Sometimes, I believe the little poems I write to be so trivial that each should be abandoned before they are written; yet, I share another. Sorry.

Image result for freshly baked cookies


Today, I ask for nothing.
I’ve little time for desire.
Someone has baked cookies.
The air is rich with that sugar.
That is enough.

About You

Image result for jam

About You

I wrote a poem
about you
on a wrinkled napkin,
the soft paper
carelessly splashed with coffee
and two dabs of jam,
the sweet jam you left for me,
dark and sticky,
like candy,
or chocolate,
or a kiss.

Five Minute Break

This morning, I met the day at 7am. I tended to some family, a dog, a cat, and a bird,  and made some coffee. By 9am, I had written several scenes. Screenplay draft three is well underway. Lord willing, the studio bosses will approve where this story is heading. Now, it’s 11am. I’ve been mulling revisions I’ll make this afternoon, but for now, I need a break. Here’s my break.

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Five Minute Break

It’s enough to consider
the dust swirling

in the sunlight that sweeps
through the window blinds,

stamping the carpet with warmth,
the dust, a million stars

dancing near the books,
quiet, on the shelf,

and silly poems.

Here, Together

Last night I posted an apology. For a week or so, I’ve been absent. My developing screenplay has been dominating my thoughts and times. With it, I need to please more minds than just mine. It’s a challenge, but those other minds have been patient and supportive. Soon, I hope the story I’m crafting will leap onto the big screen. Sooner, still, I’ll write something here. Then, I’m back at it.

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Here, Together

The tea is well spiced,
the biscuits are crisp,
and the air, I see,
has been quietly festooned

with such wonderful thoughts:
feathers and acorns and dandelions.
I’m sure, if we listen,
the trees will share some stories,

something about forgotten heroes,
something that needs remembering.
Really, there’s no need to speak
if we drift in this space between words,

where fairytales thrive,
and the tea is well spiced,
and the biscuits are sweet
and there are stories worth living.

It’s Morning

Since I learned my screenplay was being reviewed by Warner Brothers, a few weeks ago, I haven’t heard a peep. Frustrating! Still, I’m grateful. Therefore, in the meantime, I turn to poetry and a Saturday morning.

What are you doing this weekend? Have a great time!

Image result for fog in the trees

It’s Morning

And the gray has tumbled
over the hills
as puffs of dirty cotton,
insulating the space
between the maple limbs

and where the air slips
through the fence pickets.
The birds are still.
The hour is too heavy to fly.
The world has slipped

beneath a wet silence
or, maybe, it’s only the distance
beyond my window,
over the black roofs
and the hills

where the gray has tumbled
as dirty cotton.