Death owns the mossed headstones
orphaned by time and muted stories
no longer spoken in mortal’s rockery.

Fallen epitaphs .... names surrender
to nature’s bloom and winter frost,
broken granite bouquets tied with wild roses.

Where pain no longer visits, peace speaks
poetry through meadowlark and aspen sigh,
souls long gone now rest as poems cradled
in the arms of Mother Earth.

You weren’t there
when I stood tall
in a scribbled note.

I was sixteen,
blushed naïve
with first love,
yet wise enough
for dignity.

Your “*** I’m
too busy to call”
worked for two
weeks, but intuition
spoke louder,
“He’s lying.”

With every bit of courage
a black Bic held in ink
I wrote…
          Dear Randy,
               If you don’t respond
               to this note, you’ll never
               hear from me again.
                                   Susie
The phone didn’t ring.
A letter never found
my mailbox.

As a heart does at sixteen
mine broke into a thousand tears.

I swam the river of shattering
until my spirit fell on the shore.

After being resuscitated from why,
I rose stronger, proud I trusted
the lighthouse within me and
not the tormentor who didn’t
care if I drowned.

There is not a firm step in Autumn.
The snowfall of bright falling leaves
invites me to dream as I rake
them into blankets for winter’s nursery.

The anger I so often carry in my steps
surrenders to the sleepy hours of shorter days,
the gentle voice of house slippers whispering
across my bedroom floor.

This year of sterile rooms and moans
quietly disappears into the mist
of kinder memories, hot chocolate mornings
that speak you don’t have to hurry now.

So many believe it is a new year that commands
resolutions, new beginnings, but it is when
trees explode into their confetti last hurrah
I begin to feel the first flutter of new wings.

The moon flirts
with me in muted
winks through
a window shade.

Most hunger for
the sun’s heat,
but it’s the frosted
light of midnight
that warms me.

My silhouette dances
on the kitchen wall
to the music of
a distant wind chime.

In the silver blush
of secrets I don’t
face eyes that judge
or words that scar.

Draped in sapphire shadows
I hear words yet written,
feel dream chills on my skin,
and imagine tomorrow
threatening stars with sunrise.

But now that I’m here,
freedom feels fragile,
and the dreams are quieter
than the fear that found me.

Today is starfish crackers,
jumping off verbal cliffs,
and watching snowflakes
get stuck in their own glue.



Is it Friday, or Tuesday?
It’s hard to tell in the Texas hell
of waltzing with the devil’s politics
while wondering if sending your
television to a watery grave
will stop you from reaching
for another shot of tequila.



Yen or urge.
It’s funny the word
could mean money
or a strong desire
to eat a cookie.



I’m pretty sure I’m
an attempted cubist painting.
I live in a 3d reality,
but the artist ran
out of paint to cover
my geometry.

The space between
me and the mirror
holds assumptions,
questions, a palette
of colors that promise
they can paint away
my imperfections.

In the vanity of brushes
time sings of a much
younger me, but the
mirror is patient
as it waits for my
eyes to look into
its silver frame of reality.

In the rawness of morning
when I look into the mirror
I see my dad, my mother’s
bluntness, my daughter
who now travels across the moon.

I am growing more gracious
with the woman in the mirror.
I will never grow younger,
but I can grow bolder.

There’s no expiration date
on a dream or a day there
isn’t something to learn.

Mirror, I don’t seek you as
often as I once did…I now
spend my time trying to
be a person who reflects
the spirit of the best in me.