The Traveler


The Traveler

We arrive in the world
With personalized luggage
A unique blend
Of blessings and burdens

A daunting mixed bag
We may choose not to open
Denial much easier
To reject, shun, toss away

Some adventurous souls
Tiptoe closer
Unclasp the latch, peer inside
To investigate what lies within

They find amidst the finery
Some dirty laundry there
The traveler’s task
To air, wash clean, then hang out to dry

Our baggage, a container
Of holiness and fallibility
Suns of joy, wells of sorrow
Perhaps our friend, perhaps not

We choose the road we travel


The Creative Process


The following is an essay that emerged this morning when posing a question to myself that I lifted from a beautiful book by Hope Koppelman called “The Gifts of Writing:”

What life lessons have I learned through my creative process?

I have learned to trust myself, my intuition, my inner promptings. To open to inspiration from the creative Source. Entering this mystical realm excites me. It is my greatest joy and delight.

Creating something, anything, makes me feel alive, connected to God, at peace, in harmony. Regardless of what may be happening “out there,” when I create something the day is automatically good, complete, worthwhile.

Creativity unveils my true nature. It is the place where I feel free to be unrestrained, fully myself. When creating, I am most genuine, authentic, and real.

The creative process prompts me to face fear: fear of nothing being there, fear of not being able to create something worthy, beautiful, inspirational, fear of exposure, fear of rejection, ridicule, diminishment.

Creativity requires courage, discipline, willingness to fail, eternal hope for success, a love of inquiry, discovery, the play of trial and error. A willingness to confront obstructions and limitations. A willingness to throw it out and start over.

I have learned the value of speaking my truth, regardless of who may or may not wish to hear it. I always search for my own truth, to see it reflected in the works I create.

I have mustered the courage to reveal my work to others. It becomes easier each time. My desire to share is always greater than my need for safety. It is wonderful to discover that others value and are inspired by my work. That is deeply rewarding.

I honor my creative drive and give it center stage in my life. It flies me to the spiritual heights but also roots me more firmly in the world.

For me, creativity is the most direct pathway to Self, to God. It provides the opportunity to manifest without what resides within. It is life’s magic. It is a gift and a privilege.


The Space Between


The Space Between

The space between
What was
What is
What will be

What was…
A hazy recollection
A wistful memory
A fading dream

What is…
A bottomless crevasse
A freefall
Without a foothold

What will be…
A blank page
Whose story is not yet written
Unknown, unknowable

There is no going back to what was
We are landlubbers in search of sea legs
What will be is anyone’s guess

The space between
Vast, infinite, without form
Awaits our decision


Summer Solstice

Anticipating tomorrow….


Summer Solstice

A wistful, sad moment
I cling
Savoring sunlight, warmth, languid hours

The longest day introduces summer
Yet presages summer’s end

Fall is on the march now

Perched precariously on a pinpoint
I ponder
The seasons of Life

I understand anew
The fleeting nature of it all

We can hold onto nothing

The infinite ocean
Ebbs and flows
Eternally In motion

All we can do
Is breathe in and out
Strive for balance

Teetering on the fulcrum




Genre: Open
Action: Preparing food
Word: Moon
Word Count: 100


The cloudless sky promised a radiant moon tonight.

Excitement percolated as she prepared food for the family barbecue.

Despite her joyful anticipation, something niggled the edges of her mind. Beneath the surface it tugged, a heavy weight. It would not come up for air.

The party was great fun. A happy reunion. Solitude now restored she began to clean up the mess.

The tether yanked, more insistent. Finally, last night’s dream broke through the cloudy veil. She was shipwrecked, alone, lost at sea, with no prospect of rescue.

Sobs buckled her knees as the glowing full moon offered its condolences.


Happy Birthday


Happy Birthday

Funny, recalling your special day
When I haven’t thought of you in decades

We collided
Still recovering
From deep wounds bestowed by others

Two unloved souls
Searching for someone to love us
A toxic brew

You shocked me
Rocked me to the core
Took me to the brink
The abyss of psychic disintegration
A terrifying, out-of-control freefall

Oh, how I suffered
The pain you inflicted

But you were “the one”
Who forced me to save myself

I recall the pivotal moment
I hit bottom
My suppressed self-preservation instinct
Kicked up a holy ruckus


Choosing the slow slog toward mental health
I began the search for self-love
And abandoned the quest for yours

Permitting myself to set boundaries
Rules of Engagement

Never again
To cede power
To someone bent on my deconstruction

Today, on your special day,
I thank you
For the greatest gift I could receive

You gave me



Space Exploration

Another poem today!


Space Exploration

Inner space
Beckons, lures


There is no THING there
Yet, there is
Not seen, nor touched
But tangibly felt

A formidable Presence
Calming. Comforting. Reassuring.
All is well, is well, is well

Dive in
Float around
Poke the boundaries
The slightest prod dissolves them

Peer within
Choose your lens

Colors will brighten
Tastes will sweeten
Sounds will heighten
The breeze will caress

All is well, is well, is well…


Gone Fishing


Today’s offering is a poem. I wrote this in five minutes this morning in response to the disappointing news I received yesterday. I didn’t expect my book proposal to win, but I had hoped for some recognition, or feedback. There were five publishing winners and about 15 honorable mentions (20 recognized out of 245 submissions), and I was not among them. No sour grapes, but I definitely need a time-out to regroup.

Anyway, this poem expresses my feelings exactly. (The image of a floppy dead fish came in a dream last night, thus the theme)


Flinging a line into the sea
I wait for a good catch
The day is fine
I feel lucky

A nibble
Then a tug
Reeling it in, I’m gob smacked
By the stench of rotting flesh

Flopping on the beach
It gasps its final breath

Sometimes we go fishing
For something we think we want
Only to discover
Our prized catch dead on the vine

Unhook swiftly
Toss it away

Cast a new line




Genre: Romance
Action: Driving down the highway
Word: Radio
Word Count: 98


Cruising Arizona’s Interstate 40, not a soul in sight, I surfed the radio in search of company. “Nights in White Satin” caught the airwave.

Forty-five years disappeared. Poof. My heart throbbed anew with first love’s roaring thunder. Moody Blues was our favorite band. This song, our prom theme.

Tears travelled down well-worn tracks recalling the bittersweet end to a beautiful beginning. Cupid’s arrow pierced me to the core, remembering.

Teen love, hearts open, undefended, a unique force of nature. Never to be replicated. Only to be held in memory’s crevasse, retasted when the radio tunes into its frequency.


No Escape


Genre: Suspense
Action: Hailing a taxi
Word: Bubblegum
Word Count: 100

No Escape

Instinctively, his nerves fired a five-alarm siren. His cover was blown.

Protocol required proof. The predetermined signal: bubblegum affixed beneath a Central Park bench.

Irrefutable, his fingers groped the hardened plastic clump.

Before escaping to Montauk where a boat would transport him to an island safehouse somewhere in the Atlantic, he had to say goodbye.

The taxi dropped him off at her brownstone on the Upper West Side. Upon entering, he cringed seeing her gagged and bound. Before he could fight, a burlap sack stifled his cries, his limbs immobilized by zip ties.

The boat would have to wait.