The sun is buried deep

in clouds and fog

but light as soft as my pillow

spills green over the room.


Fingertip raindrops

tap-tap-tap the skylight

as drizzle shimmers

on the leaves outside

my open windows.


When the tinny alarm shrieks

I hit snooze without debate.


Five more minutes, then five minutes more

delaying the rush of Monday morn.

the mind of an oyster




One must have the mind of an oyster

who builds a home from her own substance,

to possess the grain of sand that slips in

while she opens her body to the sea.


Not one to expel a challenge     

her voluptuous mantle

embraces the grain,

gifting nacre layer upon layer,


until a smooth white gem,

cool to the touch,

radiating an iridescent fire,

is borne.


The oyster knows the sand

is the heart of the gemstone.




This poem was written in response to an invitation from Tweetspeak Poetry.

Click HERE  for to join us!



Interrupting chemo’s cruelty

I wield the silver blades which

until now, had simply trimmed bangs,

snipped itchy tags out of shirt collars.


A fine paintbrush of mom’s black hair

in one hand; the other shaken

by tiny vibrations,

each strand liberated

as the scissors close over them

by my will.


Finished, our gazes lock

in the bathroom mirror.


Mother, daughter.


Wordless, standing.



This poem was inspired by the Tweetspeak Book Club featuring Megan Willome’s new title,”The Joy of Poetry.”  Writing for life is so much better in community~Will you be our poetry buddy?



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The bread and herbed oil arrive

on the table just after the water and wine.


With bare hands we tear the bread

and dip it into a golden sea, 

savoring the taste,

anointing the words we give

to each other and receive.


Ash Wednesday



The morning we laid Nanny to rest,

snowflakes settled around us

like the ashen fallout

of Feast day fireworks.


Their only purpose, our need

of a white covering,


a shroud over the casket,

footsteps on blanketed ground


This day, a cross of ashes on my forehead.


In memory of our grandmother Carma Rinaldi, 6/18/1910-2/11/2010



wandering, wondering


i take my place

among the trees

toes deep, gathering

arms wide, sheltering


exhaling, releasing


when the west wind

rustling leaves, draws

nymphs from their sleep

i am caught in between

swaying limbs, dancing

to a sacred song of

treetops whispering


then slowly, silencing


like the trees

my body holds secrets

connecting me from history

to possibility


deep in this wood

the ancient trees exist

wise in their lordship

over the river


i rest midbridge and look to the sky


water flecks my skin, either

spits from the shivering canopy

or from a shower

penetrating the lush cover.


when a tree falls here

the others catch it,

holding it’s new position,

uprooted from the ground

or splintered somewhere in between



midbridge, i am resting


today it rained

sky so low the gray

brushed my skin,

body sending

sweet perspiration

back to the sky


the air, heavy wet

lost it’s grip,

stippled my windshield


was it gunshot or thunder,

curses or prayers last night

directing my dreams