Wednesday, December 26


A young woman
In the kitchen
With wifely obligations
Arms limber
Feet firm
Twenty-three and a half spice bottles before her
Do not let it detonate
Whispers the past advice of mother
She examines the beans
They seem fine
How tedious it is to wait!
The phone rings
She picks it up
How can't she?--it's the hubby
There goes dinner
Allover the kitchen

Written for 3WW

Saturday, December 15

Tragedy in Connecticut

How do we mourn a massacre? By tearing at our hair and clutching at our loved ones? How do we pay respect to the innocents? By decrying current policies and pointing and the demise of our society?
We shake our heads and furrow our brows, but tomorrow? What will we do tomorrow and the day after tomorrow and then, a week from tomorrow? Will there be a move to change our ways? The children will by then be buried. And as their lifeless bodies leave our peripheral, the angry thoughts, thoughts of confusion and anxiety, thoughts that could spark revolution- these thoughts will leave as well.

Guns will still be legal.
God will still be illegal.
And our grief will turn to more trivial matters- like burnt coffee or spilled milk.

Do not fool yourselves. It will take more than a moment of silence to change the tide. It will take more than pointing fingers and even more than tears. God help us all.

Wednesday, November 28

The Price of Beauty

Our car speeded along the empty highway like a long, red, endless brushstroke on a canvas of black. Dirk, with his hair slicked up into the faint appearance of a mohawk, commanded the steering wheel with just one hand. The other was occupied with me.
“So, where is this party?” I ventured, pushing his hand away. He pinched my cheek, but then found a new place for his hand.
“Do you know where Edge-Long Beach is?”
“Babe, that’s an hour away!”
“You don’t want to go? We can turn back.”
I pouted but clenched my teeth, remaining stone silent. He was right, as usual, a fact that was beginning to prod at me.
“I thought so.” He turned up the music and simultaneously tuned me out.
Without his attentions, I concentrated myself on introspection. Was I ready to play my part tonight? The mirror wasn’t even necessary for me to check. My mascara was flawless and the sequined mini-dress I wore was perfectly tailored. But though I had the looks, I wasn’t sure if  coaxing myself to coyness was a possibility tonight. Surely beauty and feeling beautiful has a price.


Thursday, November 22


     There are so many reasons to celebrate life- a plethora of pleasant circumstances beg my appreciation. From the minuscule to the grandiose, everywhere I look is an occasion to give thanks. I thank God for my mere existence, and then I thank that He has blessed me with more than just the bare basics.
     My life feels like a fairy-tale. I am alive. I am well. I am loved. What more can I ask for? And yet, it is all there. I own my own car with working air and heater! My place of residence, sunny southwest Florida, is the envy of many. When I go to work each day, it is with enthusiasm and pleasure. Tell me what profession is more worthwhile than one in which you impact the life of a child? 
     Yes. There is much that gives me joy and much that I am thankful for. Now, on this reflection I pray that I may only pay it forward. That thanksgiving will not make me a stingy scrooge clinging tight to all my blessings, but that it will inspire in me the desire to give. 

Wednesday, November 21


There are times I sit alone
and drink in
the silence of my apartment
many hours of many nights
are lost to a lonesome plight
but then
there's together
on the sofa
in the bed
like a single drop of water
to a land that's parched with thirst
our sentiments are joined in desperation
there is no need for talk
what thoughts travel through our minds?
let us sit until we coalesce
the night
is turning slowly
I feel the brink of dawn
here you are
my love
take this thing I hold before you
a window cannot stay open
all day long.

Thursday, November 15

The Calculus Teacher

           Trudy Pyrez adjusted her horn-rimmed glasses for the millionth time. She tugged down on her skirt slightly and pulled up on her blouse a bit. Why hadn’t she worn the trousers? Wasn’t a skirt too feminine and femininity a sign of weakness?
It was 8:02 and class began at 8:00 am sharp.  She turned the door handle to room 3-101 and walked to the front of the room setting her notebook on the wooden table. “Good morning. My name is Ms. Pyrez and I will be your calculus teacher this year.” Her voice was strong, betraying none of the fear that gnawed at her belly. 15 high school seniors, all male, stared back at her. “Let’s take attendance, shall we?”
There was some whispering and a few guffaws until finally, a husky ginger interrupted her attendance taking. “Miss, how old are you?”
Her face flashed red. “Twenty-two,” she shot back. More whispering and now—was that whistling?  Ms. Pyrez sighed, put down the class roster and reached into her notebook. Out came a lavender colored paper with faded writing. “Ok, everyone. Now listen up. Before we begin exploring the world of calculus I would like to see where everyone is with their math skills. Please take out a piece of paper and solve this equation.” She placed the paper under the document camera and projected it onto the board. The students groaned but got to work nonetheless.
Ms. Pyrez weaved her way through the room, hands clutched behind her back. A slight lilt adorned her step. She smiled to herself. Yes. This indeed has possibilities. 

Written for Theme Thursday

Sunday, November 11

Verdun, 1917 by Felix Vallotton

I write this note postmortem
My sincerest apologies to the survived
The wind was blowing wildly as was apparently my mind

The commencement was unremarkable
A simple switch of light
But then it began catching
And here you are tonight

We're mourning for a forest
With a cacophony of shrieks
My sorrys cannot remedy 
The strike cast carelessly

Written for The Mag

Tuesday, October 30

Amorous pedestrians
Stroll the streets of Amsterdam 
Late in the afternoon

Oblivious lovers
Embrace loosely- but with passion
Under grey, dark skies

Carefree couple
Kiss each other's lips
For once and forever in this place and time

Written for 
The Mag

Sunday, October 28

The Willow Manor Ball

I am a little late, but then again, when am I not?
Let me just rustle my dress a bit to reassure myself of my beauty.

