Category Archives: childhood


Lemon in my hand has such soft waxen rind,
the smell is citrus, light, acidic, clean.

I am now 8 years old in a world of sand, sucking lemon juice
through a peppermint stick, a grandparent’s treat.

Then, I am Positano, a lemon of such giant size, and my family
together watches rain wash candied terra cotta roofs clean.

Once more, I’m at lunch in a blue room with my great aunt
squeezing a distracted, thin slice into a diet coke.

Always, a small bit of juice finds a crack in the skin and stings.
Tomorrow, we’ll roll the pulp in sugar and have a sweet lick.

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Filed under childhood, growing older, poem, poetry

life in dreams

how quickly childhood hours wash ashore and recede.
we, left behind, are simple whispers of salt and foam.

in dreams, we jump waves gleeful, until time, a gentle hand,
closes our eyes for a nap, our breathing steady, slow.

Life in Dreams

Life in Dreams

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Filed under childhood, growing older, poem, poetry, Uncategorized

untitled (quilts always warm)

you don’t have to remind me of that
orange and brown
soft knit afghan quilt that
matched nothing
in our house
but in theirs —

the olive green
and the hanging plates
and that day
laying on the hardwood waiting

no games, no pick up sticks
only a new jewelry box
and my reliable Alley cat
in a house creaking with grief

gathering stones
in the drain pipe
that felt like a river bank
little sister in hand
knowing more than they knew –
quilts always warm.

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Filed under childhood, death, poem, poetry

like an old tin can (peek inside)

take a knife
sharpened good
slice my head
and pull back
like an old tin can
of Campbells
creamy mushroom
that made the casseroles
of tuna and cheese
remember eating it
in straightback
wooden chairs
in a kitchen of panels
and country style.

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Filed under childhood, family, growing older, poem, poetry, stream of consciousness

fall day at the Woods

smalll bony legs crook’d
over a driveway of shale
“here’s one!!!”
to a fossil, and our cousins

“let’s go!!”
tossed aside, then
scampering off to that place
where rotting wood is our
breakfast – in our fort,
a few saplings
leaned to a trunk, first creep inside
racing fast to the river,
there a high crossing keeps
out intruders and
we eat pockets of winesap
apples, ruddy green
like that one pesky leaf
floating downstream
throw a rock, watch it sink….

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Filed under childhood, fall, poem, poetry

secret games of children

we discovered
the game “d” —
one patch of crab grass
and one special phrase
–to the next world!

but don’t tell those
younger ones
waiting on the porch–
it is so secret
you have to whisper.

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Filed under childhood, poem, poetry

dance recital

i’m still a dancer
a dark velvet stage,
a ballerina,
peeking anxious at a
curtain opening slow,
still in tutu, tights,
straining to find
your eyes
from breathless
wooden chairs.

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Filed under childhood, conceptual, poem, poetry