Nobel grace I have not as I enter in the room.

Quiet pain is harnessed by the weavers of the twisted loom.

A sunset I may not folly as I reach to take a stand.

Amid the timid laughter my time will arrive as I hold vigilance on dry land.

When love will exhaust me, my presence will known, as a vestige of nerviness and pride in my physical state.

Where did you capture such thunder in a womb of bitter hate.

There resides a meager relic of a sweeter human race.

So forgo the carnal escapade we dissimulate with words shared a like threads of the seamstresses lace.

To craft a vessel unto my pride.

I shall sale be throttled away from glares of those who lied.

I walk in footprints reversed by grace.

No more embittered relics of a time already erased.


Pretty Dinosaur

I told the kids I was a dinosaur today when asked, “Teacher how old are you?”. This self defeating pinnacle of a silent fixation with aging emerged from the depths of my core with a need to accept that which I cannot change. Though I am not a Barbie doll or a famed movie actress, I am alive in my skin. I have needs as do most mortals walking this earth. A need to be admired and loved. A need to accept myself transfixed itself in my awareness with such a force I likened myself to T-rex. The children giggled and laughed at me unaware of my saddened heart. For it it was not for mirrors and the begiling looks of a younger generation as I casually walk the modern shopping mall I would believe myself to be fancy free in a charismatic reality such as the winged butterfly. Maybe I am a yellow daffodil in a meadow of millions unique only to itself as it sways in the early dawn breezes.

Life is not fair to the aging. With time life transforms to a knowing that protects the heart as though shielded against the daggers of junctions, explorations, and love. In love I have learned being alone and the reality of aloneness are both tempered and tempting. Yet. like so many human beings I flounder to the embrace of acceptance from the companion who knows me as well as I know myself. Yet, we barely say hello or goodbye day to day. I wonder if he realizes I am a dinosaur.

Today as the children giggled I chided with a roar and a fierce growl. A small voice beside me looked hard into my face as I set the tone for learning with a cowards repartee of turn to page 7 and show you are ready to read. He did not giggle. He simply stated, “Teacher you are too pretty to be an ugly dinosaur.” It was in that moment my reality collided with the presences of little eyes, and faces hopeful, sleepy, eager, bored all gazing upon me as if I might cry. I simply said, “I am a pretty dinosaur.”


Who knows the virtue of a dinosaur, but the loving teacher interacting with the innocense of childhood in a environment of learning. I will stay there awhile longer amid children who laugh at play and admire the teacher as though she might have a magical force to empower the world even if only temporary.

Today I became a dinosaur and I was pretty. Today reality transformed to a place where I can reside for a while longer in satisfaction I am doing the best I can.

We Are One

Please don’t reinvent me.

Pass by me and admire the handiwork of a God who saw something different for me than you.

Reverse those thoughts of need and want replacing them by strings of butterflies opening fresh from the cocoon of darkened nights.

Like the trail of a shooting star I will shine in the lingering whisper of a wish made in silence in a head full of dreams and fairytales.

I want to be courage in a world where there is fear in those things we cannot see.

I live light in a life where mediocre is the average best and the next chapter of enlightenment is skipped.

Like the opening of circus I arrive five minutes late to catch the attention of the fat man who smiles at me, so afraid of the crowd.

Don’t look down on me if I do not fit the mold of who is best and who is next in your repritoire of runners up and second bests.

Dancing like a whirl wind I will offer little resistance to the minuscule existence of one who dared to subsume long enough to steal a breath.

Pass by me as I walk alone, merging with the expectations of stronger voices and more harmonious choruses.

Leave me there amidst chiding laughter and endless ever afters.

I will define bravery in your moment of contemplated absurdity.

I will get by in this world of birds of a feather pluck each other and if I rise less bald than you I will know I have not resorted to the empirical fortitude of making noise that blends.

