Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Choosing sanity

No, I don't think so.
Any friendship with you is
out of the question.
The definition of insanity that I
learned the very hard way
- doing the same thing over and over
expecting different results -
definitely applies here.
I've known you over thirty years
You have always been a narcissistic prick
using other people to meet your needs
with no regard for theirs or
their hearts.
You were then. You really were, no
matter how much I crushed on you.
You are now. You really, really are now.
Oh, and you also sound a bit like a
sociopath, now that I think about it.
So, in answer to your assurances that
'things have changed', they haven't.
Question answered.

Monday, May 30, 2011

The telltale mother

What kind of person enjoys
inspiring terror in another?
My mother was one such,
keeping us all in fear
well into our respective adulthoods
over the smallest of potential infractions,
giving one and all the 'hairy' eyeball.
Everyone in her life walked on eggshells
rather than risk her wrath at real or imagined
lapses on our parts in her purported and
ever-mutating behavioral code.
A twitch of her lips
- no magic nose wrinkle here -
in a public place alerted the
vigilant offender to upcoming consequences
when finally out of the community eye.
She seemed to delight in scaring off the boys
who came to call on her girls.
What teenage boy has the cojones
to stare down a basilisk
when there were other girls to woo with
less intimidating mothers?
She learned it from her father
whose crass style included
shouting crude suggestions and
threats out the door after both his
daughters and their dates.
My father was and is a brave man to be
married to her for forty eight years. Though
he never once freaked out our dates.
Even when he didn't approve.
She never endorsed anyone.
(Posted for Week 39, 6-13-11, Poetry Potluck, "Bossy People")

Sunday, May 29, 2011

Hell hath no fury

It's rained all day today
mirroring my mood, sort of
drizzly and nonspecific, a bit thunderous.
As water sluices down, saturating our yard, I am
thinking of how overexposed to family I am
after a graduation weekend of gatherings and meals.
The constant downpour creates a small river
churning down our long steep driveway
forming a steady channel of water from the
corrals to the highway. A bit nerve-wracking to
watch the the gravel wash away pebble by pebble. It feels
like I am eroded as well, uncomfortable with
constant compulsory proximity to
family members who have been judgmental,
unkind, cruel in the past. All are striving to
play nice, be polite and act interested in the kids, the
jobs, and the home they now have, but it's
hard to forget their mean words and
financial irresponsibility even when they are being
friendly and appropriate.
Every time they mention their new motorcycle, I can
see the check I had to write to pay off their last one
that my husband foolishly cosigned and my furious
tears at being 'taken' by his ungrateful daughter.
Ready for the rain and the family to blow away and
sunny contentment to shine forth, drying up the storms and
emotional flooding.

(Written for and posted at Jingle Poetry Blog for the theme,
"Thunderstorms, Floods and Water Fury". Please click the link to see 
more great poetry!!)
(Also posted for the Thursday Poet's Rally 6-2-11)
(Posted for a third time at Bluebell Book's Short Story Slam, Week 3, 6-9-11)

Saturday, May 28, 2011

Tough guy

In meetings I frequently hear the
comment, "I'm John Wayne-ing it."
Though the speaker of this
ambiguous cliché intends to convey that he is
struggling through his sobriety journey
without the help of others and
despite the grammatically annoying sin of 
using a noun as a verb, these words always
bring to mind my mother's father
who for much of my childhood
was compared to this venerable public
figure, like they were both some
sort of model of manliness, cowboy values,
mom-and-American-pie and godliness. 
I don't know much about
JW's life, but I do know that the
other man was a creepy, molesting
abusive alcoholic whom I wouldn't 
hold up as a model of anything
except how not to be. 
The only emotion he inspires in
me is the gratitude that I am not
like him and that I have a way of
life that makes that possible every
single day.

(Written and posted for Short Story Slam - Week 2 on Bluebell Books Blog.)

Stepchild blues II

Trying to get along with
you for my love, your dad's, sake.
So far, on the surface, all is
pleasant and polite. Then the
little things sneak in, like
referring to me by my name
instead of calling me 'Grandma'
as your dad has requested.
I suppose using my name is an
improvement over the words you
used to call me in your pain.
Making sure to talk about how
an ex, who wasn't even a wife,
will be attending the graduation
and how you are 'responsible'
for picking up 'Grandma' So-and-So.
Perhaps you don't even realize
you are doing these miniature (and possibly
imagined) slights, but I doubt it.
You are me before I decided to change
my life and I am the master of this
sort of game of thrones.
I don't want to, but if I don't pick up my
sword and fight, however diplomatically,
I will be slain.

