Poetry: If you…

go where wide oak leaves fall
further than crows doth call
further still behind the wall
where shadows are so very small

you’ll reach a darkened little cove
deep inside an ancient grove
richly scented—cinnamon and clove
where moonlight threads are tightly wove

ignore raven’s sharp cry of nevermore
and search forest’s littered floor 
where muted colors dance galore
until you find nature’s hidden door

my dear child, don’t you fear
whispered voices you may hear
or tiny steps coming near
the fabled weefolk will not interfere

don’t be tempted to knock—rat-a-tat-tat
nothing good comes of that
—instead beside the welcome mat
you’ll find the perfect acorn hat

take it darling in your hand
running fast across the land
for now, you fully understand
Autumn’s magic is yours to command


This was inspired by a wonderful morning exploring the woods and collecting acorns with my dearest nephew. I think I’ll always be searching for fairy doors.

Poetry: The Man in the Moon

time—
visions confuse night
with day again

sometimes I wander in circles
my eyes tracking the empty 
black sky, looking and looking
for your white glowing face
etched by night’s ancient magic
—are you even really there?

whipping backward into myself
there’s nothing and nobody
to blame as these
too empty white walls
keep screaming your name
so loud it vibrates
every swollen trapped cell

moon—
twisted hour hand
turns slowly south

when you see my eyes 
staring at your lunar ones
be not afraid you did
anything wrong, for I’m simply 
searching for cosmic answers
—can dark transform into light?

drawing with chalk along
sidewalks, chins, knee caps
caught in seclusion’s trap  
winding around and around
my neck until breath
stutters while tiny hairs
dance along wobbly legs 

isolation—
you stopped time
I started it

blue, green twisting, and wild
maybe you, moon man, can
turn madness and untethered chaos
into an endless bright sea
—do dark craters harbor truth?

dreams used to contain
promises of another tomorrow
and another, but suffocation
robs rainbows their colorful
transformative effect until diving
underground to cool tunnels
relief comes as sound
without him here to dance


*Last weekend I saw the new film “Moonage Daydream.” This poem is my response and tribute to my favorite artist of all time and creative muse, David Bowie. The artwork was created by me.

Poetry: My Grandma’s Jinn

as a tiny girl, I’d stare at the pretty bottle
on grandma’s cherrywood dressing table
while she covered my head in foam curlers
so I’d look good for the Lord on Sundays

when she wasn’t looking I’d run pudgy
fingers along its sleek pink sides before
silently tugging at the curved pearl top 
hoping for a peek at its magical elixir

it never gave away its secrets though
and as I grew up and moved far away
thoughts of it faded like my imaginary
friend—lost in the realm of make-believe

grandma died on a Tuesday in October
while I knelt in the pumpkin patch pulling
weeds, but it wasn’t until mid-November
the small box arrived covered in stamps

wrapped in several layers of colorful silk
with a scrawled note from grandma saying
“this is for you” was her pretty pink bottle
smelling faintly like rosemary and mint

tenderly I stroke it with tears in my eyes
thinking of kneeled prayers and organ music
before curiosity takes hold and using a knife
from the kitchen, I pry open the sealed top

he springs forth with mystical blue smoke
singing foreign words with a husky bass
directly addressing the lonely parts locked
deep inside my shattered, broken heart

“Kate” he purrs while locking his sapphire
eyes on me, crawling naked across freshly
washed hardwood floors until his hands
grasp mine with a burst of golden sparks

“I’m Katie” I struggle to say through ragged
breath “Kate was my grandma”—I don’t say
she was a devout Christian who would never
keep a naked man of blue smoke in a bottle

pulling himself to his full height he laughs
like a thousand brass chimes in the wind
like the roaring of the sky before a storm
like all the words inside me spoken at once

“Kate was my lover and I her faithful jinn
but after two wishes she trapped me within
to await the perfect time when I would be free
to dance with my love along the foamy sea”

confused by his musical words, I inch back
muttering softly “she died” while looking
at anything but the fierce intensity of his
piercing eyes—”she left the bottle to me”

salty ocean air floats through open windows
calling me to run on sandy shores barefooted
as waves swell and crash, swell and crash until
falling backward I land in his strong blue arms

thick perfumed smoke billows around us
folding me into his warm embrace as it always 
has been and always will be—his sultry soft lips
brush my ear whispering “what do you wish?”

