sample poems

The Courtship Hour

 I love the hour that hangs its weightless haze
of yawn across my bed. An ivory wrap
of humming stillness, spectral dance embossed
in thimble-light. I love the wentletrap

of thoughts and gurgled chants that twist before
white shoals of sleep. The bend and blur of night
with loveliness and brokenness inside
soft vagaries that pivot in the light.

I love the hour subservient to dreams,
when day's satiety leaves remnant sky.
And all beheaded moments shed their wings
into a hushed reluctance as they die.

Lavender Song

When Lily plays the cello, it is holy.
Like lavender that strays from garden walls
and necklaces of evergreens that slowly
curl across the meadows, along the halls

her wreath of somber notes is softly borne.
She wings the bow; I hear my mother’s voice,
recall a lover’s crying flame. I mourn
and then, with silent chanting tongue, rejoice.

Each memory is coaxed aloud across
a grassy bottomland of time, the marrow
and the porous pith revealed. The loss,
half-opened flowers, flutters of a sparrow.

She plays the cello, slowly—and the night
becomes an aperture of grace. All lowly
thoughts swirl into quiet, purple light.
When Lily plays the cello, it is holy.

Winter in England

It's here I pause with each December, where

the snow trimmed walls of timeworn brick align
beneath the window sill, and winter's bare
limbs bend beneath a delicate and fine

glossing of frost. It's here I garner all
my thoughts of months gone past, beside the sheers
and yellow paisley chair. A woolen shawl,
a pearl and knit of smiles and raveled tears,

is wrapped around my shoulders. Nothing speaks
but morning's melting icicles, and wind
that steals the breath of graying skies. The creek
is frozen into timelessness and thinned

with dying grasses, every shade of brown.
I take my stock of daisies dried and pressed,
my verses, scratched impetuously down--
time balanced here on its mid-point of rest.







Hymn of Autumn

When the moon becomes a mellow pear
on twilight’s bough, and stars swirl up like maple leaves
before they’re swept into the dawn, I’ve often
walked this garden where the voice of whippoorwills

would carry remnant melodies across long, dusky
hours. At times I feel this eastern breeze has lifted
me, somehow, beyond the soft-lit sloping fields
and conifer lined hills. To lands where only goldenrod

has known me by my smile, and dampness soothes
the head of every yellow aster bloom. Tonight, before
the morning’s crest of ruby will extend through broken
clouds, I whisper prayers again to autumn:
take me there once more.

Dawn's Dobro

I found your melody inside the night;
it lulled me through the eye of winter's star;
I know, you always loved the steel guitar
and once again you played for me. Moonlight
had barely filtered through my willow tree
across the pond. A robin had begun
her early tune beneath the eave, and one
small cloud along the hill had wrestled free
to dissipate above the water's sheen,
like wayward thoughts that move without a helm
or sail, to float upon another realm.
Your quiet song still resonates between
the sky and earth, for me. It dwells upon
lamenting clouds, then slides into the dawn.

In a Hat Box

When I wake at three in the morning with stars
sprinkled between my curtains, and see
my old hat box wedged on the corner shelf
beneath scalloped shadows, I remember

its contents of unused wool from a needlepoint
canvas, colored pencils and the camera
with a broken lens. I recall a length of ribbon
too dark for my hair, business cards

that no longer matter, a plastic harmonica
from an amusement hall and an old monogrammed
handkerchief wrapped around a black and white
picture of you, leaning against a palm tree.

Back then, you were a transplanted Nebraskan
collecting San Diego summers in your pockets,
exploring tide pools and sailboats. Each Saturday
you rode the bus to Hotel Del Coronado

where big band music filled the Victorian ball room.
One night you posed on the lawn in pearls and heels,
beneath a sand dollar moon embedded above the bay.
That was before you married Dad. Before trips

to Bermuda and Europe, mundane chores, diapers,
three children, bike rides and sewing classes.
Before illness. When a slice of moon could move
across the Silver Strand, and still glint in your eyes.

Anywhere

Perhaps it was the somber vines between
those leaves, or how a moon spilled lavender
through parted sheers, and blended shades of green
against my wall, that made me think of her.

Or maybe, it was trusting mourning doves
who left their eggs behind when dawn imbued
a citrine sky. I know about her loves.
They echo in the beauty she pursued

like scents of hyacinth in June, or song
that fills a hillside church, and solemn prayer.
Each day I think: it seems so very long
since I have sensed her presence, anywhere.

The Old Racer

When the Tourist Trophy race
begins each year, he morphs
into his favorite chair
and turns on the telly.

Holding armrest handles
complete with imaginary helmet
and gloves--his glossy-eyed,
demonic expression reappears.

He calls out each bend and turn by name:
Bray Hill, Union Mills--a left-right hander,
Governors Bridge…

Fans cheer him on at each turn,
photo shoots await him, girls gather
for his autograph.

Then up the pub with his mates
for a pint of Guinness.

Like old helmet foam and a pair
of rotting leathers--his legacy
crumbles more each year.

No one would ever recognize him,
but for the wild look that dashes
from the depths of his easy chair.

Somewhere near Evesham

December swept the cemetery lawn;
The drone of church bells bridged the waterway.
On ancient tombstones, near the abbey wall,
Each epitaph was faint and worn away.

But then that special one, in front of me,
Had blossoms reaching upward from the ground,
All yellow, bright as spring. And when I read
The words engraved, a sleeping voice I found—

It softly echoed out in hope these words:
“Although my body is corrupt, I shall
Again be whole.” And all the way I thought
Of her, while wandering the long canal.