Thursday, May 26, 2011

Birthday night

What joy to join with like minds
celebrate the births of our new lives
freedom from addiction and dysfunction
accepting and caring faces circled
praying with gratitude for this
family of choice.

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

Growing up

You cry and are upset;
your choices have brought you to a
painful, scary place.
I long to save or help you
but I also know you must
experience these events and the
consequences  and
rewards of your
choices to become the
woman you are
meant to be.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011


Are you a liar?
a master manipulator?
a selfish bastard?
are you offering
real friendship and
I am so tired of being messed with
by people only out for what they
want, only to withdraw once they've
got 'it'.

Monday, May 23, 2011

The great mouse hunt

My home is surrounded by
fields of sagebrush and wild grass
and a varied assortment of wildlife.
Deer, skunks, antelope, mountain lions,
an occasional porcupine, nesting ducks,
twin fawns stashed in the tall grass by
the irrigation pond.
All fine and well.
Beautiful, rustic, even desirable.
Then there's the mice who
periodically decide my house is
an all-you-can-eat buffet and
move in.
They were very stealthy this time,
hardly leaving any sign (that's turds
for the uninitiated) of their presence.
Since everything in the pantry is in
plastic, they must be living on
dog food or take-out.
They boldly wiggled their way
into a plastic tub with a loose lid,
chocolate bars stashed within,
slivers of tinfoil scattered
delicate teethmarks scoring the milk
chocolate goodness that was awaiting
a s'more bonfire night.
Obviously, war had to be declared.
Couldn't they have eaten the oatmeal,
for crap's sake?
Traps loaded with peanut butter
and stinky boxy glue traps are
cunningly located along the edges of
each room. We retire for the night,
smug in our strategies and
awake to a tiny mouse
forlornly squeaking in a glue trap.
Investigation revealed that at least
a battle had been won.
This morning:
Humans 5
Mice 0

Sunday, May 22, 2011


On days when I experience
an incredible sense of well-being
like today
I long to preserve this feeling to
spritz myself with during
those all-too-frequent times when my
soul is blinded and beleaguered
by the twin demons of
depression and grief.
Trudging the road of recovery,
those lifelong companions are smaller and less
powerful than they once were,
lagging further behind all the time as my steps
become longer, confident, and healthier.
The dark days are fewer; I have done my
work well under the guidance of a Higher Power  and
others who have walked this path previously.
I long for the day when contentment will be a
daily fact.


Remember that unique feeling of
excitement and apprehension,
spawned by a new
opportunity where your toes are on the
starting line and it's time to go and
you have no idea, really, where this is
going, but you are going?! And you
can't wait to see what's coming
next, savoring each moment for the
new taste and experience as your eyes
eagerly seek the next.
You want to be immersed in the newness
all at once, it's so good, and
never leave or move on.
Recalling one incident of that
feeling, at my own
high school graduation
when I was so young and innocent and
so certain of the possibilities that
lay before me, untested and beckoning
me to new life. Attending a number of high
school graduations in the next few weeks and
each one of them will bring up this
memory of the orgasmic anticipation of
the rest of one's life.

(Posted for "Sketches, Images, and Impressionsat Poetry Potluck for Week 36.)

Saturday, May 21, 2011


The rings on my left hand
have been catching my eye
today with flashes of light
and the warm smooth feel of
gold on my skin.
It's been almost four years
since we made our vows of love.
Marriage mostly feels like
joy and privilege and I am
proud to wear this sign of our
commitment and to be your wife
though some days it feels
like a too-tight manacle
when we aren't getting along.

Friday, May 20, 2011

Song of the rainy day

The sound of rain on the roof
always brings waves of emotions
and memories, some sweet, some bitter.
The ionizing effect of rain somehow
washes away depression and old despairs,
leaving energy, happiness, contentment and
the urge to bake, write, read,
beautify and organize the world.

But today I also feel a
primal sort of fear tickling at the edges
of the mind - of 'what if'
it doesn't stop raining and then if there's
a flood or destruction or something
I can't anticipate or imagine or prepare for,
then am I going to get in trouble?
Trouble with whom? And what
sort of trouble might that be?
The child in me still thinks
anything disastrous happening
is somehow my fault.

