Wednesday, November 19, 2014



I keep my walls up pretty high.
Over the years they’ve gotten sturdier;
with every bump, dent, heartbreak
they have strengthened.

Today my barriers are heavyset,
the result of being reminded
of a particularly bad break
and the subsequent crying thereafter.

Coat collar and scarf hide my face,
eyes fixed to the ground,
headphones locking me in to myself.
I walk into the coffee shop
and straight to the restroom.
I hang my purse on the hook
and my eyes catch the wall.
A chalkboard strip runs around
the four walls and contains words and phrases
from customers, strangers,
written to uplift, inspire, cause a laugh.
U Are Awesome thnx 4 bringing earth light!
Pancake Snowflake Earthquake Milkshake!
Baby it’s cold outside.
I read the walls, smile, feeling better.

I order brightly at the counter,
then smile at a man
while slipping past his table to my seat.


Here's the short poem I wrote to calm myself down this morning. Writing things down always helps me. I made the graphic too.


Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Picks, Water, & Writers

Just a point of reference on this piece, I just move to Traverse City, MI about a week ago. Hence, the bay is Grand Traverse Bay. Hope you like this one! Let me know what you think! Thanks! :-)

Picks, Water, and Writers

I thought I was going to take photos today,
but instead I’m sitting cross-legged
on a rock wall that runs
along the side of the bay,
half-drank Rockstar in front of me,
headphones on  supplying me with music,
hood up on my most worn
yet most comforting zip-up.
Chewing on a guitar pick
(Lately I’ve been chewing on picks
more that playing with them.),
thinking, writing (and shivering).
It helps calm my mind,
get it off current events,
to think of writers and water:
Hemmingway, Twain, Thoreau, Kerouac,
and wonder where their minds wandered
when they put down their pens
and watched the waves come in.


Monday, September 22, 2014

The Ride

Just a little thing I thought up today. Let me know  what you think! Thanks!! :-)

The Ride

I think that I think
more than most people normally do.
My thoughts cycle through my brain
as if they were written on flaps of paper
taped to the spokes of a bike,
like I used to do with play cards
as a young kid,
except now I’m on an unending bike ride.

Occasionally I get to take a break
from this ride and shackle
up my bike for a bit.

I take a seat in a local coffee shop,
put on my headphones,
slowly sip straight coffee, and watch
all the people inside and outside
and wonder what kind of thoughts
are taped to their bicycles.


Tuesday, September 2, 2014

Hope to Stop

Let me know what you think. Thanks!! :-)

Hope to Stop

I approach at my guitar
sitting silently in its stand,
I run my fingers across the strings
but I don’t feel like picking it up.

I shuffle through my albums
but I can’t decide on one
to listen to,
all of them remind me
of him tonight.

I sit on my bed,
pick up my notebook,
trying to ignore the ripped out page
that held the poem
I mailed to him,
the only first draft
to ever be mailed away.
I turn to a fresh page
and just write, mostly
question after question
of which none will ever be answered,
and hope to stop crying
before I reach the end of the page.


Sunday, August 3, 2014

First Form

"Few things are as pure as handwritten words on a page." - Me, many times.

Original lyrics from Joe Strummer for "London Calling" from Google

First Form

I like to write
by placing pen to paper,
letting my words, my thoughts,
flow on to the page,
and spill into existence.
Taking the ideas, images, stories
from my head
and giving them life.

The first thoughts are unedited, uninhibited.
They are not always pretty,
and not always in the best language.
They are misspelled and written
in ways that only make sense to me.
But they are pure,
uninterrupted, clean, unmarked
and throat-scratchingly raw.

I like to let
my love, hatred, fear, and joy
find a place in the real world
yet still protected in my notebook.

I scrawl furiously
stopping only when
my mind is drained.

I always feel a sense
of joy and calm
when I see my words scribbled
across the previously blank lines,
now made permanent
in an unapologetic honestly.

It is then that my peace
can finally be realized.




I wish I could just drive
until I get somewhere
new, where no one knows me.
I could step outside and breath
new air, with no trace of my past.

I want an adventure,
Sal and Dean style.
Everything a new experience,
a new story. A place where
my life is more exciting
than my dreams.

I could forget
the heartaches and breaks,
the tears and anger,
the missteps, the fuckups.

I could turn my head
to the sky, laugh out the bad
only leaving the good.
And then go 
on with my life.


Tuesday, July 29, 2014

The Real

The phrase I used in this is actually lyrics in "The Sound of Silence" by Simon & Garfunkel. I see it used as a phrase many times. Comments are very, very much appreciated. Thanks so much! :-)

The Real

I often come across the phrase,
The words of the prophets
are written on the subway walls.
And in my 30 years
of stumbling through life,
these words are reaffirmed
as truths over and over.

The 16-year-old girl posting
pictures of bombs tearing apart
her town in Gaza,
and writing to the world
that she might die tonight
brings me to tears
more often than any religious
leader ever has.

