Recent Writing

A poem for the rootless

I thought home was made of memories
The fort we built with Dad
The creek we claimed as explorers
The couch where Mom read
But I am no longer that child,
Where is my home now?

Perhaps home is a place of origin
The food my family eats
The way the plants grow
The music that warms my soul
But when the flaws of my people show,
Who am I now?

Over Coffee
at high tide inn

From the woods and the misty sea
The calls ring out without rhythm
A trill from the tip of the tree
And a quiet crooning from the water
A jubilant cry from the shore
As if to say, I’m here, I’m here
You haven’t met me before

We don’t judge the water fowl for their howl or the swallow for its tremble

We listen and accept the call
It’s simply their way
Of finding their mate
And greeting the day

Saturday morning contruction

Pounding, screeching
A jack hammer begins its scream
Tearing at the sunshine
Drilling through my peace time
Dropping me mid-dream

A quiet morning in Beirut?
That was my real expectation
Hopeful, naïve anticipation
Trusting in the ever-present sun
Forgetting this city is always undone