What a crazy childhood I had
being carefully indoctrinated with the
false notion that I alone am supposedly
accountable for any mistakes and problems
around me, even of others, and if I
would just be good and perfect
everything would be normal.

Thursday, May 19, 2011

If that's what you want

When I excitedly informed you that
I was getting married, I had
hoped for happy words along the lines of
An eye roll, a shrug, and
'if that's what you want'
wasn't a response I had anticipated.
I should have, knowing you.
That hurt. But you've hurt me many times with
your confident assurance of my damnation.

So, when you told us you weren't going to
fight the cancer and were perfectly
willing to die,
how did you expect me to respond?
I respected your decision, I can't
imagine yelling, screaming, or pleading
for you to stay and
fight when you so obviously
didn't want to be here anymore.
Though I miss your laughter, I don't
miss your cutting and thoughtless
responses to the joy-filled
events in my life.

As I watch the rain drenching the
new grass on your grave, your words
come strongly to my mind:
if that's what you want.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

How do you measure a year?

So many things have happened
growing up
the sun came up
the stars shone
the grass grew
I never thought I could survive
without my mother
on this earth
and even though we didn't get along
she was still my mother.
As the cliche says,
life goes on.

(Poem inspired by the song, Seasons of Love.)

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Last will and testament

do hereby make, 
publish and declare this to be 
my Last Will and Testament, 
hereby expressly 
revoking all wills and codicils 
heretofore made by me.
I appoint God as my Executor. 
I do give and bequeath to my husband,
daughters, grandchildren, sisters, brothers,
nieces, nephews, and friends, the following:
  • beautiful white hair and laugh lines
  • many peals of laughter
  • libraries of books and a hunger to read and learn
  • a sense of humor
  • love of cooking and eating
  • numerous green thumbs
  • knowledge of who you are
  • the ability to soothe any crying baby & lots of them to hold & cuddle
  • the urge to create and craft
  • the means to beautify your homes and our world
  • unending poise and class
  • spirituality and a belief in a God of your understanding
  • a tree house
  • tandem bicycles
  • fields of flowers
  • gardens bursting with every good thing
  • peace and contentment
If any dispute shall arise among you 
regarding the division of such property, 
my Executor shall have the power to 
make a final and binding determination 
as to the distribution of such property.

Any of my heirs may disclaim or renounce 
in whole or in part any gift, benefit, provision, or 
power, but why would you?

It is my wish that you all try to get along
with each other and have as
full and happy of a life as I did
for as long you may live.
(Poetry prompt: write a poem in the form of an official document.)

Monday, May 16, 2011


The tiny brown puppy
snuffles around your white
sock clad ankles,
miniature tail wagging hopefully
and liquid eyes cranking the neck
back to an impossible angle
trying to catch your eye
a million miles up from her perspective
on the floor, surrounded by children
begging her to look at them.

I remember that you didn't want
a dog but you patiently allowed us
to keep her after she was brought
in a box of her siblings
to us at the baseball fields
in Rexburg when you were retrieving
me from a summer visit with my cousins.
She loved you so so much
and you were her mom (and mine) even when
you didn't want to be.

Another loss mourned
she's been gone over twenty years though
I look for her happy bouncy face (and you)
every time I drive down
Dad's driveway.

Truth could have saved the child

Each time I defend my daughter
or express concern about yours,
I get in trouble.

What is pride worth?

Yours has an eating disorder and
multiple persons have told me about it.
I carefully bring up the topic, only to
hear I have no idea what 
I am talking about.

Your daughter accuses mine of theft
while mine tells me where the item in
question is hidden at your house,
hidden by your daughter to get
mine in trouble. 
Upon revealing this to you, I am informed 
that I am delusional and that I
must somehow be enabling my own
daughter's purported stealing.

Yours is sneaking around with boys.
You tell me I'm a troublemaker, 
even though I've seen her 
with my own eyes
climbing in the back of a truck 
with the boy you assured me 
she was no longer seeing.

Your daughter is caught having sex
with that same boy under a school
staircase right at the same time that
mine got accepted to Girls' State and
now mine desperately wishes
no one knew your daughter is
her cousin.

Everyone knows about that one
even you can't deny it happened
but you tried, from what I hear.

I didn't even ask you about this event -
being her mother is probably
punishment enough.

My codependent child tells me, in tears,
that your precious child is 
cutting herself with a razor.

This time, I don't tell you.
I tell the counselors at school,
begging them to protect my identity
but needing to create a record somewhere
anywhere outside of my head
of the tragedy I can clearly see coming.