The homeless man’s eyes,
that I can’t stop looking into
almost every time I’m downtown,
holds more stories
that I’m sure any actor’s
every could. And I hope
that one day the man
will be able to share
his insights and wisdom
that I can see shining
deep within his eyes.

The music played
from a man so bruised and broken
fills me with more hope
than I’ve ever had before
that things can change
and everything will settle
and I can still find
my way in this world too.


Monday, June 9, 2014

On Writing & When Words Fail

Two poems up today. Let me know what you think of them. :-)

On Writing

We poets have our favorites
when it comes to writing:
types of notebooks, pens,
places, sounds, beverages.

I’m sitting on a black-striped bench
in the far bright corner
of the new cupcakery in town,
just two blocks away
from my favorite coffee shop.

Sometimes we must
break the mold, escape
our ordinary
to let new thoughts,
ideas, and words
flow from our pens
to our notebooks
to our readers’ eyes,
brains, and minds.

I take out my beat-up notebook,
open it on the green glassed table top,
arrange my espresso and cupcake
to be within reach,
I put pen to paper
and compose my thoughts.

When Words Fail

I’m usually pretty quiet
until I really have something to say.
Sometimes I stutter and stammer
and search for the words
that are right on the tip of my tongue.

I am self-confident
when I know what needs to be said.
I’ll barrel through a speech
leaving you with no way
to say anything back to me
until I am done.

Words can still fail me,
fail us; language gets
in our way from time-to-time.

All we can ever do
is talk situations out,
make sure that we don’t leave
the most important
words unsaid.


Tuesday, June 3, 2014

Yellow Guitar Picks

"My purse is so filled with guitar picks, green tea bags and bandaids that I can barely find anything else in it!" - Me, last night

One of the yellow picks on my bass

Yellow Guitar Picks

Last week I accidently
tried to pay for my coffee
with a mix of quarters, dimes,
and bright yellow guitar picks.

Yesterday I was digging
in my purse for my car keys
but all I seemed to be able to grab
were band-aids, green tea bags,
and yellow guitar picks.
I finally emptied my purse
of the band-aids and tea bags
but there were too many picks,
mixed in with coins, to even think
about rescuing all of them.

Today I grabbed my purse
by the bottom and before I realized
what I was doing, the contents cascaded
all over my passenger seat and beyond!
All I could do was facepalm myself and laugh
as yellow pick after yellow pick poured out,
many of them never to be seen again.
Yeah, I probably had that one coming!


Saturday, May 17, 2014



Little punk girl
so lost and lonely.
sitting, curled up
into the corner
all alone, again.
Notebook and pen within reach.
But she she struggles to pick them up
and write her pain away.


Wednesday, May 7, 2014



Walking along with a lone acoustic guitar
playing out a slow minor melody
through my ear buds.
I pass by smiling faces and laughing people,
keeping my head down
I pick up my pace.

I turn into my coffee shop,
the door held for me
by a man with a sympathetic nod,
I think he saw my eyes.
I pour eight quarters
into the “Grab-and-Go” hole,
and avoid eye contact with my favorite barista.
Self-serve coffee comforts me today.

Out again into the hot thick air,
sweat begins to mix with tears as
I hurry back to my car.
Inside, door shut. Quiet.
Turn engine on, switch albums.
Ducky Boys, the band that calms me.

My shoulders stop shaking,
I throw my car in reverse
and head to wide open roads again.


Thursday, April 24, 2014

Just A Short Scene

Just something I jotted down earlier. I might write more on it later, but maybe not. I kinda like it as just a short piece right now. Let me know what you think! :-)


My hair is held back
with a faded purple bandana
but it still falls in my face.
My head is down,
and I’m walking fast
trying to beat the raindrops.
My headphones are in my ears
but no music pumps through them.
Today my inner monologue
is just a bunch of trumpet sounds,
and it’s all the noise I can take.


Saturday, March 15, 2014

Morning Scene

The song in the first verse is "All In a Day" by the outstandingly amazing Joe Strummer, the punk rock warlord, and the original punk rock poet.

Let me know what you think about this piece, please. Thanks so much! :-)

One of my favorite Joe Strummer photos. Found on Google.

Morning Scene

I wake up in a good mood;
even before opening my eyes
the lyrics of a favorite song
are playing themselves
along my mind.
I sing along,
In Sherwood Forrest we had Robin Hood
Everybody’s rocking here around the hood!

I shuffle myself into the kitchen,
pick up an apple and bite,
all the while bopping my head
to what has already become
the day’s soundtrack.

I grab my notebook
then my favorite (clicky) pen,
and take them to the porch.

I write about the things
that make me smile,
that make me tick.
I write knowing that I
am a poet, and this morning
I’m not embarrassed
to admit it.

I watch the runners,
and the bikers, and the motorcyclists,
the drivers, and the neighbors
all go by my house,
and I write for them.

I read the news,
check my social media,
and my e-mails and texts,
and I write for them.

I write about what I know
and what I want to understand.
I write to unite my thoughts
and I hope to write
one day to unite the world.