The Willor Manor Ball
Quite an affair.

And yet here I stand at the edge of the whole event

The music enraptures me
Carries my soul upward and away into a land of fantasy

But I'll just play with my mask
Fiddle with it, until the skin of my nose rubs red

Oh? But who is this?
This gallant who approaches me?

"My darling," he says, in a bass voice
"Have you had the wine?"

I kick him in the shin for being a drunk.
I'm going home.

The reality of tomorrow does not allow me to enjoy the escape provided by today.

Thursday, September 6

The Opportunities Granted by Faulty Electricity

Will I pull my hair out by the fist-fulls?
Or will I will I simply chomp on my red tongue?

It tempting to
give away into anger
When you feel like the whole worlds going wrong

I didn't stop
or hesitate
when all I saw
was you--
walking late

You walked past me,
(you always do)
so I thought
it was all through

But then came the flash

Flash! Flash! Flash!

And I had you in my hands!

Would I kiss you
or would I miss you?

Two seconds
too late

Would I kiss you
or would I miss you?

Written for Theme Thursday

Sunday, September 2

Summer Night

Summer Night, 1913, by Albert Bloch

Summer night
Stars are bright

Dreams are real
The cool air, feel

Stop and ponder
About life on yonder

We're all in bliss
About something mysterious

For The Mag

Sunday, August 26

The House

I cradled a cup of coffee while waiting in the crowded Starbucks. My eyes shot continual glances at the wall-clock hanging above the baristas' work station. Myriam had said to meet her at 9 but it was already 9:24. "If she's not here by 9:30, I'm leaving," I said to myself. It wouldn't be the last time my typically punctual and reliable friend stood-me-up in the last few weeks. What was going on with her?

9:30. Time to leave. I took that last impossible swig of coffee that always manages to get trapped under the cap of the coffee cup and grabbed my keys, but before I could stand up, Myriam slid herself into the seat across from me.

"Sorry I'm late!" she said. Her eyes glistened and seemed dilated. "I have so much to tell you!"

I sighed and shook my head, but couldn't help but smile back. "Well, let's hear it then!"

After 20 years of working as a receptionist for a law firm, Myriam tells me that she's quit her job and is moving to a house out in the country. 

"It's one of those places that you just want to play in. You know, it's empty and dirty and you should be rolling up your sleeves, tying a kerchief round your head, but you don't want to," she tells me. "You just want to twirl around the room and pretend you don't need any furniture except the round table in the middle of the room because everything looks so beautiful just the way it is, cracked paint, uneven floors and all!" 

"Are you sure about this?" I ask. My brow is now wrinkled with concern over my dear friend who seems to experiencing a mid-life crisis.

"No. Not really," she ruefully betrays. "It does seem insane. But, I'm going to try it. I'm going to move to this house out in the middle of nowhere and I'm going to sit my butt on a chair and I'm going to write. Because, if I don't do this now I will regret it for the rest of my life."

This last statement leaves her breathless. The smile is gone and tears now stream down her face. "I've got to," she says, half pleading to me, half pleading to herself. 

For The Mag

Thursday, August 16

A 5 minute story

You walk into your house.

All the lights are out. This isn't normal. It's a Tuesday and your wife, your kids, your family is all supposed to be gathering at the dinner table for chicken casserole or something like that. 

You flip the kitchen switch on and scan the counter for a note, something to explain their absence, but you find nothing. The counter is as bare as your bald head. Not even a crumb is evident. At least it's clean...which isn't how you feel at this moment. 

You shake off the feeling of guilt.

Now is not the time to be thinking about those things.

"Honey! I'm home!" you call out. 


You walk into your bedroom. The bedroom you've shared with Lisa for the last 12 years and there, lying on the bed, you find the divorce papers. 

Saturday, April 14

midnight rendezvous

tacos in our hands
we sit and chat for hours
in a Wendy's lot

Give me five minutes
and see what a tale I'll spin
Make your eyebrows rise
and your head shake

Five minutes
and I'll make you believe
that all your yesterdays have come back to you
crawling on their knees

300 seconds
that's all that I ask
300 seconds until the moon falls
from the sky and we slice it thin
to eat with crimson-red apple slices

Sunday, February 19


Beam me up, Scotty!
Who says a telephone booth in the middle of cow-country Texas can't serve as a tele-porting station? The weather's great to shoot up through sky riding my mountain bike. Maybe I'll even catch up with E.T. By the looks of the ground I can tell that it hasn't been just me who's chosen this path before. The hell with Texan night life, I can just make out the shape of the mother-ship in the distance. 

Saturday, February 18

Modern Woman

The little girl said "I want to be a modern woman when I grow up" and so...
she grew and grew and grew
a managed her way into a classroom
traipsing  in with silver toned pumps and flower-print cashmere sweaters
feeding her students store-bought brownies for rewards
walking home after dark
to feed her cat
and read her books
off her cell-phone
drinking tea
herbal tea
from water heated to a boil in 60 seconds
at the touch of a microwave button

Tuesday, January 3