In a crowded lot, a poem can be an open space…

It’s late. Your heels tick across the macadam like a lonely metronome. You’ve done it a thousand times, crossed this deserted lot, in the dark. It’s a safe neighborhood. Each time, you remember that book you read as a teen. The one where the girl is collected.  With the 2017 August Post Card Poetry Festival…

As the world turns, poems make for better days…

The world looks infinitely outward, while you turn infinitely in. Your journey is wrapped in red ribbons.  With the 2017 August Post Card Poetry Festival concluded, I’m nostalgic for last year’s work. Here are 2016’s poems and their post cards… consider it an August in review. If you missed this year’s fest and would like…

When the city is too much, a poem can be a walk in the woods

A welcome mat of pine needles is laid across the forest, just for you. Heady with balsam, you discover that heaven is lined with tall firs. The chattering squirrel agrees, though he wonders why you hadn’t known this all along. With the 2017 August Post Card Poetry Festival concluded, I’m nostalgic for last year’s work….

At the end of a lonely corridor, a poem is an open door…

Plush carpet silences your footfall, you travel the corridor like a ghost.  Tonight, you’ll haunt Room 257. Tomorrow, your forgotten lipstick is the only evidence, that, like them, you were once here. With the 2017 August Post Card Poetry Festival concluded, I’m nostalgic for last year’s work. Here are 2016’s poems and their post cards……

For the road, toss Lunch Poems in the bag with the pretzels…

The RV is stocked with salty Virginia peanuts. In the cooler: two deviled hams on Wonder, schmeared with Mr. Mustard. Throw in a jar of crisp cornichons, the Gewurztraminer, and go. With the 2017 August Post Card Poetry Festival concluded, I’m nostalgic for last year’s work. Here are 2016’s poems and their post cards… consider…

When you’re considering the past, a poem can make you sigh…

There’s dirt under your fingernails. You’re clawing the soil unearthing the strangest things. A long bone. A carved button. A miraculous medal.  And that’s just scratching the surface.  With the 2017 August Post Card Poetry Festival concluded, I’m nostalgic for last year’s work. Here are 2016’s poems and their post cards… consider it an August…

Skipping down the boulevard, a poem can be your companion…

You toss the philosopher’s stone and bound forward. Hopscotch the years, skipping and laughing. You’re determined to win the game you lost as a child.  With the 2017 August Post Card Poetry Festival concluded, I’m nostalgic for last year’s work. Here are 2016’s poems and their post cards… consider it an August in review. If you…

In the search for yourself, a poem can transform…

Last night, it rained. Crisp leaves are transformed into a vinyl carpet.  With the 2017 August Post Card Poetry Festival concluded, I’m nostalgic for last year’s work. Here are 2016’s poems and their post cards… consider it an August in review. If you missed this year’s fest and would like a postcard, let me know….

When you’re leaving, a poem can make goodbye easier…

At seventy-six, your father’s hair is still plush. In coal country, these crewcuts are called plickies.  Your hand rests atop his head, the point where the spirit passes, they say. He was here, now he’s gone. Your fingers never felt his escape. With the 2017 August Post Card Poetry Festival concluded, I’m nostalgic for last year’s…

When you’re stuck, a poem can nudge you…

The sun has not yet risen, but the sky brightens along rooftops. Venus is poised above the shingles,  ready to say cheerio . This is the best hour, when the day straddles morning and night. With the 2017 August Post Card Poetry Festival concluded, I’m nostalgic for last year’s work. Here are 2016’s poems and…

When you can’t sleep, a poem can be a bedtime story

Grandmother and her daughters ring the kitchen table. The air is heavy with their midnight Pall Malls and  ghost stories. You listen from the narrow stairwell, where even the grey wallpaper smells like smoke. Wedged between your sister and cousin, the giggling noises of scared little girls betrays you.  What? You girls are still up? …

When the sky is stormy, a poem can help you see the beauty of rain…

There’s a shelf of slate clouds, so low you might bang your head. Now off you go, a clear plastic bubble for your umbrella. The rain typewrites an invisible story as you walk to the bus stop. With the 2017 August Post Card Poetry Festival concluded, I’m nostalgic for last year’s work. Here are 2016’s…