where the writers are
Red Roses
striped rose1.jpg


June 14







From tight green buds come beautiful red roses.  From small verdant places I blossom, too.  I open to richness unexpected and fullness unbelieved.  I look at laundry crumpled, never anticipating the look of clean sheets blowing on the line.  Doors I perceive as blocked by vast boulders are thrown open by willingness.  Who I am today is no one I recognize; I didn’t see myself coming.  I write though I can’t spell.  I love though my heart is broken.  I think though my mind is warped and I trust though the amulet is long shattered.  Promise is not a laid out plan but the continuum of change.  I can fight it or let it carry me where it goes.



Smile at similes.



What I Heard Through the Snow


The commentator’s voice fades in and out

as the reception is lost and found

among the static of my drive home.


In here is a pattern, a connect the dots matrix;

I try to feel my way too

as I weave past the slow and stubborn traffic.


Like a call from the wilderness

distorted through a storm, my frantic thoughts obscure,

sometimes distort the content, the intent,

the soul of a message I so desperately need.


Broadcast warnings, safety suggestions,

help and hope are torn to slivers

and rewoven in my careworn brain.


The distraction of the road allows the subliminal heart beat

to tattoo in my ear then my chest, all the way to my toes,

bodily acceptance overpowers my relentless mind

and clarity is achieved, no matter the drifts.