Somewhat Sane


An eerie sense of comfort in the December mist.

I collect all my faults in…what is unnoticed.

Though, I am not half the woman I think I am.

Isolation in the still-life of rain…

Guards the fact that I am still somewhat…sane.



A Kind of Sun

In the barren isolation of pine.

No matter, how immobile, I wish to be.

It is no secret.

I must move my feet.

Nature crunches below.

While frolic and folly, ascend, above.

Winter’s stroll becomes a gusty game of hide and seek.

No need to daydream of summer’s peak.

Passive is the lull of traction.

The sun has no motive.

It is just a reaction to my half hearted…actions.imageedit_39_4786711961

A One Story House



I met a woman who owned a lone house.

She kept it, as is,

for prosperity’s sake.

‘Can I help you?’ she quipped.

At the moment, I wished for isolation.

So a vague attempt was given to, wordy invitation.

Oh, to be as a stray thing…in control of my own destination.

The conversation remained subtle and soft.

As if to not hurt anyone’s sense of appeal.

And, thus, I stood struck dumb by the need to not feel.

A loner, extroverted, needs respite in which to breathe.

Such are the monsters, we feed.

This stranger did not tell me a story…

That I did not already know.

Whether unkempt or out in not green pastures.

There somethings we cannot let go.

We parted ways with the agreement…

That we would meet again, someday.

In the rear view of life…

Sometimes, it is only ‘remember when’ that makes us stay.


the Good Household


There has always been a strange way to gather persons near.

A tune to mania in fire.

Satire from a funeral pyre.

Members of the good household.

The union of delirium.

Held their place with color.

All were,

back-handed their cast.

One black, one red, one blue…

Each with their anthology of dues.

Fifty years young, I ponder that avocation.

My father’s way of isolating hate.

As if,

compassion meant escape.


love to a ghastly iron gate.

Housed had been the laughter on a two-party line.

Inside friends…difficult to find.

Yet, with all these years of postmortem reflection.

It  had been the quiet huntress who kept the everyday, subdued.

I am awed still by the hidden portrait of pain she installed.

Meticulously setting the colors of my small world,

for a fall.