Smoke And Mirrors

Those who follow my blog might see,
My recent switch to poetry,
This blog will serve as reference,
To justify this preference.

I can write a poem that will pour,
With imagery and metaphor,
And if you’re smart you’ll get the gleaning,
I don’t even know the meaning.

But it’s my hope these works get known,
And make it into sacred tomes,
Where critics will be none the wiser,
As they pull it apart to decipher,

What secrets these words may keep,
Since they are in fact so deep,
Analyzed over and over again,
By the smartest of women, the greatest of men,
Professors and students of English lit,
Who will never know it’s all bullshit.


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The F Word

A writing challenge
How absurd
To write a blog
in fifty words?
It’s so unfair
I’m at a loss
Can’t even get
A point across.
A battle in
My mind ensues
The outcome is
I always lose.
Come up with something
Then I’m stuck
And word fifty one
Is always…..


Photo Credit:

Write! (Two Poems)


Wake up in the night feeling inspired,

Walk around the next day blissfully tired,

Release my thoughts to a sea of bloggers,

Only to find they are barely acknowledged.

But those thoughts couldn’t be kept in side of my head!

Sure as I’m alive, they needed to be said!

And this is a fact that is indisputable

Based on that one person that might say, “That’s beautiful.”



The Metamorphosis of A Writer

Who can I be today?
Maybe a child out to play?
Or maybe I’m a bit depressed
And you won’t see me at my best.

Maybe I’m a single girl
Breaking hearts around the world
Or will I make you think twice?
Like a prophet giving sage advice?

Scathing and bitter my words may strike
As you hesitate to comment much less like
Or attempts at humor that may be
Dismissed as nothing more than silly.

Maybe I’m a mother so filled with adoration
Or a fellow writer giving inspiration
Or maybe I hit on something real
That makes you say “That’s EXACTLY how I feel!”

And so Oz-like, the curtains part
And though you wait with beating heart
And steel yourself with bated breath…
You see a housewife at her desk.


Shel Silverstein, Where Have You Gone?

When I was in elementary school, there was a newsletter that came out called ‘The Headliner’ where children could submit poems. For me it was never a question of whether to submit, but rather what to submit.

Then a writer came along who validated everything I thought I knew about writing. He told me to create something no matter how crazy, he told me there could be magic in a puzzle piece lying on the sidewalk.

images-5If you Google Shel Silverstein’s ‘The Giving Tree’, you will find that countless people have tried to analyze it. There are religious connotations, environmental interpretations, and even some sickos who see the boy and the tree as having a sadomasochistic relationship. I think Shel Silverstein was just trying to show us love.

But, looking back on that book, after all these years, I think Shel Silverstein is The Giving Tree. His words, the fruits and branches that we delighted in as children, his books something we could give to our children when we get older, and the companionship of his literature, something we can take with us into old age.

Whenever my children choose this book as the one they want read to them, I’m always a little apprehensive. They look at each other in embarrassment and wonder why silly old mommy’s voice starts to catch in her throat, why tears are coming from her eyes.

Shel Silverstein has done so much for me, so much for the world, I feel like the least I can do is pay it forward, if only in a very, very small way.

Shel Silverstein, where have you gone?
Gone where the sidewalk ends?
Or in the sky polishing stars
With three headed Ann and her friends?

Shel Silverstein where are you now?
You were taken away too soon
Bored in the Land of Happy?
Or trying to catch the moon?

Your words like branches to play in,
I read them again and again,
And now that I have children of my own,
I’ll give the books to them.

And maybe when I’m old and gray,
And your books are torn with wear,
I’ll sit on an old tree stump and read them,
And pretend that you are there.

Cause there’s something whistling on the wind,
That let’s me know without a doubt,
That when I see that light in the attic shine,
You’re on the inside looking out.