Art lovers


He liked sitting in front of the Rothko,

she envied his ability to feel things

— just by looking at colors.


She wondered if people

ever bother really seeing anyone else

or do we all look at things to see

ourselves reflected…


She followed Rodin’s ridges nose to toe,

actually touched a Van Gogh iris,

and shivered past a Warhol.

Not quite on the mountaintop


I’m too simple really;

I’d like to sit here

in my warm cotton aura

and be wise without worry,

old without ache.


I’ve lost the need to rise

but I love to twist.

Kiss the sky


In between

morning and evening,

like when the sky yawns

from purple to blue to orange

and back again,

my heart seeks the kissing times-

a break from papers and bread.

I like the moments

when I’m surprised

amid the humdrum,

like when love turns

from gentle to jackhammering.

The view looking back

The Golden times

are a myth born of

tears mucking up

the view…


we still had fields to see

and clouds to rifle

but the words were thick

and our song shaky,


leaving today with

dreams of scales

and windy drives

with so much quiet, it hurts.



The disappointments didn’t come

hard and fast. They rolled like

a Spanish “R,” long and smooth.

Chasing the ice-cream truck,

being locked out of the funhouse,

being the second or third choice

for everyone I’ve ever met…

There’s a place for me and it’s

the wise-cracking sidekick

that you don’t mind disappearing

in the third act. I’m the heroine’s

plucky, tragic friend.

Cute and dismissed.

It’s ok; I tracked Venus and Vega

with my rickety telescope tonight

and we’re all very, very small.