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.
Columbine Nursery Rhyme Oh, Johnny brought a gun to school His teacher cried, “You are a fool! I also have a gun,” she said And shot dear Johnny in the head. Then little kids cried out with glee “We love a school-wide shooting spree! There's really nothing now to fear...
This poem I shared at last month's Open Mic Night at Dagney's. If you enjoy hearing poetry from all ages, and all walks of life, I invite you to come out next First Friday at 6:00 pm at the downtown Dagney's ( Eye and 19th I believe). The casual event lasts about an...
Four statuesque Sisters stroll in the cafe Ebony elegant In slim jeans, boots and backpacks One's t-shirt reads “Act like a lady Think like a boss” In bold white letters On a black background They order four grande frappuccinos Drape themselves around two...
I notice them sitting in the corner
One man is wearing a lime green helmet
And a red t shirt
His face is pinched
And his chin slips away
Resting on his chest
As he slumbers…
I’m just the lowly substitute.
I struggle to establish control
Over a flock of fluttering finches
Who sense there is a new hand in their cage
Upsetting the air.
They swoop and peck
At each other
Pushing the boundaries…