Your daughter gets caught carving 'help' in her arm
in a school bathroom.

She gets sent away for treatment.

And when I express my care and concern
for your lovely troubled daughter,
I am told that I am a
jealous liar.

Sunday, May 15, 2011

Fortified forfeited nobility

When I was a kid
you regularly told us we all
must have been kidnapped
from noble houses because
in your opinion
we all acted like a bunch of 
So, who kidnapped whom, do you think?
That particular effort to guilt
us into cooperation was doomed to
failure - it seems we all did think we
were princesses and went on to
marry our (frog) princes and
live in palaces of dreams and hopes.
Now the only noble houses we reside in
are our own humble abodes, 
grounded in reality not clouds
each knowing our home is our castle
our only nobility the fortress of the mind
defending us from the dungeons of pain and shame
of childhood religion codependency.
You are now barricaded safely in the fortress of 
death while your groom, your prince circles the moat,
mourning the drawbridge not let down
for him, not knowing what we already know -
we are not allowed in and that you turned out
in your opinion
to be the princess kidnapped from your Father
by a mortal, common family.

(Written and posted for the Poetry Potluck 5-15-11 
theme of "Fortresses, Castles, Palaces and Royal Houses."
Also posted for Thursday Poet's Rally.)

Counting down.

It's only three days now
unreal that you have been
gone nearly a year
I hear your voice in my dreams
regularly and when I watch
the video of your laughter,
I just can't believe you aren't
still around somewhere
and you can't possibly be
tucked into the ground or
God's arms or wherever
it is you went when you
left us all

Already reliving
those last few days, a mental
'stations of the cross' of
your passing
the incredible pain and
amazing surrender
those quiet last few hours
with a singing priest and
protective spirits in a
glowing cloud
above your room
and around your home.
I can see it like it is still
happening though I
didn't see it then.

Sometimes I wish I
didn't remember so much.

Beliefs unchained

Guilt once a unwelcome Sunday companion.

Refusal to attend obligatory services
tightened the straight jacket of childhood shame
around the disobedient mind.

Often sick on Sunday, hungover after
drinking and dissolution, mentally
self-oppressed by perceived wasted money,
time, reputation, sexual indiscretion.

Weekend almost over.
Not a damn thing accomplished, the
scramble of chores yard work
homework bill payment
finally reluctantly dutifully dialing
family to withstand the only conversation topics
the day's Gospel reading, the sermon, and the
latest gossip, ferreting out by silence that some
hadn't endured Mass.

Unspoken condemnation spawned by the
disconnecting dial tone rounded out the
roster of sins burdening the darkened soul.

Arising peaceful  and well
not hungover
not guilty
not shamed
prayer and meditation
join friends in a morning meeting bursting with
fellowship and spirituality and
love and light
afterward breakfast together a
group of like minds
laughing uproariously at self-disclosed
peccadilloes while supposedly hidden in a
restaurant corner while other patrons
watch and wonder what the
secret is.

Saturday, May 14, 2011


Five months in,
sitting at the kitchen table in
complete defiance, wrestling
conscience and fury, I barely
listened as you stood over me, telling me how
exquisitely you grasped my struggle for
sobriety as you had recently, finally
successfully conquered your own
addiction, sugar.

Perhaps you were hoping for
solidarity and forgiveness.

However, abandoning all restraint of
tongue at this tender confidence, I
unleashed a torrent of abuse, assuring you that
you couldn't possibly know what I was
going through  - pshaw! sugar?? -
and that I wouldn't be
battling this problem at all if you hadn't
spearheaded the intervention.
Your wounded face slunk out the door,
leaving me to my pain-filled, lonely victory.

You were right that day.
And I was a bitch full of wounded pride
How I wish I had the opportunity today to
tell you how absolutely correct you were,
chatting over a glass of
water and compare notes on our
respective abstinences.

(Poetry prompt: Write a poem about a specific but minor memory you have from more than five, but less than ten years ago.)

Friday, May 13, 2011

Mom blues

Woke today in black, deep depression
Haven't been like this for a long time and
can't seem to shake it off.
Evaluating what is going on to prompt this.
Life is good here, very good - no problems.
Then...remembered that tonight is the
anniversary of her last fall.
While the family was all at a concert
(she begged everyone to go and have fun)
she tried to get out of bed while alone
and fell
and laid there
and hurt
and failed.
The end was only a few days off then.
It hurts to remember
even when I don't know I'm remembering or

When you're not paying attention

Some things recently really understood:
the fit and sexy eighteen year old body is gone
drinking days are truly done
mom has been dead almost a year
the daughter is nearly an adult at long last
it doesn't matter if the house is spotlessly clean
recovery works
marriage is not at all as anticipated
writing again is wonderful after years of
not being able to be creative
but most importantly
I've never been happier.