In this place as a mime I will dance in a way that masks the love and loneliness of my kind, a kind who beg from the corner, and walk slower, braving the courage to forego wickedness and embrace a rhythm of stillness.

Know it or not we are one in kind you and I with veins full of blood and potential pain.

We are time you and I. One day when you walk alone you will become me and I you.

Stand and make voices jealous of the off key brilliance in a sound no one has heard, yet all stop and listen in privacy so not to be observed aware of me.

Walk by me just once and learn the light over the horizon never really disappears waiting still, following as it comes back around, taking my hand.

We go on and on despite your endeavor to pummel my efforts to breath freely.

Don’t be afraid to call me friend and open your conscience to an recognition that God is in everyone and time supersedes those melancholy moments of poking fun and laughing at me as we pass by.

Take a chance and remember when this day is done we are one.

Because God has eyes and despite the flagrance and turpitude hie love will prevail when to no avail I ask you to whisper softly as I sing out of key.

Tread delicately upon my leaves in the labyrinth where you rein superior for a time unknowing the immenseness of a world that does not know you.

A world where magic can make me a little more beautiful escalating my voice to a sound heard by all nations under the sun and moon.

Then you will realize we are unambiguously one.

Break Stride Son

The eloquence of life is that it is only lived once.

We can return to a place first traveled, never to be new again.

As delicate as a first kiss; although bitterly lingering then forever gone, it can never be new again.

I struggled to say my bolstered son, be one with this life of yours, for it is your only journey through this unrevealed place.

The burdening unknownness will be riddled with firsts and lasts, but as you journey child experience will guide your weakness, your temptations, your life.

I say to you son embrace your insatiable need to quench the thirst of knowing, the desire to hold what cannot be held and admire it from afar.

Linger in the lust of wanting to satisfy human curiosity and grapple with a colloquial substandard renaissance of being present and vastly engaged.

Bridle your stallion son, imagine the path over the majestic mountains and reach for the dawn of mirrored images and scattered reminders resembling, but never becoming what was first and is now last.

Describe and never classify.

Clarity is a void empty of imagination and creative flow. An energy more powerful than words, yet limited by need and pride, hope and misfortune.

Be known my son and believe. You are the forth coming and the last. Your path though it diverge at the bypass of road proverbially less traveled, will be traveled by you like no other.

Perception will deepen what preconception scarcely allows.

Be wise my son and on your journey occasionally break stride and run.

I Still Sing

From the time I could remember having a thought I wanted to be a singer. I was a shy kid. I sang in my bedroom or with the radio in our Barracuda. Man that was a cool car.

A pink bristly hair brush was my first microphone. Mostly I sang in the car. Sometimes daddy would say, “Wow, she has a good voice.” He turned the dial on the radio down mid chorus and everyone would hear a split second of my solo. I got my first transistor radio and I carried it everywhere with me. I was 8 then. That was a great summer waiting for Seasons in the Sun to come on while we sang with the radio on the swings. Eventually we memorized it and the playground was subjected to our repeated duet and sometimes trio when the one or two friends I had shyly made would sing along.

I liked my voice until 4th grade.

I can’t remember the choir director’s name, but I will never forget her face. She was a pretty lady, blonde like me. I had taken home the flyer from school and told my mom and dad. I don’t think they knew how important choir was to me.

I tried out on the prescribed day standing alone at a piano. She said, “Sing the Star Spangled Banner.” A flush of fear washed through me like a giant tidal wave I hoped would pick me up and sweep me out of the room.  I think I sang one word, maybe two. “I stood there as she told the other teacher she would never be a singer.”


I made the “other” choir eloquently called number 2.

It was then I stopped believing in teachers. Broken hearted no one knew I felt anything.

In fact I was a good student, math made no sense and I didn’t belong to a group or clique. My friends were the ones who like me were never chosen for kickball and picked for the team.

I could think in my head and read stories of kids who had magical powers. The balancing act of who we want to be and who we are festering like a boil ready to burst, then quietly subsiding somewhere in the night.

