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Excited to announce the publication of “Words That Heal” where my poem, “On Aging,” has found a wonderful home!!

Debilitating,
like a tsunami that never ends,
Constantly destroying the villages
in its wake.

Overwhelming,
like a thick London fog,
Obscuring everything around
into unrecognizable shadows.

Destructive,
like an F5 stationary tornado,
Eternally sucking up all the goodness
and beauty of life.

Exhausting,
like a marathon continuing
Without an end or goal,
leaving the runner hopeless.

Suffocating,
like the deepest pit of quicksand,
Sapping the breath and strength
from the one trapped within.

Agonizing,
like the lone wolf,
At the end of his term,
curled up to die all alone.

A tic on a wild deer
attached – hanging on
for life

One wrong leap
or faulty jump
and off I would come

A lone leaf hanging tightly
onto the mother branch –
long after the Autumn fall

A strong north breeze
or gust of wintry wind
and it’s to the ground I would go

The third smaller wheel
in a cog wound tight –
hidden just out of site

Should the bigger cogs clog
or stop working at all
no use would this third clog have

The plus one plus one more –
an invisible ghost in the night
and day

Should daylight reveal
the ghost is really a girl
a real ghost I’d surely become

In response to a post by Bartholomew Barker at Living Poetry to the prompt: Write a poem with the words Arctic, slow and wolf in it.

Amber eyes peer at me in the night,
beseeching me forth into the darkness.
My walk is measured, slow,
knowing she’s out there.

Hidden by the arctic snow, the arctic wolf
is invisible against the expanse of white nothingness.
I hear a noise, the brush of a branch against another,
the soft shuffle of snow slipping from a pine bough.

My breath crystallizes on my cheeks and lashes,
a huff and a snort and she is in me!
We roll in the snow, tumbling down a small hill,
coming to rest easily against a young pine.

The massive white wolf latches onto my wrist,
hauling me to my feet beside her.
My Tala runs off into the forest,
ready for another game of hide-and-seek.

For submission of my poem, “His Gift.”

thepoetrymarathon.com

Soul cries as love clashes
wasted moments wasted lives
Ignorant misuse of time gifted
filled with accusations and lies

Eyes closed to natures beauty
ears deaf to words of love
Senses dulled by mundane issues
hearts sealed to all above

Turn away from anger and angst
walk away from mournful dysphoria
Wave away the darkening mist
of evil’s wish for mass hysteria

Find strength within the beauty of self
negate the need for tempting addictions
Forego the hand that offers false biologics
embrace your personal interdictions

My favorite place is not walking the beach
or watching the stars shine in the midnight sky.
It’s not going to the Friday night hop and drop
or eating Grandma’s famous pecan pie.

Although to Hawaii I’d love to travel,
or take a safari down an African river.
Those all I’m sure are wondrous places,
but do not create a whole body shiver.

A roaring fire in the dead of winter,
with steaming cups of hot spiced cocoa.
Sounds real nice but, it’s not there either,
not even floating on the Orinoco.

My favorite place in the whole universe,
is curled up beside your long, tall frame.
Right here wrapped within your loving warmth,
safe and sound in your arms again.

In response to dVerse Poets Pub call for poetry submissions to their 2026 Anthology: Krisis: Poetry at the Crossroads

Her door is always swinging
a chaotic rhythm only she can hear
No rhyme or cadence evident
except in her own ear

She cares not who might come through
not who that malicious door might harm
If she takes a dislike to me or you
she’ll slam it shut with a straight forearm

Whether a weekday or weekend
doesn’t make any sense at all
That such a beauty chooses this
before all is her love for alcohol

One too many times that evil door
has hit me square upon my face
Though I’ll love her for all days
no more can I run her loosing race

I stood beyond that destructive door
now hanging by hinges bent and doomed
Walked away with a heavy heart
from the child birthed from my womb

In response to:

Dew drops glide across your silken folds,
delicate petals of pink turn dark at the watery touch.
The heaviness of moisture plumps your inner pistils,
preparing you for the entrance of pollen laden bees.

Spring in its glorious renewal, its decadent nascency,
guides all creatures; flora, fauna, two legged and more to join in the joyful chaos that precedes
and proceeds the creation of life.

Each drenched petal surrenders into its release,
floating demurely on the breeze, rising and falling
before gently tumbling into the arms of the Earth,
a sweet, recognizable scent permeating its berth.