Saturday, August 17, 2013


Clenched fingers hold time
The mind cannot release.

Fear of loss, already past
Holds thrall over
A free life.

The hurt is past
Hope remains
Letting go, letting go, letting go
The sun rises on a new day.

Thursday, August 8, 2013


A poem for a wistful sort of day. . .

Memories wash over me
Foamy waves against my feet,
Calling me deeper in the marrow sea,
Away from the bustle and buildings of my board walk.

I carry papers with me
Of parents and friends and family and times.
They give me identity, they are a map--
Letters of introduction, explanation:
A warning.

The riptide sucks me down,
Papers float around me
I gather them, damp and precious.
Shiver in the breeze, holding them to dry.

To swim against the tide
Takes more than I am.
Somehow I'm always spit back to the shore
To walk the lonely beach and feel the sand burn my soles.