THOUGHTS

When I worked in Virginia, my cubicle had a window which looked out to a small house with a front porch, where I witnessed the real-life drama of a family contending with the slow and ravaging effects of cancer.

Making one of those life-altering decisions that involves paving a completely new path can lead to a kind of paralysis.

I wrote a series of haiku during the first year of my son’s life. As you’ll see, humor and poetry are great coping mechanisms during the stressful, sleepless days (and nights) of taking care of a baby.

The need to connect with other souls can often supersede the strongest feelings of stage fright.

Many years ago, a friend asked me to write a poem about autumn. This concept came quickly.

Loss comes in all shapes and sizes. So does healing.

Misunderstood lyrics from Peter Gabriel’s “Mercy Street” (“words that haunt like home” instead of the actual “words support like bone”) became the inspiration for a poem describing the feeling of not having a place in this world.

Written for a dear friend who flourished, despite a complicated and disadvantaged upbringing.

What if a map’s compass rose became Compass Rose?

Exploring a relationship that seems to embody the adage, “familiarity breeds contempt,” but has an unexpected moment of tenderness. Love is complicated.

Two days before my father's funeral, I stepped through the door of 951 A, a modest apartment; Dad's for the past 35+ years. There was a lot to take in, viscerally and emotionally.

There is a lot of imagery and emotion here that was present during my college years. And, there is that sense of longing and loneliness that has been shadowing me my whole life.

A somber poem pondering what it could mean to be dead, and what it often means to be alive.

A poem which explores the allure and price of freedom.

I wrote this after driving home with my son, asleep in his car seat. I guess I was overwhelmed by love and the gravity of what being a parent means.

After having moved seven times in 20+ years (a total of five different states), I wrote this poem about the difficulty of putting down roots and feeling like you’ve made an impact, however small.

It’s amazing how an epic journey can start with a small, serendipitous step. My first step was motivated by, of all things, my back.

He caught a glimpse of his face reflected in the bottle. God, he looked pale; partly because of the residue of the makeup, partly because he was old. At 50, he should be considered “middle-aged,” but after 35 years working in the circus full-time, he considered himself old.

I heard distant, cheerful chirping: so sweet and reminding me of the summers of my childhood, where my bedroom window was just steps from the woods and I would hear a chorus of songbirds seemingly trying to wake me every morning from my deep, dreamless sleep. As I listened more intently, I noticed the chirping was closer, and from one bird. Chirp, pause, chirp, pause. It was almost rhythmic and…digital.

Possibly my favorite time of day during the work week is the 20 minutes or so between dropping my daughter off at daycare and pulling into the parking lot at work. It may be the only time during the day where I’m all alone.

My husband, Brian, left for New Orleans early this morning, carrying two overstuffed bags. My son, Connor, and I, both sleepy and sad, waved goodbye in our pajamas as he drove away, shivering in the cold March air.