Golden tendrils on her shoulder
no rhyme, no reason, just getting older
her half-pint work of exhaltation
now serves as mere constant frustration.
I hold a book to my chest,
wondering how much time to invest.
Should I help her get her daughter to sleep-
for sure our friendship that will reep.
I will only be stepping on toes.
and this is how the childless thinking goes.
Tickle your toes. . .
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driving home from the farmer's market- I can't see anything- through this storm- I come home to sleep- with you-rest in your arms fu... -
hunger is sometimes preferable to loneliness. a stomach will twist- but hands become dirty and heavy when full of coins.
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there ain't no other place like you to roam. where I dug in my heels and said "No, I won't come home!" Dancing in the warb...
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Tickling toes- there was something about that barefooted madness something about that wistful waist-high wishing and wooshing in the woods, ...
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husband and I trek a mile for ice cream just for the creamy banana, crunchy pecans, and chunks of thumb-sized chocolate. shoes flipping and...
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two squinting painted eyes looking solemn on a leathery face. this knight of the golden age has a 20 gallon bucket of a hat atop his slicked... -
as I left the waterfront and I climbed up the sandy stair as always his brothers were first; to greet me. I've had past dealings with th...
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Recently I have been really attempting to delve into what it means to be a poet. Jim Morrison once wanted to be a poet, and look where it go...
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Under a blanket it was at high altitudes in love or nauseous? I once held his hand his touch was so soothing-but with a lion's face. and...
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In my dreams I am the fictional version of myself. The one I seek to be in my short-stories and prose. The one who gets her point across but...
Poets United Contributor
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