Posted in Poetry

when do you know a poem is finished? The poem…


words elude/ no shoes on their feet/ as laughter barrels down the dirty alley /distant vibes play pretend/ and the rhythmic tide prays/ i sway with the ocean’s beat/ rattles wash ashore/ again and again and again/ lap me up/ once more/ Monhegan


(working on this… like all of my poems posted. nothing is ever finished.

i think i need to tease out visuals. does the poem have movement? give you any sense of passion? yearning?)


Posted in Memoir, Photography, Poetry


Remember, yesterday, I opened and read:

“I like the intimacy

with a patch of ground

the closeness and the drawing in,

the sibilance,

the swish the grass makes

with the scissored snap of stems,”

From her poem Cutting the grass with Scissors

well, i wrote in the margins of her book, much like my living, existing in the periphery, a few words…


two worn, bent at the wrist

we share -a small token of fervent hope

though nothing stays for long

my dandelion wishes stray

easterly, past our thoughts.

Staying on the island, even for the shortness of time enjoyed, was an awakening to how harried life can become. Oh! How I pine for the evergreen of Monhegan life.

Monhegan Island May 2016