Requiem for a B-ball Tourney

Dear Readers,

I usually post children’s poems, but today I wanted to share a more adult—or maybe young adult–one. Written for Ed Decaria’s Annual March Madness Poetry Jam, I thought it would resonate with those of us on the losing end of last night’s Final Four Game. (I live in North Carolina where love of basketball is required.) 

for anyone who’s ever lost anything…


soft things bruise—a fruit, a limb—
but most of all, the flesh within—
the veins, the pulp, the under-skin.
a gathering of blood and bile,
a yellowing of youthful fire.
sweet and sour, tender, blue—
the vast tattoo of losing you.

Happy April, Everyone!


Summertime: Beachballs, Bathing Suits & Frilly Nails



A fungus lives
inside my
he says
his name
is Fergus.

He’s rude
he’s crude—
I hate this dude!
But, worst of all,
he will not move!
And when I
try to rout
him out,
he rears
his itchy head
and says:
“I’d vacate
in a minute,
if I could
new shelter.
But I’ve
no other
place to
So stay
I must,
and swelter!”

My voice
grows shrill,
my tone is
I cannot
from screaming:
“My toe shack’s
my nooks
are booked,
my feet
are raw
and blistery.
So please
get out—
don’t make me shout—
I’m sick
of all your

“Don’t kid
he answers,
“your foot’s
no Grand Hotel—
it’s pink,
it stinks,
it sweats
and swells.
In summertime
it’s hot as h_ll.”

Oh, how I hate
this loathsome
How much
I want
oust him!
But nothing
not soap
or steam
or gel
or cream.
A knife would
do the trick,
of course,
but at
too great
a cost:
because without
my dear, sweet feet
(no matter how infected),
I would not know
which way to turn—
and I would be
forever lost.

Poem for a new year . . .

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there’s something about
the winter moon,
something in
its craggy glow,
something about
its skin like snow.

there’s something about
its languid pace,
something in
its heatless grace—
something about
it hanging there,
rootless in
the twilight air…

though not a word,
a sigh, a kiss,
can ever pass
its chiseled lips,
it bathes me in
its waxy light,
swaddles me
in endless night,
giant clock
in giant sky,
ticking as
the days go by.

Snow Hope


‘The winter
that wasn’t’
is what
we have here,
though prospects
of snow
are perfectly
the night sky
is gloomy,
are not bright—
still . . .
never a
is ever
in sight!

Just a little poem

UnknownFor some (unknown) reason, I love to write poems about opposite (or nearly opposite) things…. How about you?


A buttercup
in Lily’s lap
is like
a scoop
of sun.

A lily
in a
briar patch
is butter
on a bun.

Bloom Tune

When trees

turn green

and bluebirds


we tuck

the winter

in with fall.

The bulbs

we set

in loamy


poke through

the earth

to nod

their heads.