Monday, December 22, 2008

Walking with Woods in Plainfield, Vermont

Fern, thou art a fan of feathered
fingers tickling my bare shins,
shhhhh, shhhhh,
I hear you whisper to others–shhhhh,
this is our moment–
there will never be another
exactly like it.

Saturday, December 13, 2008

One Down, Three to Go

It was rough, especially towards the end, but I survived the first semester of my MA studies and my family still loves me despite the silent glares I doled out every time I was interrupted in the middle of a sentence - Whoo Hoo! I'm also done teaching for this semester and have a whole month off...maybe now I'll get caught up on some personal writing for sharing....

Monday, November 17, 2008

Now What?

Roger took the bottle, there ain’t no more
Drank the whole damn thing, the whiskey whore.
Left us sitting here our pockets poor
Roger took the bottle, there ain’t no more.

*my short-n-sweet answer to Jo's Word Catalyst prompt*

Monday, November 3, 2008


Not knowing if he is okay
day after day

I am all over the place now
unable to focus on any one piece -
a poem here
a critical essay there
a play that's going God knows where...

Will I ever write again
without wondering
What would he have written
about the Pigs?

Something witty, I'm sure
Why haven't they found a cure?

Sunday, October 19, 2008


For Bob ~ I miss you, dear friend

No coffee spewing out my nose
No tears to wipe away
No words to read that no one knows
No metaphor in play

No wittiness to make me think
No chapters yet to come
Instead a vast and missing link
My empty heart is glum

Saturday, October 11, 2008

The Other Woman

My answer to this week's WordCatalyst writing prompt

Ah listen to them ‘lowly actress’ indeed! How dare he refer to me in such a manner, and she, she is a blubbering fool when it comes to him – ‘Oh fatha, we are simply acquaintances' - as if our love is nothing more than that of tittering schoolgirls at tea…well, I shall show them no matter how many times the church bells chime or distant seas I must sail…oh listen to her wail against his tirade, I shall not tolerate this, my timid treasure my love my darling Lizzie…we shall be together or my name isn’t Bridget Sullivan!

Friday, October 3, 2008

For Breast Cancer Awareness Month

In October of 2003 I was asked to write a poem for a Breast Cancer Awareness Candlelight Vigil held near my hometown in mid-Missouri. I was honored–doubly so because Margaret, a breast cancer survivor for over 30 years, would be reading my words. I wrote “Because of this Flare”–a poem of hope for a cure. Later that month, I was asked to read the poem myself at a Breast Cancer Awareness luncheon. The timing was perfect as my mother-in-law was visiting from Massachusetts, and I would have someone there for support–someone who would see me through my fear of public speaking.

Mom attended the luncheon with me and I remember how proud I was to be able to share that day with her. We sat at the head table with the director of our local American Cancer Society office and his daughter. Mom was the never-met-a-stranger type and would strike up a conversation with anyone. I, on the other hand, was painfully shy. Yet, thanks to mom, I had an enjoyable lunch. She stood amongst the crowd releasing pink balloons into the bright autumn sky as I read my poem of hope. Neither of us realized the significance that day would hold in the months ahead.

A week after mom returned home, she came down with a cold that wouldn’t go away. By Thanksgiving Day she was in the hospital and before Christmas we received the news she had stage 4 lung cancer. She died on January 25, 2004.

One of the last times I spoke with my mother-in-law over the phone, she whispered four words that I will never forget. “I am so afraid.” I know how hard those words were for her to speak. Nobody likes to admit their fear. And so it is for my mother-in-law, Gloria Rose Heywood–and the countless others like her–that I wrote this poem:

Let's Stop the Fear

She faced the good times and the bad
With courage she had always had
Until one autumn's chilling breeze
Gripped her voice with dread disease

Stripped her of her cheerful way
Frightened her both night and day
And though she tried with all her might
She could not stop the frigid blight

It stole her precious life away
It stilled her voice with its decay
Yet that small voice that whispered fear
Echoes–echoes–in my ear.