New Endeavors

Hey… just wanted to to write a quick post about a new endeavor I’ve started. I’ve decided to put my poetry into volumes (book format), which will be titled by year.

So far, I’ve completed Volume 2011, which is comprised of all poems written within that year, but will be working on subsequent volumes/years to make them available for publication over the next few months.

With over 1600 poems written since 2010, and most being posted here on this blog at one point or another, I thought it would be nice to have them in book format, as it makes it more tangible and easier to actually find what I’ve written.

It’s been a fun journey though: scribing words, and one I plan to continue, though, Art’s been finding me in many different avenues as of late; having recently taken up painting, but that’s another endeavor that’s just about to launch via my website at

Stay tuned for that, and as always, thanks for reading!! Especially those of you who have been following the words (some good, some not so good), over the years! :)

P.S.. Thought I’d also mention… there is a book already that comprises all poetry written in 2010, titled ‘Fertile Soil’.

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The Outcast

So this little labor of love finally came to fruition; a children’s story I wrote and illustrated about a little black sheep named Benedict (and I’ll post the write up on the back cover of the book below).

Only took me almost a total of two years to finally get it to print, but I couldn’t be happier with how it turned out. With the storyline and the color in the illustrations, it really pops, and so I hope small children will come to love it and Benedict just as much as I do.

I know when the idea came to me, to start this painting series way back in May of 2019, it seemed sort of random (or at least it did to me), but I started it anyway, in faith that whatever it wanted to be would emerge, and so here it is: a story about belonging, inclusiveness, and learning to love and appreciate what makes each and every one of us unique.

Anyway, if any of you have small children, grandchildren, or know someone else who does, I’d love it if you’d consider ordering a copy and then reviewing it. It’s available through Amazon Prime. Right now, Amazon only offers it in soft cover (it’s glossy though), but my hope is that this book will eventually get picked up by a publishing house and can be offered in hardcover as well. It’s a total of 38 pages, which is the average length for a children’s picture book and meant for small children (ages 1-5). Here’s the write up on the back cover:

“Have you ever felt like an outcast, like you just didn’t fit in?

Benedict, the black sheep, often felt that way too, until one day, after encountering the Good Shepherd, he realizes that we’re all different, and that it’s our differences that make the world a better and more beautiful place.

A story about belonging, inclusiveness, and loving and appreciating what makes each and every one of us unique.”

Thanks for reading and for allowing me this momentary departure from my usual poetry post. And stay tuned, because my Art website is just about to launch and so I look forward to sharing that too with you in the very near future. “)

Here’s the link for the book on Amazon: The Outcast

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The Untameable Sea

Are we the ocean,
the lake
or the river who runs
between them?
For if the body consists
of 60% water,
is this why my eyes
resemble the seas
of the Caribbean?
or why at times they
breach the borders
of their oceans?
For when down falls
in great big drops,
then dry’s to leave
a trace of salt.
how much salt
does the body
then consist of?
For surely, we must be
what they say then: the sea,
who disperses
itself by rivers
which run through valleys
to pool into lakes,
who too, will eventually
breach their edifices.
For if the rest is
40% clay,
then yes, they are right,
we are and
always have been
the untameable sea.

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The Last Word

Maybe you were the last quiet whisper in the dark,
the last thing I heard,
the last word,
before I closed my eyes and dreamt away
a sleepless night you were.

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One Day

“One day I will find the right words
and they will be simple,” said Jack.
“In the notebook, by the nightstand!”
where you look, yet “keep asking.”
Where I have torn from the binding
“how many pages have gone missing?”
Yet how many are there yet, to fill?

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Dreams Of Old

Oh, must I get dressed?
Must I awake?
For all this
daily slumbering makes
for dreams that come
asleep or awake.

Can’t tell the difference,
asleep or woke,
when dreams are seen,
eyes open, closed,
still come regardless,
these dreams of old.

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I am trying to remember myself,
forgotten and somewhere lost in the words,
I dig through the pages;
letters, words, sentences,
and how many run on and without an end?
For who knows and loves me,
and without a reason they can’t explain?
For I’d find myself there, I am sure of it.

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I found a space in God,
a simple space,
where sound was quiet,
with no thoughts needed,
nor words, nor language,
only being,
and I was wanted there,
I was welcomed,
where there are no walls,
where there’s only reason,
a space called infinite,
where love keeps going,
and stretches out
to never reach an ending.

