Posted in Memoir, Photography, Poetry


A favorite past time is beach combing for sea glass and perfect pebbles. This concrete beam caught my eye. Probably because of my faith, I saw a cross.

My cross
buried in pain
denying me the focus
harboring confusion
blinding my vision.

Washed ashore

It is grace that lets me see again despite the occasional tear. It is the monotonous chore of examining each moment of my life, throwing the defective stones to the “sea” for refinement and forgiveness. These same stones will was ashore¬† and another person’s worries will be released and soon the worry will vanish. The stone will have been weathered gone.

in a pile of stones
thrown to an inland sea
left alone.


a pocket
of stones
trousers belted on.


Posted in Memoir, Photography, Poetry

Walking to the store

The picture
surfaces oddly
the sands of time
worn away.
needing resolution
childhood fantasy
the balm applied.
Scraped knees
and tattered jeans
romping, careening
through fields of hay.
We were
mommas, they
worried having
been gone so long.
Quick trips
to Piggly Wiggly
a pack of gum
stowed away.


Those are my momma’s shoes so I know this is the door to my house. I am the girl with the short hair cut, my momma struggled. Why? Was it her or I? She always said an older lady should never have long hair. In the third grade it was the “Dorothy Hamill” look. It was not until high school that I actually had beautiful flowing locks. On my own I became me.

I have stowed this picture away so many times. I finally succumbed, have it directly posted in front of my computer, and relish my smile, the high five, and the master plans we secretly plotted. I have written four poems now. The memories haunt me and I just wrote the above, after a happy nappy, waking up to the words, as an alarm tells you to get it done. Finish and heal and move on. The poem does not haunt as it once had. It does carry so much emotion and there are plenty more poems waiting in the wings.