knees sunk in damp soil
her eyes sought the tangerine horizon
for his silhouette, the frame she
had leaned on so many times before
to get her through the long
and dark night


The knife digging in her side caused less
and less pain as she learned to live with
its blade buried deep within her ribs. 
And lately she had even discovered she
has been seeing things a little differently, now
that she has gotten in the habit of moving much
more slowly, purposely, in an effort to keep
this wound from growing deeper. 
Strange how these things work out in 
the most unexpected of ways. 


She lingers over delicate cups of rich espresso
loose tendrils dancing over her bird like clavical.
Pale silk clings to her figure. A shadow behind
the chiffon panels of early dawn. Defining Paris.

Alica Bock frames Paris so well!


Shoes untied, laces fly
with the reckless abandon
best understood by barefeet
in loose summer shoes
and innocent hearts
chasing clouds, bubbles,
and dreams.

Whether it's because they've
never been told they can't
or because they've decided
just not to listen;
I'm not sure it matters.
So I'm loosening my laces
right now.


deep darkness so still you could hear
your heart in your ears pounding relentlessly
a rhythm soon met with the melody of 
crickets and bright stars and the solemn
movement of the wind through the trees, then 
the beat of an owl's wings and, suddenly the
backyard seemed so much larger than it had
in the hours before dusk had fallen

a reflection on my childhood backyard in response to today's prompt at dVerse


A leaky faucet was drip, drip, dripping  
in the next room,
and somewhere down the hall 
a deadbolt latch clunked.
But there was not much to hear here
alone in this empty room 
where even her thoughts refused to speak
for fear of breaking the near silence 
that was becoming almost sacred now.
Just outside the window the compressor clicked on 
and soon
she would be joined by a gust of fresh air .



She danced in the afternoon sunlight, on tiptoes, in slow circles to the delicate notes drifting from the small carved  music box. Across a sea of broken glass she moved gracefully, the sun catching in glints against each shiny surface and sharp edge. Watching her dark lashes closed against Georgia sun-ripened cheeks, there was no evidence of the jagged stage on which she performed.



This poem is dedicated to the faithful friends who so regularly visit this blog and leave encouraging glints of gold among my work. Your heart, your words, and your presence are immeasurably valuable to me. 
Thank you.


i wished i was a bird
free to fly, not restrained by
boundaries that kept me from you
so that i could wake you each morning
with the notes of my lilting song
that i could cover you with my wings
that i could watch over your sleep
from a swaying branch above your head