Tuesday, December 3, 2013

Tough Chick

My muscles are pool noodles.
    My ankle is swollen.
I have bruises and a floor burn.
    But I will play on;
        I am a tough chick.

The ball was alien.
    My hands were dead fish.
My head unclear with trash talk.
    But I will play on;
        I am a tough chick.

Like in movies and in history,
    Like in this game and the others,
There are women who stood tall and said,
    I will play on;
        I am a tough chick.

So I will shake it off,
    And I will face all doubts.
My ankle is taped.
    Time to suck it up and go.
Pass me the ball and be ready!
    I will play on;
        I am a tough chick.

For Grace

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

Silver Shield on Blue: Verse for the Fallen

The call comes across the state,
A trooper, a hero, on duty, has fallen.
Roadside stops routine, but ever dangerous.
A family is less.
His brothers and sisters in blue hold heads high
In honor, in pride and in sorrow and prayer.
                Oh St Michael, dear St. Jude, please
                Hear my words and bless this officer.
                “In the line of duty” are small words
                Compared to a heart of Trooper Blue.

Silver Shield on Blue Poem

Wednesday, June 26, 2013


                     in brief moments
it erupts
  bursting tears and laughter forth
  from a celebration of the senses
  phoenix born from another’s fire

other moments, a spark ignites
  slowly, nibbling, savoring
  all it takes in until
  it roars desire

melding with the soul
              it hungers for more
              craving to be, create, become
              the art that sustains

passion drives to do
               to go beyond mortal limits
               to the essence of true living
               expressing exuberant form
               in a clash of blood and spirit
               dancing and singing
               to live eternally
                                    in brief moments

Friday, June 21, 2013

That Guy

He may be that guy
that’s there at every game
cheering loud, or might be cursing the ref.

He may be that guy
that with few words to say,
is gruff, or might be a lullaby.

He may be that guy
that is at work, long on time,
chasing providence, or might be a dream.

Yet, he is that guy
that is there when needed like a hero,
no cape, but just as bold,
ready to leap, outside brave,
strong face, sturdy and dependable,
"don’t mess with my kids.”

He is that guy,
a paradox of close and distant,
gentle but rugged,
unbreakable yet bending.

He is that guy
that takes on a complex role
for a simple man
of being a father, a dad.

he is that guy.

Monday, June 17, 2013

Brick Girl

On good days, I see her
sitting on a low wall of bricks.
Sun shining in patches through
the leaves, touching highlights
of her cheek, her light hair,
her hazel eyes.

Serene, looking out
toward the road, statuesque,
in the bustle of others around her.
Her bag leans against the wall.
She sits with her
knees up, arms hugging her legs,
casually, relaxed and patient,
waiting for her ride.

In this pose upon brick
she floats, reflective like
a quiet song with Irish lilt,
harmony with airy whispers,
eyes dreamily smile toward
a vision not yet formed
but promising of beauty,
a mirror of her.

On gloomy days,
the wall grunged in rain,
she waits elsewhere,
and I wait for a good day
to see the brick girl
lazily, gently sitting
with a shadow of a smile
and warm grace in her eyes,
patient yet eager,
looking forward and waiting.