my apology

I get so crazy sometimes
and I’m sorry, baby.
I try to keep my head on straight
but I don’t always succeed, and
as you well know,
when I get angry
heads will roll,
and not just mine.
Then there are those days
when my sadness overwhelms
and the pain must flow,
and it does with such fury
that I worry my tears will drown us both.
You know all too well
I’m not a good swimmer.
I will continue to fight my demons
always, anything for you,
and keep hoping
that my good outweighs my bad,
because though my wild and headstrong spirit
brings the occasional war,
it also brings so many lovely moments,
like running through the streets
hand in hand
or kissing passionately on overpasses
in the middle of the night.

And so as I have
since the very beginning,
I shall continue to give you
my entire heart,
all of my love,
and this poem:
my apology.


something from nothing and back again

one day we’ll be dead
and none of these words will matter
although it is debatable
whether they even matter right now
we produce something from nothing
over and over again
and feel accomplished for it
but isn’t that the cruelest joke of all
that we feel compelled to tell our stories
which then revert to nothingness
when our lights go out for good


The words have to come out
so I put them to paper.
Sometimes it’s a trickle.
Other times a flood.
My mind an ocean of
Could have beens
and visions
of what might still be.
Feelings that must be expressed.
Pain that must be purged.
Love that will not be forgotten.
A choice between
sharing too much,
or my heart, living
trapped in a cage
of my own making.
I choose freedom.

a scarlet letter of my own

you tell yourself:
let go of the fact
that you were the other woman
once upon a time.
you crawled out of that bed,
on your hands and knees,
floating down a river of their tears,
struggling against the current of their rage
and you made your way
to this place
without drowning.
this place where you are his one,
where you are free.
and you feel victorious,
until you realize
that the guilt was your penance,
your cross to bear
and without it
you feel exposed,
and so you pick up the enormity of your guilt again,
your very own scarlet letter,
and you wear it on your chest
where it belongs
forever branded,
like their pain,
in your heart.


our seasons

season one

we didn’t know what to make of it
was it true love
or true lust
we had a bumpier road than most
a couple of times we hit the rails
we didn’t know how to get home
but you were a hard habit to break

season two

i told you in a rage that
you didn’t know how to love
and you told me that in that moment
you loved me more than ever before
we learned how to be open
how to live our truths with one another
it was still a rocky road
but we were starting to know the way

season three

walking down the beach
hand in hand
we fell in love
all over again
slowly, very slowly
and then all at once
under the stars
with my toes in the sand
you kissed me and
i knew you were my one

season four

we let the bullshit
of other people’s expectations
fall away
ex husbands and wives were marginalized
and we held onto what we knew
that we were perfect together
we stood on a snowy mountaintop
hand in hand
soaking in the magnificence of it all
marveling at how far we had come
and knowing we would be together

season five

we closed the deal
house built
families blended
ring on finger
our happily ever after
we have found our way home
and it was worth the wait
but we realize that the journey
was just as important as
the destination
and has really only just begun


Growing old is a treasure
everyone believes themselves to have.
They carry it around,
and sometimes put it in a drawer,
taking for granted that it will be there
later, always later.
I thought my treasure was a certainty,
like a bank account with a billion dollar balance.
But my treasure seems to be buried
or maybe it’s at the end of a rainbow
that I can only search for while dodging land mines
and bullets along the way.
I fear my body will give way
before I find my pot of gold.
But maybe dying young, beautiful, and loved
is a treasure of its own?

Dear Mother

A baby
conceived, born, grown, then buried.
How cruel to be robbed of the life you made.
How brutal to live with the pain of it,
your unconscionable cross to bear.
Every day drowning, suffering, praying for death.
He was yours, always yours,
and then he was his,
with a wife and four kids,
and now he’s just ashes.


April is National Poetry Month and there is a challenge I’m participating in where you write a poem per day.  I have decided to share some of them here. They aren’t very good, but being good isn’t really the point. Almost all are a work in progress.

I fill these pages
with mediocre poetry.
Frivilous words,
roped together
to occupy the dead space in my heart
when you aren’t here to fill it.
What a dangerous thing,
to love so much.
What a foolish enterprise,
to let go in trust.
A free fall.
Uncertain what I will find:
our love forever true
or my heart
shattered and blue.