I ... entered the poem of life, whose purpose is ... simply to witness the beauties of the world, to discover the many forms that love can take. (Barabara Blackman in 'Glass After Glass')

These poems are works in progress and may be updated without notice. Nevertheless copyright applies to all writings here and all photos (which are either my own or used with permission). Thank you for your comments. I read and appreciate them all, and reply here to specific points that seem to need it — or as I have the leisure. Otherwise I reciprocate by reading and commenting on your blog posts as much as possible.

21 June 2014

Love's Winter

As the light became broken
into smaller and smaller pieces of day,

as the nights became colder,
enfolding the houses and making them caves

he was restless and secretly wanting to go.
There was only one regret. He wanted to get

for her, beautiful earrings. He'd seen them;
they were full of light. They would brighten her dark

after he went away. But his time had broken
into smaller and smaller spaces of light

in which he could move and create. Instead
he would tell her, "Get yourself some roses,"

and she would — red roses for love;
he was still her lover....  And still to this day

she thinks of him when she sees red roses.
So it was natural, on seeing those earrings —

no, not the ones full of light, but dark red,
carved like roses — it was natural, I say,

she should think of him as she bought for herself
beautiful earrings, light in her hand, shaped like roses.

In response to Poets United's Midweek Motif — Light and Dark
and dVerse's Meeting the Bar ~ Repetition, Repetition, Repetition

I'm glad people like this poem.  I left it slightly mysterious, as trying to incorporate factual explanations seemed to overweight it. However there is a back story. I hope you read the poem first, but if you then want to know its origins, go here.

13 June 2014


“Thirteen and twelve are our lucky numbers”
my mother used to say —because in our family
those dates appeared often: birthdays,
weddings, other special events. It was good
not to have to fear the “unlucky” thirteen
everyone else dreaded (all the kids at school).

Sure enough, Andrew and I were married
on the 12th (my birthday) and on the 13th
first the legal, then the spiritual rite.
The first was small, only our grown-up
children present. The second was a party
with a  crowd of our friends. Now, 20 years later,
our youngest grand-daughter, Emily, turns 13.

Submitted for Poets United's Midweek Motif: Thirteen

10 June 2014

Intimacy: Erotic haiku May 2014

intimacy —
he draws off her glove
kisses her palm

pale bodies
satiated lying apart
still facing

(Inspired by the movie, Only Lovers Left Alive)