Category Archives: writing


It’s actually sad to look at the date on my last post. Can it really be that long since I’ve written any kind of poem? Not even a haiku?

Speaking for myself, since there is nobody else to speak for, I often wonder if I should keep it up or not. Perhaps I should just turn it into a personal writing site and forget about trying to force poetry to come. It’s either there or it’s not. As you can see, it’s not been there.

walk with me

my fingers slide
arms opened wide
i touch each side
of the mine at one time
and take each stride
wide eyed but blind
hoping to find
souls of like mind
hearts unconfined
reflecting devine
passionate, kind
values aligned
who’d be just fine
to walk for a time


Merry Christmas

This is not a poem.

This is a wish.

This is my desire.

I want you to have

a very, Merry Christmas.


I Found A 23 Year Old Notebook Today

Going through some old boxes, I found a Pen-Tab Composition Book. I bought while I was a Mental Health Administrator at New Castle State Mental Hospital, in New Castle, Indiana. On the front page was written this:

“There comes a time in every man’s life when he must cast aside his pride and do what he has never done before – buy a composition book, on sale.”

This is dated November 28, 1984. I would have just turned 23 years old. The notebook has only 15 or so pages of writing, but there are a few poems in it. These were written about residents or staff at the hospital. I’m going to share a couple of them here.

The Glider

The glider on my Mamaw’s porch seemed old, even when it was brand new. I’m not sure anyone but her noticed when it arrived. She had a love for floral patterns that bordered on fanatical. A gaudy display of fake flowers spread out across every piece of furniture like Poison Oak. So too, the glider was covered. It fit in with the rest of the furniture from it’s very first day.

my mammaw’s porchIt was not a favorite piece for anyone but her, except when it rained. Then it was my favorite piece.

On rainy days, the sound of the drops on tin above my head was rhythmic and soothing. If I laid back and hung my leg off the glider just right, the tip of my big toe would scrape the porch floor, effortlessly creating a motion that seemed in perfect time with the water. Eyes closed, hands behind head, I would lay for as long as my cousins would allow and just drift away.

I spent my childhood summers in West Virginia. Rainy days in the Appalachian heat seemed magical and all too infrequent. They always brought a chill and calmed the frenetic pace of play and work. And they always signaled their arrival in advance.

You could hear the rain marching toward the house through the trees. My cousins would head to the basement, which was always cool, but I would invariably head to the glider. It was my transportation to an imaginary place that changed with each downpour. The rhythm triggered thoughts of what could be, of what could have been. They weren’t so much dreams as hopes. I would swing and hope – and pray.

I was a teenager then. I’m 45 now. That glider is long gone, and so are the innocent hopes and dreams of a child in it’s arms. But the memory of those moments make me smile and wish for a cool rain, a tin roof, a gaudy glider and some free time.


Poetic Love Affair

I’m in love with two women I’ve never met.

I’m pretty sure my wife knows this, since she reads this blog every once in a while. But I thought it best to be explicit and just come right out and say it.
Their names are Heather and Kim. I don’t have any clue how they found me. The Internet is a wonderful thing. I just know that they came across this blog and began frequenting it and commenting on it. They encourage me to write. But what they do more than anything else is inspire me to be a better writer. I love them because they lead me to explore creativity. They are both gifted.

NudeKim lead me to an amazing post by Writer Chick today, and Heather wrote some Haiku that included an image that awakened another part of me I don’t allow to come to the surface very often. My “artistic” side. The image in her post reminded me of something I “painted” a while back.

I’m all digital all the time. So I’m not really a painter in the classic sense. I use photos as a base and experiment with different techniques using a pressure sensitive tablet that attempt to mimic painting. But I know I NEED to do more of it. This post is a declaration that I am going to make the time.

Kim, Heather, thank you. The digital painting on the right is what Heather’s post reminded me of. I’m glad it did.


her hands were
i learned that
our first date
i held out my hand
and she grabbed it
it startled me

her feet were
i learned that
our first night
i spooned her gently
tangling our feet
it startled me

her heart was
i learned that
the hard way
i opened my heart
and she broke it
it startled me

another challenge poem

my echo

sally got a doll, doll, doll
billie got a bike, bike, bike
jimmy got ball, ball, ball
tommy got trike, trike, trike
kathy got a ring, ring, ring
johnny got a yoyo. yo!
i didn’t get a thing, thing, thing
except this stupid echo, echo

another challenge poem from TLW

[ This request came weeks and weeks ago and I pushed it aside. I’ve had it on my list of things to do and just got tired of seeing it. 🙂 ]

bees, laughter, orange, tree, and blanket

after the long freeze
a warm day brought laughter
children played
parents stopped

the hope of spring
blossomed, like a cherry tree
instant joy
bright smiles

all around, blankets covered
with white legs in tight shorts
begging for sun
praising the sun

every living thing
slowed to take it in
except the bees
punch drunk on spring

and I remember a girl
in an orange skirt
and a kiss
a warm kiss

responding to a challenge to write a poem using the words
bees, laughter, orange, tree, and blanket

[Kim… I hated you for a few moments. Because I picked up your email at 12:05 am after a grueling day and feared I would not find inspiration. But when I saw the words they reminded me, instantly, of growing spring in Beavercreek, Ohio. I was a teenager and in teenage love. There is no first warm day here in southern california. I miss that. It’s now 12:45 am and I’m thanking you for asking me to do this.]

The Paper Bag

I had to come back and add “the bag” to the donut poem below.

For me, the process of how something gets done is as interesting as the thing itself. I’m always intrigued by what triggers something poetic in my brain and the process I go through to get it out. So, I found the bag today and scanned it in. I did it mostly because this blog is looking a bit boring without any graphics, but partly because I’m hoping there are others out there like me who might appreciate the visual.