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Life came and found me
like the bee finds the flower,
picked and plucked me
and pulled me to its nose,
said I looked like a daisy
but I smelled of a rose,
than carried me gently
as it took me to its home,
grabbed a vase from the cupboard
where it placed me in water,
said I’d die here in this home,
“I’ll die here in this home?”
“Yes, by the window,
where you can still grow.”

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Drunk On Rain

This soft sound of rain
from heaven falls
in pitter patters lightly,
and tiptoes across
the earth’s surface
drinking, as if from a
delicate teacup,
or maybe it’s a bastards
stein mug. Drunk, drunk
drunk on rain; the Earth,
with all her musings
of Spring pregnancy,
with everything underneath
in an embryonic stage,
the rain, rain feeds.

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Oh, Woman

How few my words
and meaningless, it seems,
I speak,
but who has the time
or need to listen,
to listen to me,
or even believe
a single word
I have to say?
With nothing
between my legs
but space, space,
and more space,
as they stake
their claim
on this final frontier.
forgetful, mindless!”
My body is
no longer mine,
as if I cannot feel it
or know
the source of my pain,
as they grasp at straws
to pinpoint
what they cannot see
but say, most assuredly,
they know what isn’t there.

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I am moving through spaces,
dark, blind, lost.
seeing the trees
for the forest,
or a sea, tempestuous.
I am on the shore,
I am in the boat
holding the oars.
Fog, fog, everywhere fog,
the lighthouse
I know is there,
beams through
in the distance.
I will make it
through this passage,
and I will land in safe surety.

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Just My Own

I came into a place of being,
sweet and soft,
a place where I was enough,
always enough,
where no harsh hands
or words existed,
nor expectations based
on superfluous exterior vision,
because my worth,
it never depended
on another’s opinion.
No, not of me, but just my own.

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River of Letters

There are words,
flowing and free flowing,
river of letters.
I cast, I catch,
I reel them in
and one by one
unhook to keep
or throw back again.
Words like fish,
all running swift
is this drive upstream
as the current kicks,
and pushes, pushes,
pushes back,
but still, they go,
as I cast, I catch,
and keep the ones
I won’t throw back.

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Maybe, if I throw my arms around you
enough times in my dreams,
kiss your forehead in such happiness,
in playful laughter, your cheeks,
if I say your name loud enough,
if only, I knew your name to say,
would you come to me in the real world,
would you come to me and stay?

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Maybe we dream the same dreams,
slipping mandarins from their peels
to bite between our teeth,
where all our kisses taste the same,
while in the ease of conversation slips
the smiles from our eyes
and the laughter from our breath,
when in haste I kiss your mouth to taste
this color orange upon your lips.

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Moment of Now

Transfix me in colors
as if through a fog.
For life, is it always
looking forward
or always behind?
When merely,
it is neither,
except for the present,
in the moment of now.

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In No Uncertain Terms

Tell me how it is
in no uncertain terms,
for how I have looked,
have searched,
to plumb my own depths
for just the right words.
Yet, still, in missing links
they fall
like riddles to be solved.
So, tell me
how it is, will you?
to plumb the depths of yours.

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A Little Fiction

So this happened the other day, and I don’t know why I hadn’t thought to do it sooner, but “better late than never,” I always say.

For those of you who have been following my poetry for some time now, (and geez, what’s it been; nine years since I started this blog? Yes, nine years, and thanks for reading!) I too have been known to write some fiction here and there. Mostly short stories, though one day I hope to eventually add some novella’s to my list of writings.

All that said, I’ve been hanging on to several short stories I’d written quite some time ago, always with this hopeful idea that one day they’d actually make it to print in the form of small, collectible pocket books, (think, 3×5″) with linen hardcovers. That’s been the dream anyway.

So, here’s the first of hopefully many more dreams to come! Not a pocketbook with a linen cover yet, but who knows, maybe next Christmas it will be. For now, I’m bringing this little holiday story out into the light in the form of an ebook, available through Amazon, and would love it if some of you might take a gamble on a short read, and if you like it, offer up a review there. It’s quirky and different, like a lot of my short stories, but too, I think carries with it a lot of charm that I hope might carry over to you as well this holiday season.

Again, thanks so much for your support and continued reading over the years!! It’s much appreciated and I wish you and yours a very Merry Christmas!!

A little holiday story with big heart.
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I almost always eat breakfast in bed,
an egg and a biscuit,
some coffee, not black,
and I never roll the covers back
when I set the plate in my lap.

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