Rose Wind

Winds whips us

Like chastised school children

Red-faced, we breath deep cold Spring’s air.

Before the next gust catches us unawares,

We run. Shoes tumble, dog paws gallop

Over hill and grass and weeds.

Up the slope, up toward yellow house,

Up toward bushes, Up toward last year’s roses

There, standing erect with tight heads,

An orange bloom clinging tightly to its petals,

A miser of sorts unwilling to part

With her new spring clothing.

For a moment, we pause

Until the next burst of wind

Blows us away.


Today, I am linking up with Joy in this Journey and Life UnMasked. Come share your post here.

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Dear God,


I think

You slip quietly

Into my dog’s skin.

Cold nose, soft paws,

Fur that clings to my jeans.


You choose a dog form

During bleak times,

Dark sunny days

When no comfort

Exists–save for Your

Tear-licking snout.


When You Dress up

In Dog’s clothing,

The nose-nuzzles,

The warm heart beat closeness,

So I can best

Feel Your Love.

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We are the clay people.

Dirt shod.

Dirt worked.

Dirt returned.

We are the clay people.

Wretched weak,

Formed of dust,

God’s hand-sculpted art.

We are the clay people.

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Poet Prayer’s: Good- Bye

Today, I’m linking up with Lisa Jo’s Five Minute Friday prompt. Each Friday, we write for 5 minutes, then publish…no editing allowed.

Topic: Good- Bye

Photo courtesy of Alejandra Mavroski and Flickr Creative Commons


Dear God,


We sit farther apart.

The distance grows

Like the dust

Beneath our feet.

The miles, the miles,

We tread away from each other.

You to Your Father,

Mine to do Your Work.


We whisper


A last word

To break our silence.


We shall notice

Each other’s

Bodily absence,


Another day comes

When You and I

Shall reunite.


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Sun Sick: A Poem

We are sun-sick

Photo courtesy of Flickr Creative Commons and Kevin Dooley

Rain weary,

Dried up drowning.

Our Hearts

Filled to the brim


Sweat stained dirt

Crushed under trowel

Of our laziness.

We are broken-healed

Pieces in a whole

Torn up cosmos.

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Of Poetry and Process

I am a writer. 

For almost year, I have grown comfortable in writer’s clothes, the garb of imagery, the scarf of dialogue, the perfume of ink dripped on paper. I meandered through my writing closet choosing which clothes and outfits to present on this blog. What statement would be mine unique voice? What delicate nuanced twist would captivate me again, my readers again?

I didn’t have an answer.

Like so many writers, our passion dulls. We resort to pulling out the old hats, the worn out phrases, the thrift store shoes just to keep plugging along this writing life. Of course, I could write about feminism and women’s rights and tell stories about my children just to watch my blog’s stats soar. But after while, the familiar becomes worn thin, thread bare prose. Lifeless, grim, and uninspired.

Even after asking you, my dear readers, I knew that this blog needed a change long before I posed the question. I needed to escape the familiar and dig deeper into my writerly closet. To push into the back recesses, behind the faded curtains, the cobwebs, the dust. I long stuffed behind elegant prose, random attempts at blogging about faith and women’s rights –using a voice not entirely mine own. There, in the depths, I found my new purpose to peck out words about screen. A name, a new wardrobe.

I am a poet.

I am not so comfortable with these new clothes. Maybe, I have seen too many poets parading their wares like open confessionals or watched poets vomit up rhyming nonsense. Of course, it must be poetry if it rhymes. If calling myself a writer didn’t make me a freak show, calling myself a poet AND publishing it to blog certainly qualifies me.Besides, I dabbled in poetry here on the blog always disappointed when no one commented, no one read , or no one seemed to care. And I returned the familiar writing topics that garnered more notice, but burning inside me is a poet’s soul.

Slowly, I am warming up to this idea of being a poet, and this blog will house more poetry, fewer prose pieces(I will  still  keep up the ol’writing skills, eh?), more short articles about my process or lack thereof. For now, this is my blog’s story–of poetry and process.

So, dear reader, will you allow me the privilege of offering you a few more poems, a few more haikus, a few more  poet prayers?

Today, I am linking up with Joy in this Journey’s Life Unmasked. Link up and share your stories of every day messes.


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Putting the Writer To Bed

“But I’m not sleepy yet,” whines the youngest yawning. Bed time, the most difficult part of the day for any parent. Seriously, does it really take fifty bazillion reminders to go back and brush teeth, or go back and brush hair, or go back and actually use the potty? Why, yes, it does. As if each extra stop will delay the inevitable—going to bed.


Some nights, I imagine how the perfect parents would put their perfect 2.4 kids to bed.My dream perfect parent/kid bed time routine:

  • Shower- Yes, wash your hair and USE soap!
  • Brush teeth- Remind both kids whose toothbrush belongs to each(stereotypically gendered colors are a life-saver!)
  • Potty- Sit there long enough so you don’t get up 20 bazillion times during the night.
  • Lights out-Almost there…I can see the end in sight.
  • Door shut- Ahhh, sweet silence…enjoy some wine now.

Can I get a yeah, right, like that will ever happen?Bed time is hodgepodge of craziness siphed into the most intense hour of parenting ever. The reality bedtime routine in my house:

  • Shower—Wait, you didn’t use soap? Get back in there! USE the SOAP!
  • Lights out—what are the chances the kids did everything before they got in bed?
  • Potty—too good to be true, here up and go.
  • Lights out—now, we can get the wine, right?
  • Brush teeth—just as I thought they are delaying again. Wine is now a must.
  • Lights out—better sit here till I’m sure the kids are sleeping.
  • Get in trouble for playing—told y’all they weren’t going to bed THAT easy.
  • Door shut—utter silence and too tired for wine.

Yes, the kids DO make it into the bed, lights out, and go to sleep.

Ahh, the silence and my time to write! Now, to sit down and crank out some amazing prose. Maybe, I’m the only one, but writing is very similar to putting a child to bed. In my mind, I have a brilliant plan to write, to create moving characters, but I need things to be just so..aren’t all writers a bit OCD about their writing? Here’s my imagined perfect writing routine:

  • Desk—neat, organized, clutter free. All of my notes labeled and ready.
  • Chair—ergonomically correct so my wrists, body, and neck are perfectly aligned for maximum comfort.
  • Laptop—again, clean and dust free.
  • Ideas—free flowing into perfect prose.

Would you care to take a guess how many times this actually happens? If you guessed zero, nada, zilch—you are today’s winner!(Note: it was more of a rhetorical question so the prize is a rhetorical prize. Just give yourself a pat on the back and move on).

What actually happens:

  • Desk—“when did my desk become the landfill for all this school crap?Aww, man, there’s glitter on my laptop again.”
  • Clean—stack clutter neatly out of sight, turn laptop upside down to shake the glitter out of the keys.
  • Chair–”where did my chair cushion go? Wonder if a writer can collect disability for carpal tunnel syndrome…”
  • Random internet search—worker’s rights and a search on WebMD. An aching wrist is a symptom of cancer? What? Aww, shit!
  • Depressed—my writing is killing my wrist, so my wrist is killing me. Walk past the freezer, ice cream cures all. Caramel, chocolate something won’t hurt…gonna die anyways.
  • Clean desk—ice cream to the right of the laptop, now writing, but how am I supposed to write with one hand and eat ice cream?
  • Time suck—well, hello, Pinterest and Facebook and Twitter and blogs and shopping and…..

Two hours later……

Ice cream gone, comments and mentions and repinned pretty things done. Actual writing, done? Well, none, cause it is causing my wrist cancer.


What’s your biggest hindrance to your writing goal? How can we get over it?