Monday, March 10, 2014

Just Dented

This is a continuation of one of the pieces that I posted last week. Everyone who told me what they thought said that this was their favorite of the 3, and that it seemed kinda like a song. I write like that sometimes, so I decided to give this form of poem a day (though I'm sure it probably already has one, but whatever!), I'm calling it a song poem. So if anyone actually wants to try to put it to music, have at it. Although I play guitar, I suck at turning my words into songs. 

Let me know what you think of this one! Thanks!! :-)

Just Dented

Fooled again by a man
that I trusted, all while
being more cautious
than I have been before.

He doesn't know
that he didn't break me;
no, this time
I'm only dented.

I’ve been broken before,
kicked and thrown around,
left feeling useless
and not quite whole.

I’m healing, stronger now
where I was once broken.
and this time,
I’m only dented.

Dents still hurt,
still leave a mark.
But each day I’m better,
looking more like myself.

I’ll still think about him.
He left his mark.
But this time,
I’m only dented.

I lock into moments
of peace and happiness,
and drown out those moments
of being using.

He played me,
took me for a ride.
Still, this time
I’m only dented.

My heart took a kick,
lost a little blood.
But I'm still standing,
still smiling, singing,
playing and laughing.


Wednesday, March 5, 2014

Life Is My Muse & Other Thoughts From Tonight

I sat  down and just wrote tonight. What came out was one poem and a few shorter verses. The poem is first and then I tacked on the other two things that I wrote, that aren't quite fully formed poems, but I still kinda like them. I hope you do to! Let me know what you think. Thanks!! :-)

Life Is My Muse

I like to find my poetry
where ever I tend to be.

Sitting now on my futon,
Superman blanket draped
over my shoulders, acoustic
music plays from my computer.
My mind is wandering
to the events of this past month.

A rich man tried to woo
me with his fleet of eight cars,
before I realized that he
was just a player.
Sure, his brand new Mustang
was a lot of fun to ride in.
But my beat up 13-year old
Forrester has character,
it has stories.

Besides, he probably wouldn't
have liked being shoved against
the rails at a punk rock concert;
and that's the kind of girl
that I really am.

Just Dented

Fooled again by a man
that I trusted, while more
cautious than I have been before.

He doesn't know
that he didn't break me;
no, this time
I'm only dented.

My heart took a kick,
lost a little blood.
But I'm still standing,
still smiling, singing,
playing and laughing.

Punk Rock Poetry

Punk concerts are poetry.
I feel the most alive
when I'm at one.
Feeling the vibrations flowing
through my entire body,
shaking me to my core
feeding me energy. I can
lose myself in the greatest way.

Silently connecting to others,
moving, singing, sweating as one.


Wednesday, February 12, 2014

Inspiration and Energy

Inspiration and Energy

In my house, in almost every
room there are instruments:
guitars, bongos, a xylophone
and more ready to be picked up,
held and played anytime
the mood strikes me.

In my first apartment
I taped up poems
that I had written
interspersed with poems
and songs written by others,
giving creative energy
to my tiny space.

When I was young,
so many times I would fall
asleep to my dad and his friends
playing guitars; their music
flowed through the vents
and into my room,
rocking me to sleep.


Tuesday, January 14, 2014

Getting Away

Getting Away

I’m sitting scrunched
up in the corner of my couch.
A mix of folk-punk plays
from my computer, because
I need something slower today.
A pillow balancing on my knees
holds my open notebook.
I am furiously pushing
the top of my clicky pen
in and out repeatedly.
Click Click Click Click...

I’ve been thinking about friends,
lovers, and enemies today.
How they stack up, intertwine,
trade places, and combine into one
as they play their ways
through my life; shaping ideas,
emotions, thoughts, and words.
I’ve smiled, danced, sang, played,
written, cried, and raged
so many times because
of the people in my life.

I’m hiding from the world
to clear my head.
I stop clicking my pen,
place ink on my notebook
and attempt to write
my story in my words.
I turn off the music written
from the lives of others
and pick up my guitar.
I play out the chords
that I want to hear,
and set the tempo
that I want to feel.

I get lost in my own doings
and when I open my eyes
I feel at peace with myself
and the world around me.


Tuesday, January 7, 2014


Oh how I've missed Tuesday nights reading dVerse Open Link Night poetry, hockey playing on in the background! :-)


Soul soothing comfort
has been fleeting lately.
Stuck indoors, in one place,
with my thoughts gathering,
pressing on my brain, driving
me a little mad. My body
agitated, muscles tense, I can
only pace so far.

I long to be at a concert,
lost in the middle
of a mosh pit,
letting my thoughts fade
as bodies all around
move and slam into me,
all of us rocking in rhythm
and feeding energy to the band
which fuels the crowd.

Instead I’m wrapped
in my beat-up, holey,
ripped and faded hoodie
that I’ve had for 10 years.
Spilling thoughts into
my notebook at erratic intervals
hoping that soon my nerves
will stop jumping, and my mind
will fall silent into the peace
that I’ve never stopped seeking.