Category Archives: Poetry

A Life Dismantled

A Life Dismantled

sifting through the decades

of accumulated stuff

must haves in the moment

diamonds in the rough

for timeless treasures, only

bubble wrap will do

shake the dust and cobwebs off

comfy well worn shoes

gently slip old photographs

from worn, broken frames

happy memories mingling

with faces with no names

shedding all the dross

that held me to the past

so to travel lighter

with only things that last

yet another chapter waits

its pages to be penned

each day, the simple gift of life

to live full to the end


I must admit this downsizing thing has truly disoriented me. I find myself clinging to routine, the easiest thing to assimilate to my new surroundings. But I have yet to find that sweet spot, where words flow like honey, where my eyes see things in ways that only an artist and writer can. Living off the grid, the big, starry black-mantled silence, the sunrises over distant mountains in the morning. For now they only manage to take my breath away. There are no words apart from the few sing-songy rhymes I manage to eke out. I know she’s in there…somewhere in the recesses of my mind…the muse who so relentlessly pursued me amidst the clutter and cacophony of city life. But here in the country? She must be cavorting with the faeries, giggling from behind downed tree hollows at my dizzy dry spell. I had every intention to start January 1st, full steam ahead. Part of the issue, I think, may be that I still need to unload the stuff we left behind and sell the dark, drafty, century old house I called home for over a decade. I need to be free of it. And so, I will drop a line now and again until I regain my footing. Peace and love to you. Until next glimpse…❤️

The New House

The New House

No creaky floors, no walls

that groan with century old tales,

no glaring street lights dimming

the star-flecked, velvet veil.

No nosy neighbors peaking

through shuttered curtain slits,

the quiet here is deafening

but for a hawk’s shrill twit.

The timpani of woodpeckers,

a lone owl’s soft hoot hoo,

gray squirrels cluck from lofty boughs

and deer folk bound from view.

Here, just enough is everything

a body needs and more,

simplicity’s perfection gleams

from white-washed walls and doors.

It’s rather like a dream here still,

of drywall, sticks and stone.

She stood here empty on a hill

until I called her home.


(Settling in, finding my voice amidst new surroundings…and perhaps a tiny nudge from a sleepy muse!)



I am a tree in autumn,
limbs stiffening from
dawn’s first frost,
clinging wistfully to
the dying remnants of
summer, old photographs,
books, trinkets, effigies
of a life lived long and
full, roots deeply
entrenched in the
familiar, yielding to
the wind whispering, it is
time to let go, to render
to yesterday its relics,
to turn the brittle page
in naked abandon, to rest
my soul in the cool present,
to sleep, to dream of
another glorious spring


Döstädning, which means “death cleaning” in English, is a method of downsizing and organizing from the Swedish author and artist Margareta Magnusson. Death cleaning isn’t about getting rid of all your stuff, but rather streamlining your life so you’re only holding onto what makes you happy.

I am moving from my big two story home in a month into a sweet little one level home on a hill in foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Hence, I’ve been a little less prolific in my writing here, obviously preoccupied with the details of moving. I am hoping my daughters appreciate my efforts to leave a smaller footprint for them to dispose of when I’m gone. And as for the years I have left (which I hope are many) I am excited to begin a new, simpler chapter. Peace!

Here’s my new view…

Cinqku Finit

the muse
is silent
there are no words
but for the wind’s taunting


I’m afraid I missed a few days of my challenge of a poem a day. Life, I’m afraid, got in the way. But I am trying to be gentle with myself, telling myself it is okay to let the words in my head settle a bit. To rest. To sleep a bit, perhaps even dream a dream or two. I’m not sure if I will challenge myself to a micro-poem a day in October, or just let the Muse lead me where she will. A time to rest…must be the season. 🍂🍁🍂

Sunday’s Week in ReVerse – 29 September 2019

Is it Sunday already?! This week has been a whirlwind! Long hours at work…I know, I know, I’m sure you’re getting tired of hearing about that. Why don’t I retire already! Believe me I’m counting the days! 1,099 days to be exact. But as a middle-middle class citizen in this country, I will need to work past my official retirement age. It’s the reality of the baby boomer generation, and it draws the ire of younger generations who wish we would just move on, and free up the jobs they covet. We’re not leaving, because we can’t afford to. Sorry kids.

But I have to admit, I’m getting tired of the bullshit. Of working long hours to line the pockets of greedy shareholders. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful to have a job. But things need change in this country where the rich get richer and the rest of us toil.

It’s why I am a progressive. It’s why I care about those who are struggling. It’s why I believe we are all deserve a chance at life, liberty and happiness…those things that our constitution promises us. It’s why I choose to be kind. Why my heart breaks again and again as I watch people vote to support a government that separates children from parents, that believes women are best controlled and kept in their place, that destroys our natural resources, that refuses to acknowledge science, that cozies up to dictators while dismissing our long standing alliances with other democracies, our allies, our friends. It’s got to change, and I believe it will. We are on the cusp, I think. And it’s Autumn. My favorite season. Letting go…I’m still working on that. It’s harder than the trees make it look.

Peace to you. Tomorrow is a new week. Yay…

Sunday’s Week in ReVerse – 29 September 2019

be still my heart
one step closer to
letting go
sparing none
the winds of autumn
edge of tangled twilight
no looking back
found in a moment
bits of soul
life unaware
no peace


A ReVerse poem is a summary poem with a single line lifted from each entry of a collection of work over a particular timeframe and re-penned in chronological order as a new poem. Unlike a collaborative poem, the ReVerse features the words of one writer, providing a glimpse into their thoughts over time. I use it as a review of the previous week.

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