Would tantalize my lips;
But then a few days later
It’s hugging my poor hips.

So I won’t go off my diet
Though it truly is a pain.
No, I won’t indulge. It makes me bulge.
Thank goodness I’m so vain.
The Telephone
His voice
That voice
His fabulous voice
Smooth as hot honey
Warm as summer is sunny
Always on the money;
His cunning, stunning voice.

His voice
That voice
His marvelous voice;
Politely pleading
Childishly wheedling
Her heart wildly beating
So-she-can-talk-to-him voice.

His voice
That voice
His most moving voice;
Charmingly urbane
He's whispering her name
And the familiar, visceral flame
No one else can tame
Gently starts to claim her.

His voice
That voice---
Good Ol' Girl
I guess I’m just a good ol’ girl
Who drinks her coffee black,
Sips scotch as strong as iodine
And drives a Cadillac.

You know, I’m just a good ol’ girl;
Although, I must confess,
I adore my plates of vanity.
They read: DR KRS.

You bet, I’m just a good ol’ girl
Who at the opera cries,
Loves amaretto cheese cake
And men who have kind eyes.

I’m kinda just a good ol’ girl;
Not much do I demand
Just free rooms at the casinos
And, in winter, buy a tan.

I’m hopelessly a good ol’ girl
And love it-knock on wood.
You bet, I’m just a good ol’ girl
With the emphasis on “GOOD”!
Anna Mae
Softly slipping away
into the sweet semi-senseless
sojourn of her ninety-first year,
Her sons sobbing at the shadow of what was their mother;
Anna Mae views life
Through the veil
of amicable dispassion
Compliant and grateful for those who love her;
Not thinking of tomorrow
or what the specter of time has taken
Time, a circumstance
That makes me cower.
I am suspended
Through the agonizing minutes
Of each ungrateful hour;
Mourning my forlorn
Divestiture of power
And wearing, black as coal,
The shroud that is my soul;
Yet knowing I have never
Been so strong.
(If we could but take hold
Of the life for which we long.)
I walk the straight and narrow
A hundred miles and then
Am much relieved
When my soul is seized
By a hawk and not a wren:
I innocently turn my head
Then give a second glance
For I see the sun is shinning red
On a place where I can dance.
As if I’ve heard a siren’s wail,
This beguiled and child-like waif,
Idylls down that wayward trail;
Far from the shadows safe.

Come travel on this path with me.
I’ll gladly hold your hand.
We’ll skip beside the roaring sea
Like children in the sand;

Go frolic in the salty surf
And, as the daylight wanes,
Make love to life for all we’re worth
Then tango in the rain.
I’ll speak to you in poetry,
Trace rainbows on your face;
Until we know reluctantly
We’re called to leave this place.
We each will travel separate miles
A hundred times and then
Second glance where sunshine smiles
And walk the wayward trail again.
Portrait of My Mother
This past half year,
I've observed my mom
(inward panic/outward calm)
and the facts are sadly clear:
She is not the woman I have known
for almost three decades five;
but a strange and sad old lady
who struggles hard to thrive.
She's stubborn like her daughter
yet knows the obvious is true:
Time's leading her to slaughter
and there's nothing we can do.
God knows I'd try to save her;
though that cannot be done.
The decades give no waiver
for, in the end, the years have won.
So I'll hold her through her twilight
and try to understand
I can only lead her through the night
with a gentle, loving hand.
Oh, The Joys of Not Being 40 Anymore
Perhaps I exaggerate a bit but---
My heart rate's high
My libido's low
My waistline's not sure
where to go
One eye is slow
and both lids droop.
(It's been three days
since I had a poop!)
My right ear has
the loudest hum.
My left knee's made
of Oxinium
There's marionette lines
around my mouth
My bunion's huge
My hair's gone south
I need trifocals
If I want to see
I'm up all night
because I have to pee.
Yet I still get
ticked off by the phrase,
“You're looking really good
---for your age.”
Secret Storm
It rained hard last night;
Striking our roof
Like Clydesdale hooves.
A tympani of thunder
Shook our little house
And lightening struck so close
I crept into bed
With my husband
And clung to him;
But all I really wanted
Was for you
To make love to me.
*NEW* 2017 The Vanishing Christmas
Eternal Life
River of Hope
Mindful Monologue
Giving Pause
Parting of Ways
The Appeal of Surreal
To Die For
Brain Chain
A Quasi Scholarly Reflection
Angel of Mercy
Long Dry Spell
Christmas Poem 2014-The Perpetual Christmas
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Cup O'Tea
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Close As She Gets to Goe
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This Old House
Stormy Weather
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Burn Me
Unto Myself
Christmas Poem 2013
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Angel Man
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Leap of Faith
Windmill Thrusting 101
Texas Tellie
Stations of the Lost
Nacht Stimme (Night Voice)
Morgen Stimme (Morning Voice)
Slow Spring
Sweet Little Winkie
The Elder
Vegas Vignette
The Gentle Thief
Sad Projections
Proffacy Fulfilled
Never Enough
Patriotic Christmas
Christmas Poem 2012
The Story of the Madonna Medallion
Christmas Poem 2010
Christmas Poem 2009
Christmas Poem 2008
A Christmas Poem for My Mom 2007
New Years 2006
The Heart of Christmas 2005
Through Remembrance Windows
Haiku-Christmas Blush
Cemetary New Years Eve
Dogged dogma
Conceited One
The Mermaid
Pseudo Mom
Dowager Amazon
A Protest
The Truth
Diaz Creek
Age Rage
Gilded Cage
Nature' Child
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The Telephone
Good Ol' Girl
Anna Mae
Portrait of My Mother
Oh, The Joys of Not Being 40 Anymore
Secret Storm
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