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Category Archives: Uncategorized


pond under the snow
found by sound—
of ice
your feet

haiku season

spare landscape, clean desk
haiku weather

in fresh snow

boot tracks in snow,
step between the delicate
of cat’s foot prints

the third rock star

What should really surprise us is this—
there’s a tea-drinking rock star
and a bad boy, addict rock star
The third rock star is only a
star in an alternate universe or
maybe only in his or my imagination

In this world? He’s our postman
He whistles as he delivers packages,
bills, offers of car insurance,
occasional letters. Evenings, he plays guitar
for his kids, taking all requests and we
are never amazed when he knocks on our door
the way we would be awestruck in that other world

Two of the three rock stars will grow old
one will not and you might be surprised
at which one is which but
trashed hotel rooms or Earl Grey
or today’s mail delivered—-
all three rock stars and you and me?
we’ll die someday and likely won’t see it coming
through our whole short or long lives
till it’s close and startles us with its heft
That? That not acknowledging
That ought to surprise us all

today’s lesson

What else are we here for,
except to be kind and learn something?

As students, we are occasionally
Enthusiastic—the front-row sitter,
excited hand-waver who wants
to be heard. Other days,
many days, we are absent
even when we’ve hauled ourselves
to class. Most days, we exist somewhere
In-between, half-awake, preoccupied
with mind-drama or thoughts of lunch
Those are the days when a gifted teacher
can make all the difference-can snap us
back to interest. And if life is our teacher
in this long rambling story, then
Admit it, life throws herself into her job—
snow and sunrise, people talking and
walking around in clothes, painted
buildings with windows, limes and
dogs, cats and rocks and
the moon, visible during the day.
So wake up. Pay attention

Are we here
to be happy
or to learn?

windows open, and close

as I grow old enough to slow down
to notice
I see the little windows
open and close on the past

there was the window
in last night’s dream
where my kids were
small again, asleep
in their once beds.
And the only slightly larger
window when their childhoods
were where we lived together
back there
all the windows open
to time


is what they call it
we’ll visit as we stand in line
to hug her and murmur, only marking time
because we know better
we’ve been there, in her spot
near the casket and we know
this day will be lost
but the days, months, maybe years to come?
Those are the days we’ll be needed for deep visits
This? This is just a formality—
A reminder memo that everyone we love
and everyone we don’t
Everyone we know—and everyone we don’t
we’re all going to die, probably not
today though somebody’s dying today—
So remember and decide
to either sit very, very still
and hope to escape death’s notice
for another day or get up and
Go, out into your world
and live the day

house sign

the number 9 in the house number
lost a nail
now dangles at an angle, drips rust
onto the yellow vinyl siding
snow piles into the laps
of wicker porch chairs
green plastic wreath,
with its shiny red ribbon,
flaps in the end of January breeze
is the label you’d place
on a photo of this place
Overwhelmed already so don’t
ask, don’t even knock
with that smile on your face

poems at five below

five below zero
all the candles lit
for the glow

A poem revved
its cold engine next to me
I waved it off

Sorry, I said—
Today, I’d rather
breathe and stare
at nothing for a while

another gift of long practice—
not every time
do I have to grab those words
and pull hard

not all hungers darken
if unfed. Some, with
years of steady love,
will shrug, curl into
themselves for a nap
and say—maybe, later

because this is where we lived

Our overarching theme:
The unlived lives of women.
It hung above us, stolid and
weighty as a museum exhibit.
We searched for a spot to
set down such an unwieldy package
its plain brown paper creased
and crackling in our hands,
tied with twine.
More than one of us
settled on the kitchen
because this is where they lived
or served their time
or sang in if it was a haven
kitchen as hidden heart at the center
beneath all the wrapping

A Hundred Falling Veils

there's a poem in every day

The Novel Bunch

aka: The Happy Bookers

Red Wolf Prompts

I came to where you were living, up a stair. There was no one there.--John Ashberry, "The New Higher"

typewriter rodeo

custom poems on vintage typewriters

A Poet in Time

One Poet's Writing Practice

Writing the Day

A Ronka Poetry Practice Since 2014

Invisible Horse

Living in the moment