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Poetry

I was raised a preacher’s kid. I remember sitting in the front pew as a young girl, listening to my father give eulogies at funerals. His sermons told the stories of all kinds of people—their hopes, dreams and accomplishments. They filled me with a sense of completion, and even joy. I suppose my poems are mini eulogies for people who have touched me—both living and dead. For me, writing poems is cathartic. It allows me to create a work of art out of something that may have been painful or hard to understand at the time. Poetry gives meaning to the inscrutable.


Oleander Ladies

Oleander Ladies The hardy oleander bush Flourishes along highways Oblivious to the exhaust Of passing automobiles Vibrantly hued flowers Bend on graceful stalks Like the long-limbed ladies That stroll along Union Avenue They glance enticingly At passing customers Who...

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Kit Fox

The following two poems I have submitted to CSUB's spring publication featuring poems on the theme of California's flora and fauna. I chose the kit fox and the oleander. Kit Fox It flickers across the field Swiftly moving As if its feet don't even touch the ground...

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Coffee Cafe Customers: The Retired Paratrooper

He sits sipping thick mushroom soup Barrel-chested with stocky legs In shorts with socks and sandals His bald pate like a shiny egg With compact stature From leaping out of planes Carrying a parachute on his back Invading Granada Attacking in Iraq “There's nothing...

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Coffee Cafe Customers: The Little Girl

She stretches and wiggles Clinging to her mother's knee Gaping at the saucer-sized cookies In the refrigerator case Her eyes are a-gog Suddenly she spies my cookie And, quick as a flash, She prances over and takes a bite Smiling at me A total stranger But keeper of...

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Coffee Cafe Customer: The College Coed

The afternoon sunlight highlights her brunette hair cascading over her brow and falling over one shoulder She absently pulls her fingers through the tangled strands as she frowns at the physics textbook before her The figures spin and intertwine like the knots in her...

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Coffee Cafe Customers: The Middle Aged Mother

She sits in the back corner of the cafe Like a well-worn fifth edition Of the Betty Crocker Cookbook Greasy paged, notes scribbled in the margins Open to the recipe for tater-tot casserole And how to stretch hamburger To feed a hungry family Only now the children are...

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Coffee Cafe Customers: The Quilter

I wrote this poem after reconnecting with a friend over Easter vacation.  I have been struggling to write a poem about her for years...it finally flowed. Coffee Cafe Customers:  The Quilter My old friend sits at the table like a lump of dough. The discontent rises...

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Coffee Cafe Customers: The Jock

Coffee Cafe Customers: The Jock His athletic build bursts from the confines of his fragile cafe chair Like the bulging, cloth-bound collection Of models in twisting poses Drawn by Leonardo Swift pen marks capture The essence of movement His legs protrude From satin...

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Coffee Cafe Customers: The Hippie

Coffee Cafe Customers: The Hippie He stands erect with a white wizard beard and long snowy hair neatly pulled back in a band. He is wearing a crisp linen shirt and creased khaki pants and burnished cowboy boots. He looks like a leather-bound collector's edition of Rip...

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Bad Brayson

Herding Cats!  That's what subbing for Kindergarten is like. And today there was one boy who refused to do a single worksheet.  He just sat there and stuck all his crayons between his fingers. When I asked him to start working, he calmly ripped his worksheet in half....

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