This blog has been a wonderful outlet for the random musings and unanticipated thought fragments that seem to perpetually traverse my mind. Through poetry I’ve found a method of examining and coping with emotional turmoil, that kept bottled up, eventually becomes rancid and toxic.

Without prattling on endlessly, I’ll share with you that several years ago I experienced a series of traumatic events severe enough to make rebuilding the life I had impossible.

Much of what I’d thought of as absolutely essential was irredeemable. At 44 years old I was faced with the terrifying prospect of finding a completely different way to live, something I wasn’t even certain was possible.

Being so fundamentally hurt, the first eighteen months were little more than a process of slow healing. I didn’t think about what came next during this time, because I wasn’t convinced there would be a next.

When I finally tried to pull myself together it was quickly apparent that too many pieces couldn’t be made to fit anymore. That was very sad since I’d had some of them most of my life, and didn’t want to see them go.

So, I was left with the question, who was I?…………………………………………………… (to be con’t)


Authors note: While I have no intention of abandoning poetry, I think it’s time to bring this blog more in alignment with it’s original mission statement, which is simply to help, and to do that it’s important to understand the circumstances of it’s creation.



A Poem Unwritten

Words unsaid,

tears unshed,

love ungiven,

a  poem unwritten.


A kiss unshared,

a joy unbared,

a sin unforgiven,

a poem unwritten.


Each verse unshown,

each meter unknown,

remain always,

a seed unsown.


Likely you were never told,

it’s you, yourself, who is the Poet,

and what you say and what you don’t,

decide great things I tell you now,


A lovely chance,

you have been given,

not to leave,

a poem unwritten.








The best poems are never written,

they pass in sacred silence

No stanza captures,

a winter sunrise over a snow-draped pine forest

No meter equals,

the joy found in a first kiss

No style matches,

the sadness of losing a beloved friend

No alliteration belongs,

to the sore muscles and satisfaction of a good day’s work

No such license,

was ever granted a Poet