Can't Put the Pen Down

just as if I was in my write mind…


How would it feel to splash
a cactus into being?
To scratch spines through the dried paint
with the end of my knife?
To pool shadows on the parched ground
and watch the thirsty paper drink them in,
leaving a crust of pigment
like dust waiting to fly.
How will it feel to wash the sky
with desert blue
then dab away invisible tears
with my tissue,
leaving perfect puffs of stark white
cloud, too thin for shade.
How must it feel to stroke the broken hills
with fleeting immortality?
To carve caves in deepest umber, layering
striation upon striation.
It’s all a glorious trompe l’oeil,
a delicious way to immerse my soul again
in the Arizona sunshine.
The painting will just be a bonus.




I dare you to tell me denial is futile.
I live in denial each day.
I deny the boundaries
that attempt to surround me.
I deny the power of pain.

Denial is simply step one of the journey
towards the fulfillment of self.
Open your eyes,
try the world on for size.
If you don’t like it, try something else.



If you’re competing
with anyone but yourself
You’re wasting your time.


Garden Dreams

My dreams are haunted now by spikes
of delphiniums; blue and white
and the odd little cream one with a chocolate bee
that I think has only been grown by me.

In my overgrown garden, the tangled mess
is a riot of colour but I must confess
I haven’t divided the burgeoning jungle
for years, and that’s such a newbie bungle.

But this year the whole shebang gets lifted
and a lot of plants are getting shifted
into new beds by the new front deck
where cut flowers will be at my call and beck.

As well as delphiniums, baby’s breath clouds
will buoy up the daylilies, iris, and proud
Maltese cross, the reddest red in the garden
(If you don’t like ‘em I don’t beg your pardon)

And the feathery columbine, like hats I’ve seen
on women trying to look like the queen.
From shy, spicy pinks and the bold tiger lilies,
to grape hyacinths and daffy down dillies,

there’s a whole lot of digging to do in the spring.
Oh, the trowels, forks, and buckets and all of the things
one needs to lift, and divide, and transplant
those delicious, pernicious perennials. I can’t

imagine a happier pastime, although
the beds now lie under blankets of snow.
My mind fills with flowers and my fingers itch
to dig in the dirt. I’m getting a twitch

waiting for spring, and my dreams, as I mentioned,
fill with delight and some apprehension.
Let it be lovely, let the all of the flowers
take to the trip from the old to new bowers.

Till then I’ll continue to garden in dreams,
I’ll fill my head with colour schemes
(although I know the final product
will look like a rainbow that’s run amok).

So don’t expect me at your spring soirees
‘cause I’ll be in my garden. There are far too few days
to get all this done and right now I’m in training
to transplant ‘em all, even if it’s raining.

See you next summer when the battle is won
and the lifting and shifting are over and done.
Come visit and sit in the garden with me
and I’ll pour you a glass of sun brewed ice tea.




Her laughter is infectious,
His wit is slightly snide,
The two of them together are
comedy personified.

They fight like cats and dogs
But God help any schmoe
who might hurt his big sister
or pick on her li’l bro.

They are family, they are siblings
and they’re a joy to have around.
They’re my children and I love them.
They make me laugh out loud

with their quirky sense of humour
(Don’t know where they got that from)
I’m just happy that they love me
and proud to be their Mum.




The Beautiful Place

I’m dreaming awake, with my eyes wide open
the world rolls by and nobody notices
dreams behind my eyes
oh, the dreams behind my eyes.

My mind’s eye is a beautiful place
where I can go when I don’t want to race
with the rats or the mice
and their constant advice
about who I am
about who I am.

I’m walking away, without moving
and no one suspects that I might be choosing
a path they’ve never seen
Oh, a path they’ve never seen

I’m floating away from the storms outside
my heart finds the peace of a hurricane’s eye
in just being still
in still being still.



If you think this reads like a song, you’re right. I’ve already put down the working tracks in Bill’s studio and will be working on this song in the future. Who knows, maybe it’ll make it to the CD.  ;)

Bits and Snippets

I dream in bits and snippets.

Like a chanel surfer,

searching for something new

yet familiar.

Like a film festival of captionless

foreign movie trailers.

My attention deficit manifests

as a long dark hole

in the middle of my consciousness

where ideas, fixations, and fears go

to die, then return to haunt my subconscious.

I know they were there last night.

I know my dreams paraded by like

some circus freak show.

But I can’t recall a single image.

Perhaps my subconscious is just trying

to protect me from insanity.

I can respect that.

Time to rejoin the real world and

pray it makes more sense

than the nightly bits and snippets.





The world is insane
with wee pockets of reason
trying to stay free.

Like scientists who
must observe objectively
to reach conclusions

about how insane
the world is and how futile
it is to change it

because a nudge here
starts the dominos of change
to fall over there

and over there seems
to be the place where we see
the most need for change,

not realizing
there connects to here by one
falling domino.



Hard at Work or Hardly Working

Somewhere in my grey matter a poem is lurking,

skulking around a corner of my mind, shirking

its duty to spring magically to my lips,

to dance to the beat of my fingertips

on my tablet. Creativity shouldn’t feel like working.




Hue and Cry Foul

Roses are red

Violets are blue.

But roses are white

and yellow too

and violets are more

of a purple-ish hue

which inaccuracy only

goes to prove

that a poet’s no botanist

and if they must choose

twixt rhyming a word

and telling the truth

the rhyme wins.


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