And now, something no one has been waiting for . . .

Announcing the release of my new collection, "Three Stories and a Cloud of Fluff," now available in ebook form on Amazon.

This collection combines three short stories written much earlier in my life (late teens, early twenties) with poems written within the pas two years or so. I found it interesting to discover that I've been writing about the same topics, albeit in different form, for my entire writing life.

I shouldn't be surprised but . . .

Anyway, take a look and let me know what you think.

Some Always Remains

It's a kind of magic

that these warm Autumn winds
blow in memories,
hidden on the backs
of the leaves which
swirl around my feet.
I find my childhood home,
preserved in miniature,
near the stem of a brilliant
maple leaf
and I sit, mouth agape,
until the wind circles around
and carries off
most of what it carried in.

Sometimes Open Eyes

Versicolor leaves
layer themselves
over still green grass
as sun splashed highlights
fall across these remaining droplets
of rain.
This street-side beauty
finds my breath
catching in my chest
as I marvel that this world
is so close to my own
yet days seem so far apart.

*In response to sundayscribblings.blogspot.com

Wind

Who has seen {
     the sudden rise
   and  w
      s   ir
         l
of what had been
    amotionlessgroup
  of drying leaves
     ing
    s
  ri
in a small cacophony of sound.
}
the wind?



*In response to Carry on Tuesday

Fade

Sudden sunlight
startles eyes
prepared for gray.
Refocusing reveals
a well lit
gray day
and the stirrings
of light
fade.

The taste is of Raspberry Sour Cream Pastries

Not looking where I'm going,
I step on a patch of frozen time
and slip,
falling into a memory,
hitting my head
hard
on the sidewalk in Kalamazoo,
which must look like I remember
as memory cannot allow
for change.
I stand
and enter a world,
foreign to this version of myself
and wonder,
as always,
how has time
done this.

It Must be the Shoes

She stands,
beauty in purple shoes,
floating on her island of green,
unaware of the light
slanting in from outside her world,
cascading over her face,
casting sharp shadows,
parsing her world into boxes,
one of which
tries to hold her smile
but fails.





In response to We Write Poems