A full summer
of tending the garden,
turning over the dark loam,
sifting the soil,
doling out water
with dirt-crusted nails
in the twilight.

Hours of pulling crabgrass,
chopping down thistles
with their lavender tufts,
leaving morning glory
to wither rootless
in the hot August sun.

Sweat filled labor
birthed row upon row
of jewel-like quarts.
Emerald beans. Golden peaches.
Ruby tomatoes.

The shelf burdened
under weight of the goodness –

Crack. The pending
heartbeat with time
before all collapses,

Crimson. My heart
aches. Crimson
all over the floor.

Tasting passion

I think I’ve tasted passion.
For dinner,
on a Tuesday.

It was wrapped
in denim and plaid
and tasted
of bacon and
strawberry wine.

I thought I ordered
passion again-
this time trying it
for breakfast.
I remember
it being much like
the soft-boiled egg
I ordered through
fancy room service-
I didn’t have
to sign for the bill.

The last time
passion was served,
I washed it down with
several gin and tonics
and an ice cold beer,
leaving me only
a headache
and thirty bucks
in the hole, with
no memories
worth remembering.

I think next time,
I’ll buy my own strawberries,
wear my fuzzy slippers,
and cook for

This poem is not about you

This poem is about
the man on the bus,
two seats to the left,
watching the old woman
lick her pencil before
filling in the crossword,
with sadness etched
in his face.

Or perhaps
the boy who
twenty-eight years ago
touched my knee
under the cover
of a lab desk, filling me
with the aching
sweetness of young desire.

I write for my cat,
of the moonlight
reflecting silver
on the snow,

or the bees
pollinating merrily,
exhibitionists with their flowers
but longing to make love
to their Queen.

But when I write
of the bitter wind
tearing at my clothes
while I walk the dogs
alone in the dark,
this is the same wind
that caresses your face,
and then, love,
I write of you.

I’m not a Great Poet

I’m not your Emily Dickinson,
to simper and lament
every thought and word
in rhyme and meter,

to cough delicately
into the handkerchief
even as I write bravely
of the yellowed eye.

I’m more akin
to a blade of grass,
being known by one
out of the many,

or forging forth
on an uncharted path
rather than the one
oft taken.

I’d like it though
if you’d partake
a bit of the walk
with me, like Noah
advocating two by two

and if our trail
leads different ways,
I’ll be glad
of our time spent.

Love me well,
over not at all-
leaving memories
and not regrets.

I’ve always loved to kiss…

first acquaintance
of your mouth
and mine-

slide of skin
upon skin,
your taste

the vulnerability inherent
in opening,
giving access
to inner self,

allowing for
in the spaces where
lips angle, meet

intimacy found
in sharing breath,
a body’s brush,
when you pull
your hips towards mine.

that instant
when heads tilt,
the space between
other lives melt away

Washing your hands clean

My response to my challenge, mud, old shoes, and toilet paper. 🙂

Us, skinny-dipping
in the old Quarry pond
water green from algae
old sneakers left ashore

building castles
in the dirty sand
out of rocks
toilet paper tubes
the house we’d
some day live in

your eyes bright
over top of your Ray Bans
water well over your head
begging me
to not take you under
to never let you go

you scrawled
‘I love you’
across my stomach
in cold river mud
while July’s sun
baked it dry

sometimes I
search my skin
for remainders
of words written in mud
still unbelieving
that love could
so simply wash away

Challenge prompt

This is my first challenge prompt ever – if you’d like to play please feel free.

Make a poem sensual or romantic and include the words (or ideas based on them) mud, old shoes, and toilet paper. Post it to your blog and link it to here. This should be interesting!


groves of white birch trees
clustered leafless in the wind
stark against the pines

the naked branches
stretch toward the grey heavens
lamenting the chill

like the naked birch
limbs ivory against green sheets
I reach towards you

how to peel an orange

I watch you
peeling an orange –
how your fingertips
graze the
dimpled surface,
thumbs caress
the skin around,
brush across,
the slightly protruding

Nails biting
into the flesh
firmly before
you slide under
the edges,

peeling off
its outer layers, soon
scattered without care
across the table.

Each segment,
a finger slipped
into the crevice between,
stroked apart
until the orange
is in pieces before you.

Your artist hands
must feel
my kindred hunger-
press against my lip, open,
feed me.

Sweet juices fill
my mouth – I chew even the
bitter seed, savoring all
’til the end.

white-water rafting

the river meanders
against curved muddy banks

your lips
on my neck

circling in eddies
through the canyons,

no life jacket
can’t swim

before roaring full-throated
onto rocks below

can I survive
the fall?


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