(Poem prompt from Poetic Asides: write a poem about 'when you're not paying attention.')

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Stepchild blues

I understand your rage at
your father for
not being there for you
when you were a kid.

I feel the same anger at my parents.

It's very unfair, isn't it?

In many ways, we are still
uncertain children, urgently
craving unconditional
love from our parents, wanting to
learn to how to live
(rather than just survive) and to
heal our old hurts.

I can't change my parents.

You can't change yours.

I can't make them love me the way I (still)
desperately need them to love me.

You can't make him be whatever it is you lack.

I had to make my own life
my own happiness and
find my own God who
(loves me wildly and completely and)
compassionately parents me
every day.

You must seek the same.

Blessings on you, dear one.
I know your pain.

Tuesday, May 10, 2011


God is bigger than gender
larger than ethnicity
greater than skin color
more powerful than religious squabbles
transcends sexuality and
does not limit one's calling to human
definitions or restrictions.

There is no shame in being female and
no privilege or power in being male.
Only God is infallible.
Sacred is a personal determination,
not the unilateral conviction of those who fear
others might think too carefully about
how tightly they are being controlled.

(Posted for Poetry Potluck's "Dictatorship, Autocracy, and Despotism" theme for 6-12-11)


Why? a thousand excuses
a million rationalizations for
excessive using/behavior. The
problem is honesty:
what is subtly deeply hidden underneath
drives the drive to obliterate
brain cells physical health consciousness
to survive another night.
Not surviving is also the goal.
Revelation rarely transpires.

Why? Physical financial social devastation
not sufficient to bring to mind the
sufferings of previous days weeks months years decades.
Reality jailbreak necessary, this
physical manifestation of a
mental obsession
with escape disassociation blackout.

Why? The festering wounds of childhood and
love will not be healed aired honored by immersion in
alcohol substances sex food excess.
Camouflage accumulates
acute pain becomes timeless
we become so numb we don't even
know we are hurting ourselves.

(Posted for Free Write Friday, "Addiction", 7/29/11)

Monday, May 9, 2011

Hope springs eternal

Walking through the high school
this morning to deliver something to the Kid,
assaulted by blue and gold school
colors on every surface,
I could smell the sounds of teen-aged
men and women, young and
carefree and hormonal.
A funny twinge in my chest, I
observed a young man flinging himself
down a hallway en route to class,
a hurricane of arms and
legs and joy at being alive.
Surprising myself,  I unearthed an
impulse to attend high school again
just for a day or two and
experience briefly that bright rainbow of
innocence and hopefulness and irresponsibility
that belongs to those not yet betrayed or
chained by the world, wishing my only
worries were finals and prom and lunch.
I strode back into the real world,
the spring rain misting my skin,
the green grass soothing my prickling eyes,
remembering being seventeen when
anything was possible.

(Entered in the Poetry Potluck for this week.)

Sunday, May 8, 2011


Wanting to adorn your grave
in flowers, I went shopping and
discovered a most interesting
option - solar light flowers.
I loved the idea of lighted blossoms
keeping you company at night so,
armed with a handful,
I added my offerings
to the small riot of silk flowers
already present and
remembered the small child
bringing a handful of carefully selected
for mommy to
proudly display in a
water glass on the
dining room table.
The child cried today;
she misses Mom too.

I won!
Link to the winning submission: Skepticism
Please check the other winner's submissions at the Promising Poets' Cafe
And...I nominate Kim Nelson for the next week's consideration!

Saturday, May 7, 2011

She's growing up

Such an incredibly
stunning young woman in a
gorgeous Grecian-style dress with
her handsome beau.
They are full of joy and excitement.

Love and youth enhancing
beauty and poise.
I am tearfully happy for 
My amazing daughter.

Tears on the day before

It's not like I've really
celebrated this day much in
recent years
or even ever
because I always seemed to
be mad at you for something
or vice versa.
But now that the option is
unavailable for the first time
this year
I find myself wishing I could
surround you with flowers and strawberries and ducklings
massage your feet
light vanilla candles
cook you dinner and
listen to endless funny stories of
when you were a kid and of when
I was a kid.