When I was a kid there were no cell phones and iPads. We rode the bus to school and endured the wrath of the “popular kids” who always sat in the back. Things were said face to face and that was a sweet thing, less of the world to see how others perceive.

Kids like me, the quiet ones, kids who only talked one on one with someone who was as quiet as we were. It was a time when kids could be cruel and prank phone calls calling names and heavy breathing left lying awake all night contemplating the bus ride to that prison of learning where the focus wasn’t molecular compound and geometry.

It was a time when algebraic equations like A + B = you can’t sing. I sang still in silent to 45’s and albums until they skipped scratched like the soul developing within me. I still wanted to be famous inside my quiet shyness. Even  when the spark of confidence dies the dream continues to grow.

I didn’t want to become a teacher. It was never a plan. It began as a journey to take me to what I thought I wanted in a place where few careers abound. A teacher of children with wounded hearts like me. Everyday dawned a new day and twenty years from yesterday I am still here standing amid the smoke screen.

I am aware in the now, a child like me apprehensive and scared may enter a door and sit at my table. I am lucid in learning their names, encouraging a smile, declaring learning will be coupled with good and bad days, but learning is loving and patience is the beginning. I ignore what others say about this child in my embrace and in context I uncover the path and pave the way for a child to emerge brilliant with poise. There is no impossibility in being human and in those minutes and days we will forgo the challenge of being in a world that is listening and watching aware more then ever of who we are. We can still sing and despite what they say we cannot do we can show them we will. Today I take a seat in the back. Today I will teach a child to love himself and learn.


Sometimes I get a little eager like when the kids are outside playing and I feel the urge to sing loud and dance.

The words flow off my tongue like Britney Spears, and in that moment I feel the flow of glistening blonde tresses dancing around my cheek.

Pretending as they walk in with their, “What’s for dinner mom?” that nothing insane had compelled me, spatula microphone still in hand tossing fried potatoes.

Then I say, “I’m sorry,” kind of silent under breath still resonating the last chorus of Opp’s I did again.

Once in a while I get lost in a daydream. One of those fantastical moments where mesmerizing and sunset meet for the first time embracing one another like forlorn lovers lost at sea.

The sea luring and vast, calming and eternal. The sea, sometimes calls me.

When I was young the future was a sea and each day a sunset mesmerizing me with possibility.

Sometimes I wonder where possibility has gone.  I never permitted it to leave.

The empty playground haunts the reality of age as I walk past.

Were were friends once time, possibility, and I.

Sometimes I wish for those things I forgot to wish for when I took forever for granted.

Sometimes I cry.


I had a dream last night. Even though we are not related I know you.

Like a blueprint of a building we wished to build, but didn’t need to because we can already see the rooms, purple curtains, clothes scattered about the floor.

I dreamt that I had you here beside me even though you are nowhere I can be.

I felt you, the hair on your knee nudging mine as we giggled together, staring at the ground like school kids flirting with forever.

I didn’t want to wake up today when my eyes opened. I closed them tight and tried to go back, reaching for you, trying to feel your warmth.

You weren’t there.

I lay still silent afraid the very breath sustaining me would exhale you further away.

I was safe there in my dream reliving the walk downtown passing people as though we could only see each other. The brevity of the moment drew us closer almost holding hands, gingerly cascading past s=a couple dining, babies crying, we didn’t care.

I am awake now, with the memory of you and a dream like a carbon copy of the most precious moments in a life still moving forward. I take you with me there though we no longer speak. I hear you like an echo from the rolling ocean or the call of the morning dove on the furthest branch. There, out of reach, but alive with me.

I don’t speak your name, but I know you still.

The color of your hair, the way you moved away and then came back like we were dancing a fierce tango when I touched you.

Tonight, for the 365th time I will close my eyes and wait for you illusive and yearning, I will hope for you.

I forgot to tell you I loved you last night, please be there.