tiny glass souls

they are not quite all gone, there 

are one or two in my pocket

two makes a pair and i’m willing to share

with you


call them marbles, they are part of a child’s game

but i think of them now as liquid frozen in time

changing shape so slowly you can’t see them

not even in the corner of your eye


so look at them now as they are trying to find

their own level

free them and figure out where they will go

keep them inside and watch them gather at windows

kinship unblinking as one form looks out

another looks through


tiny glass souls, the end of silica’s teardrop

rattling around in the pocket of time

knowing that out there

there is something better to do


two makes a pair

and i’m willing to share

with you

A Friend Like A Poem

I have a friend who is both hurricane and the calm center of the storm.

She’s the hearth-fire you want to come in and warm your hands with

and the inspiration that makes you want to catch fire, yourself

just knowing her makes it easy to believe you could shine forever, if only

you would reach out with even just one tentative motion


somehow it’s gonna come out

I think I’m still there, parts of me at least

lying dormant

or maybe

walled off in one of those mad, last ditch efforts to preserve the fragments

I can’t have all disappeared into the rabbit-hole of responsibility

of being the goodwife and mom.


But I’m afraid, I think, of letting these fragments out

of trying to reassemble the puzzle pieces of someone who, by all accounts

died more than a decade ago

There is so much rage to these remnants, so much fury untempered by forgiveness

this is looking at an explosion momentarily frozen, a nova that had forgotten physics

A bundle of unreasoning temper in search of a target, locked down

by rapidly rusting locks

Don’t Know When To Let Go

The past few days I’ve locked myself up in the internet, like some fabulous closet where only the glittery stream of information gets in. I don’t want to come out. Out there are bills that cannot be paid and normally well-behaved children who don’t want to this week and a spouse that loves me to distraction and is hurt that his need for me is such a burden to me. I don’t want the children to find the bottom of my patience when it should be bottomless; I don’t want to find my husband’s needs to be the last straw to a long pattern of bearing everybody’s burdens.

I hate to say it but I too was too afflicted with the gotta make everyone happy disease. There isn’t any reason why they shouldn’t be happy, but two points still remain, still are, will always be — why does that happiness have to revolve around my sacrifices, and why doesn’t anyone spend their last lost precious drop of resources on me?

It’s the grouchy maker, the martyr creator, I swear it’s this belief that it’s okay, it’s expected that Mom takes not only the brunt of the burden, but all even down to every last ounce of the load. And what do they know of it? They’re children. They’ve never seen anything else in their lives. And spouse is gone all day every week day and sees life through the prism of his computer games and his music frames. Somebody had to make the sacrifices to keep us all from spinning madly, some off-balance out of kilter buzz saw, spitting sparks as it wobbles destructively through the universe. But I’d say that thirteen years of crazy-making is just about enough, thanks, really no, it’s time for a different pattern. If only the old pattern wasn’t so thoroughly broken and forgotten and erased down through the years. How can I retrace what I used to be, relearn who I used to be, if so much of it has leaked through the cracks of my cobbled together life?

I used to be somebody. So long ago. I used to be somebody. Where did that somebody go?


the sparrow




down, and I see

it all


but can stop



what good is the eye

if all sight can do

is wound the heart


if all

sight can do

is to alert the hands

to their helplessness


what good is it to witness

when there can be only silence


the sparrow falls

fluff of feathers

in shades of brown

and the forsaken sky

There Is Never A Card For This

I have felt this way before,

sort of numb

with a rising rage that cannot be ignored

the exit path I look back at now

didn’t look so obvious at the time


there are times that schism, that

crack us apart in ways

that make the beginning of the universe

pale, and tremble


darkness holds no candle

to the bleakness of a soul

the wildness of cataclysm begins

to look like the center of control


I cannot hold the lantern up

to light your path,

this road

is not the same as mine



I’d give much to give you hope


the journey is the destination; at some point

you look back at the winding loops

of your trail

and marvel