Poetry

There is a tree on my street,a sentinel standing readyto warn the twirls of a twister,first to shed its’ winter greysfor verdant foliage. This morning I roseearly coffee

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We run races against clocks and bosses,eyes ahead at flickering screens,deep in code and execution,where each black secondaffects the bottom line,mano a mano – no prisoners taken,avatars in

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When I was young,I wanted to be Claude Rains,unwrapping and slipping,ghost-like out the door,past Gloria Grahame’soutstretched arms,into the night,and adventures new,beyond the grip of mundanity.This morning I stepped,before

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Before infinity I walk,listening to the dove sing – softly.And in the moment of now – expression.drum beats on, deep – thudding.Before togetherness I stand,waiting for the raindrops

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dappled fog drifts,between feetcrunching on the sand;like a twining catin search of an early supper,or treat from my shirt pocket. street lights peer,between houses,sinking in the soil;like a

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Salt taste,rippling across my tongue,rolling black pebblesbursting at the edgesymbolic lifeto slake my thirsty palettelong drafts of femininityat its’ sourcereduced to here and nowencased in the soft tangslipped

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