the type of man sex came to possess

~for MG

I thought of sex
when I first met you —
deep strides, dapper dress,
piercing eyes —
it all resonated, a chill shiver
down the depth of me &
warmth spreading deeper
with my crimson thoughts
because you are the type of man
sex came to possess,
own — carry
into closed rooms, silk beds.

The glass of wine
sparkling amber, glass bubbles
move in the glass,
the world rattles on around us
while your words fall
on the table between us
and then,
I am stunned
by the words, their rich
deep colors, meanings
moving into an acid-like Trip
in my brain. Stunned!

You have amazed me!
My words turn
around, crawl back down
into the velvet parts of me

as I realize
what you don’t –
I am too naive for this
conversation. Too distracted
with the thought of undressing
you to understand beyond lust.

Why do your words
keep spilling down, around, rolling
across the table, tumbling
to the floor
to lay like marbles
on the gleaming wood?

~April 2012 


I don’t
it’s supposed
to feel
this good to
talk to you

* * *

It’s like Roses
in the morning
in dew, too
important (beautiful)
for words.
Or, it’s like
the feel
of soft-warm
sun touching
your skin
on a cold
day — just
perfect and perfectly

* * *

are a shadow
love haunting
my memory
a deep,
cool breeze
on a

~July 2011, South Carolina

Sell Art Online

ARTWORK: Gentle Woman by Svetlana Nivikova. Read author Bio and see more work by this artitst here.

Hate Math I

hate math. It has no
sing-song deliberation,
no melodic double entendre,
no aim at speaking
soft or hard wisdom.
There is only truth factual,
a hard steel glinting of
the one true thing represented.
It comes in quick, cold
bursts of delineated vision.
This war has been going
on forever between the
two sides: words v/s

to an unknown poet

In the late 70’s, when I was about nine, a poet came to my class at O. P. Earle Elementary School in Landrum, South Carolina as part of an arts program. He spent several days reading poems, teaching us what poems were, and encouraging us to write them. He took several of the best poems from the class with him when he left, promising that some would be published as part of the program.

I received a package in the mail with a newspaper-style tabloid inside a few months later. One of my poems was chosen for publication. I can remember the “big deal” this was to me then and the excitement and pride of my grandparents when they saw the published poem with my name attached. This is the first memory I have of me as an individual, the first moment in which I understood personal identity.

The unknown poet that opened the door of individuality and possibility for me has remained with me in essence through the years. I wish I knew his name so I could write a letter thanking him for the great gift he brought into my life. I have been able to personally survive and grow in ways that would have been impossible without poetry. And, after years of writing in all genres, poetry is always the place of deepest emotion for me, the true home to which I return.

The power of poetry is such that in a small schoolroom, in a miniscule rural town, a frightened little girl found her voice. That voice found the courage to speak from the depths of isolation to the heights of possibility. That small, tiny voice has spoken from numerous magazine pages all over the United States. That voice is still speaking . . .

I remain indebted and eternally grateful to my unknown poet from childhood, to the arts program, the teachers and school system that believed in poetry as an important part of education. Thank you.

In the Quiet




in the Quiet (2006)

It is not unlike brokenness –

This feeling of having emptied myself

Into you, only

To find that you were already full

Unable to hold more.


I know of mistakes

That they are the “after-things”

The regrets and guilts of the next moments

Seem hidden in the times before.


I should apologize — for


The fact that you asked and received


The truth is it hurts

And that dismal pain reminds me…

I’m still breathing

It will be okay.

The world keeps moving

They keep talking

And I find in the Quiet

Moments of wonder

At the how and why of it.


Paucis Verbis 1-16-2009

Paucis Verbis is Latin for in a few words or powerful word. I found this little entry in a dictionary years ago and was mesmerized. I was a struggling writer at the time, just two years of writing for publication under my belt, trying to find new and interesting words and phrases to jog and inspire my mind. Reading dictionaries and quotes has long been a favorite form of mental stimulation for me – yes, I know it’s sort of geeky, but it works and leads to a varied vocabulary! The little Latin translation eventually became the title for a poem (one successfully published) and is still a reminder of word-power to me.

Words are powerful – they seek to translate emotion, feelings, thoughts, and all those other truly inexpressible aspects of being human. They often fall short of true and accurate translation, become tangled in connotations and individual schema’s, or turn into weapons that strike with deadly accuracy and pain. Little words, big meanings. Paucis Verbis…Powerful Word.

Friendship 12-16-2008

How is the word friendship lived and defined in our culture today?

The meaning has changed with time, just like so many other word meanings that have grown, shifted, and evolved during the years of speaking. Common usage commonly replaces original meaning. The current definition for the word, friendship, according to is:

1. The state of being a friend

2. A friendly relation or intimacy

3. Friendly feeling or disposition

harmony, accord, understanding, and rapport. Friendship, then, is the state of being in harmony and accord with another or the relationship of rapport and understanding with another. How often do we live that with the people we call friends?