Stand Still. Be Quiet. – A Poem

Sometimes all the pieces,
Escape me,
Like the ends of kite strings,
Slipping through fingers.
Truths that want to be free,
Want to leave me,
Without the cloud of cover,
Nothing to hide within.
Grasping after,
The drifting vapor of illusion,
Of frozen thoughts,
Melting in the warmth of weary time.
Don’t expose me,
To this fluid chaos,
I will plunge once more into the
Safety of the ice,
The solid security of,
Everything still, quiet,
Breath held.
Me held,
Together.

Do It Again

Every day we start our way and face,
the grind, grind, grind, grind,
ground up joy, can’t lie, can’t say, it’s okay,
doesn’t matter anyway,
We’ll make it work, put in the time,
doesn’t even have to rhyme.
Look away, pages say, life gone by,
bye, bye, bye, bye,
bought the lie, felt the pain, put our faces to the rain,
and feel it all wash away.
Lay down, take a rest,
put hope,
to the test,
chase it down with love now,
Don’t hide it.
Makes each breath alive and,
breath, breath, breath, breath,
gasp for air, no time to spare,
then say it’s done,
we have won,
another day.

Intimate Solidarity

Hardship and trouble,
Crumble walls built by,
Boredom, disappointment,
Ridiculous expectations,
Self protection,
Grumbling,
Tears,
Complacency.
Laid down like scum,
Layer upon layer,
Thick,
Gummy,
So skin does not touch skin,
With electrifying connection,
but dull and shallow reflex.
All this swept away,
In the storm of tribulation,
Purifying,
Cleansing,
Freeing,
Finding,
That holding a hand,
That holds back,
Heals,
Calms,
Answers the need,
Connects,
Bridges,
Declares that the cement,
Is good,
Unbreakable,
Sustained,
Worthy of deep gratitude.

Say it Again – A Poem

Lies, lies, lies,
Whisper at every side,
Truth, truth, truth,
No where to abide.
Noise, noise, noise,
The melody is dead,
Silent, silent, silent,
No words of hope are said.
Strife, strife, strife,
Fight to live a life,
Rest, rest, rest,
On the edge of a knife.
Close, close, close,
Eyes to present dark,
Open, open, open,
To a view vast and stark,
Search, search, search,
Until all thoughts suspend,
Find, find, find,
The light at tunnel’s end.

War Games – Second Dose

Last time was just for fun,
Bows and arrows shooting at a stationary bull’s eye.
When it was done,
The soldiers rested.
After twenty eight days of preparation,
Recording in the annals of cells,
The battle plan,
Lined up,
Ready,
Trained,
The real war games begin.
This is where the warriors come to life,
And thrive.
The faux enemy behaves like the real thing,
And to fail has consequences.
The fort left open, vulnerable, even while receiving the award,
the designation, “Certified Vaccinated”.
This body is a walking battleground,
In a greater army that hopes,
One by one,
to provide no place,
for the real enemy to call home.


My experience with the second dose of the Moderna Covid -19 vaccine was about 18 hours of sore arm, sore throat, pounding headache, stiff neck and a low grade fever that made me want to hide under a rock. I didn’t enjoy the day after one bit. It felt like my body was half in flu stage and half in healthy stage…in some kind of limbo that would have drove me mad for longer than one day. Once it was over, it was over, like it didn’t happen except for my arm is slightly sore if I touch it. I’m sharing this for anyone who has not had the vaccine and is curious or if you’re about to get the second dose, plan on a not so good day after.

Uncertain Certainty- A Poem

We want it all to be crystal clear;
Nothing murky,
Nothing left for doubt to spread its fingers in the cracks.
We want to be understood in our deepest self,
and to understand.
For the shadows and the wondering,
to cease.
But all around,
Our sight fails,
Our love fails,
Our steps slip.
Where is the hand to lift,
the heart to give what we want but
can’t give ourselves?
Where is the path that is straight,
without stones,
Or pits of darkness,
Or the dusty, dryness, of thirsty emptiness?
Oh to be human with such
great need upon our backs,
as we traverse every day,
time pushing us out on stage,
trumpeting ‘live and let live’;
side by side all of us,
wanting heaven on earth,
to find peace, happiness, joy.
but that is not promised.
In the rose garden of beauty,
wafting sweet fragrance,
there are the thorns,
there are the weeds,
there are flowerless plants offering nothing.
Let your expectations,
not be on the map of the journey,
but on the destination;
simultaneously ahead,
and here and now.

To Each Their Own

There is a strength not born from adversity,

or by gender,

or by any other means,

except endowment.

It stands and keeps standing,

Without a second thought,

Of how near others are.

The strength is housed,

In many forms,

Not always the book smart,

the eloquent,

the fine featured, or

the able-bodied.

But comes in a frail, spindly package,

as often as a burly, stout one.

This strength is the wind in the sails of others,

And if the hand on the helm is true,

The rudder is sure to chart a course,

For the weaker to head in the right direction.


There is a weakness, not born from coddling,

Or by gender,

Or by any other means,

Except endowment.

It trails and keeps trailing,

with no other thought,

then to stay near the strength.

The weakness is housed,

in many forms.

Not always the feeble-minded,

the soft spoken,

the careful,

the uncoordinated,

but comes in a muscle-bound confident package,

as often as a shaking, unsteady one.

This weakness is a blanket on the shoulders of the strong,

covering and weighing them down, so that they don’t

rise above their humanity and are lost.


The strong and the weak.

to each their own place.