I’ve been dead to reality, tossed onto deeper shores of subconciousness 

I awoke, saying “oh, shit” repeatedly, to no one. 
I’ve been rallied by events, by interactions, by conversation 
I don’t know how to look back at my time of sleep 

With remorse, or with curiosity. 
I am pulled by the current of the loves in my life 

And I am thankful. 



maybe i can’t catch the


and i know i don’t want

to psychoanalyze myself

through poetry


so then i’m caught

between a rock

and a hard place


death scares me

and then i forget


love scares me

and then i look again


my brain scares me

and then i feel love



and care nothing

about the quintessence or psychoanalysis


Simplicity of tomatoes


My husband likes to joke. I usually get his jokes, so it works out great for everyone. In this poem my husband created, Steve makes a seemingly simple interaction with a neighbor as more than what it is at surface level. During the summer, our neighbor shares his garden-spun tomatoes with us. This act of giving has become a custom that Steve and I both appreciate. In the following poem Steve describes it with a different brush:


He flirts with her
Over the fence.
Usually with a tomato
Or his octogenarian common sense.


I tease that
He’s her boy friend.
She blushes and spouts
“Oh, I would never even pretend.”


“Don’t worry my love,
about a single thing.”
“As you can see,
I wear your magic ring!”


Oh God, thank you
For this love of my life.
I can rest assured
No one will ever steal my wife.



For music

For movies which move me

For melodrama which makes me who I am

For musing which allows me to process after bouts of melodrama


For Nature

For walking outside

For the change of seasons

For unpreparedness, the only state I seem to exist in


For connections

For my husband, my mom

For good conversations, and attempts to make sense of confusion, inside and out

symbiotic relationship


Everything really askew


Unlike abject normalcy


Never maneuvered into the easy


Always discombobulated at the difficult


Maybe someone would find my life easy


But I contend that that someone will never be me!




I think about a bridge


And the gaps between the boards making it


I think about the give of the bridge


This old-fashioned crickety image I have


Harbors in me a resilience




Because I know that I need the old, forgiving, and yes, even


Dangerous bridge to make my journey right


It fits me well—the spaces.


I know I could fall


Sometimes I don’t look, though;


I know this bridge well.




I accept its existence as it leans into mine.






But not wanting to go

Too deep.


I want to stand on the fishes.



As per usual.

Am I just not as good?



Tears threaten my surface



Which is why standing on fishes is a very good way to go.


Surface composure is only that.

Angling for more will scare the fishes

Away from me.


And then I’ll be left.



Honestly I think drowning

Is more involved with

Being without self-confidence.


If I can believe in myself,

Maybe those fishes will stay with me.