Friday, May 6, 2011


I wish
I could lay my head
in your lap just
one more time and
feel you stroke my hair.

Thursday, May 5, 2011

Starter marriage package

Cinco de Mayo my ass
Uncertainty self doubt hope
led to those vows
I cared for you
but feared no one else
ever would love me again or
even ask me to get married
as you had.
You said you loved me but really
you were just as afraid of being alone
and being found out for who you really
were,  both of us desperate and lonely liars.
Standing in front of the judge
in Loveland Colorado (the irony
has never left me), judged and ignored
and abandoned by our parents,
we didn't have a clue or a basis for a
lifetime relationship.
I wish the knowledge of this old
anniversary date would leave me
as I left you so long ago. At least it doesn't
hurt like it did then.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

Absentee father

On the other hand,
he's probably just busy mourning his 
bride's death and
dealing with the ensuing paper storm.
Certainly, he is hyper-involved in religious stuff
(did you know he's becoming a lay monk?)
Carving a headstone for the grave
Babysitting a variable and veritable 
posse of grandchildren.
Physical therapy for his back.
Shuttling various 'old' ladies to 
church and medical appointments.
Dating after forty eight years off the market.
Daily Mass to top off his spiritual tanks.
Mowing the yard.
Feeding the geese.
Plotting a pilgrimage abroad.
Just like all the years he was
in the military
working twelve hour days
hunting game in the mountains
traveling all week for a job
serving his wife's every need and demand.
Checked out.
Yes, that's why his children never hear from him
even now that she-who-must-be-obeyed is gone.
He's just busy,
not mad at or avoiding or indifferent.
Every single day
a year later.

(Poem prompt from Poetic Asideswrite an "on the other hand" poem)

!This poem was submitted to the Thursday Poet's Rally.)

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

doubts fears inhibitions hesitations

There's days when
past and pain and paralysis
befall the muse.
Usually, the bad old days and the
creative impulse
spark each other toward
distinct revelations
uncommon word amalgams
fresh awareness, all while
arm in arm with the
Spirit of the Universe.
The predominant urge today is to
sleep forget numb eat medicate,
while old crazy-making mind tapes
drone about how
dumb useless crazy lazy foolish
to ever
think write grow say create
anything that anyone would want to
read hear see experience taste.
The muse struggles, drowning
in shallow muddy pools of
negativity and self doubt.
And then
the rain comes to
ionize and cleanse and
offer a life preserver
of unsoiled inspiration.

Monday, May 2, 2011

M/bake until golden

In the kitchen while
cooking, baking, creating,
I still hear her voice clearly,
gently instructing on technique,
the how to's of
cutting fat into flour for biscuits
kneading springy bread
cookie dough stiff not sticky,
mix muffin batter until barely combined,
her hands, buffed oval nails
eerily superimposed over
my small eager fingers,
quietly humming while
layering a crock pot with dinner
ingredients, stirring a simmering sauce
setting the table
dishes napkins silverware condiments
positioned 'just so', she assured little me,
the condensation beading on a
meal-time pitcher of
ice and water, trickling down the
exterior glass like tears,
cinnamon and yeast the scents of
morning and mourning.

Sunday, May 1, 2011


You've never given me any reason
to doubt you
but my history and fears assuredly
frame shadows, problems, ghosts
somehow incomprehensible to you
but very real to me.
The emotional inhibitions  and 
hyper vigilance of 
younger years make trust a difficult
privilege to extend or believe in,
especially once betrayed.
I hesitate even at your 
alleged openness,
cautiously and determinedly
looking for the catch
in innocent friendship.

Sacred places

The holy things in my life are honored
with dedicated spaces.
A writing desk is an altar,
a beautiful roll top desk requested
from a family member.
The muse is esteemed with a cleared area
books and papers organized
pens and pencils and computer
each in their place.
Cleansing, scented white candle often lit to
clear and protect the space as well as 
focus inspiration.
Beautiful scrolled bookends
holding precious books on
writing and grammar and inspiration.
Family respects the dedication
to the craft by not invading this sanctuary
with their possessions or energy.
A simple dresser in the bedroom
draped with a swatch of inherited lace
holds candles and cards and mala beads
meditation books
a rededicated chalice
from a Christian friend. 
Spirituality is very personal, 
not to be confused with religion. 
Morning and evening 
thoughts are focused on a Power
greater than self
surrendering will and life
daily and to dedicating anew to