  • Inspired by my grandma Kate and the film “Three Thousand Years of Longing”

Poetry: About Time

pulling out a cool, thin sundress
from a closet filled with things
that don’t fit anymore, the pain
stabs my shoulder out of nowhere

what happened to me I silently
scream while holding back thick tears
trying to get dressed while the
searing sun radiates down my back

heaviness sits tightly about my middle
pulling me down into spiraling muddy
waters heavy with replayed trauma set
forever stuck on rewind and repeat

from across the room, I see her—
Lizzo twirls from the TV screen 
changing from dull grey to sparkling
blue while singing “about damn time”

drawn to the glamorous dancing goddess
my body sways through the discomfort
as acceptance flows with loving grace
toward my one and only body

Poetry: Apple Carrot Muffins

The same old silver grater, clear
glass bowl, dented wooden spoon used
to make round applesauce cake for
first birthdays 
today 
made muffins for freshman and senior 
year. Instead of watching from your 
wooden high chair, bass boomed behind 
closed bedroom 
doors 
while green granny smith apples, bright 
orange carrots joined honey, oats, almond
flour for you. Another day of
beautiful childhood
fleeting
before lovesick eyes not done soaking 
up all the wondrous firsts, seconds
of motherhood’s dance. Don’t blink they
tell you;
blink
blink
blink

Post-Roe Poetry: Fighting Back With Words

kittens

millions mew through
milk-bottle streets
hackle raised hunger
post-Roe madness

darting between cars
hiding within bushes
painful prurient truths
scruffy discarded mogs

forced birthing bleeds
terrors tumultuous tears
ineffable wailing woe
unwanted pink mouths

tiny hisses erupt
dry-tongued sorrow
drowned by righteous
thy will be done

***

diaper drives don’t give love

feeding crying newborn mouths
does nothing for broken souls
trapped in poverty’s unrelenting
cycle you pretend to understand

while you played summer camp
horseback rides, sailing, singing
desperation rages wildfire hot
without choices, chances, hope

sprinkling your righteous confetti
gathering tiny clothes in basements
women trapped cry into the night
why is this happening to me?

you take away choice saying
you are ready for all the babies
forcing your golden-crossed will
caring not for life’s long-term pain

persecute, punish, push your truth
while infant mortality rates soar
quality healthcare by reservation only
let the babies eat cake off free bibles


*This week I listened to This American’s Life’s episode titled “The Pink House at the Center of the World.” These poems are my reaction.

Poetry: Saying Goodbye

The Waldorf school my daughter graduated from last week names each class after a tree. That tree becomes the class name, a symbol to rally the class together and form them into a cohesive unit. I wrote this poem to honor her teacher and the Linden tree class. The image was drawn on the chalkboard by her lovely teacher on their very first day together. I hope you enjoy it.


Under the Linden Tree

I. Branches and Leaves

Swept forth into the strong branches 
of the Linden tree, you call out “look at me”
and “it’s not fair” straining to be heard among 
the others. Within your fellow heart-shaped
leaves you found symmetry, serrated edges—your
pointed tips sharpened by your proximity to 
magic.

Noisy bees circled, drawn by your
sweetness, your softness transformed by 
storms into hardened beauty carved into 
any form you like. Tilia, basswood, lime—
your names ring out like justice and peace
dancing around the base of graceful towering
magic.

Seasons danced happily through your 
green leaves, braced together and held firm
by the juggling trunk’s deep roots far deeper
than any tempest could shake. Tiny creamy 
yellow flowers burst forth in bundles, hanging 
tight to the tree with ambrosial scented, delicate
magic.

Youth green fullness, brash and vividly bold,
gave way to golden autumn’s crisp firmness
curled tight together clinging on for one more
precious moment. Yet, breezes come to transform
one into many, flying on fitted spiraling wings from
your fertile orchard, singing the forever song of Linden
magic.

II. Trunk

Blown into an orchard, banded cord thick with
butterflies, steady roots plant deep in slippery soil 
ripe with crawling, noisy seekers crying out with
“whys” and “how comes.” Beneath the Linden
branches the red-winged cardinal’s two-part whistle 
sings of beginnings, suns, moons—ancient woody 
magic.

Gathered together under loosely woven branches
communing and feasting wildness transforms into 
dancing movement. Light streaks through limbs to
cover crowns as Jack Frost frolics with snowflakes as
hands, melting hardness into puddles of kindred
kindness. Leafy bunches become conical, balanced
magic.

Ridged, furrowed scaly bark grows and smooths  
until shining with etched runes it reaches across
fast-moving water to capture sacred geometric
truths within bright colored folds. Bears prowl 
near, scratching fears, stretching up toward 
cascading waters, ravens, dragons, stones–Earth
magic.

Winds blow birds nests nestled into grooves worn 
smooth by patient hands. Across distances the song
remains strong, drawing the Linden into itself, singing
melodies deeply woven through delicate leafy veins
forever connected, forever entwined, forever part of 
sunlight’s loving embrace, warmth wrapped in bonded
magic.