It all ends up in the landwash
out with the tide
in with the times
over there, with your emotions.
Bent at the knees, begging for direction
we’re iron clad (with our devotion)
Not as black and white as wrong or right
I just write –
I just wanted to be a woman of letters
But the problem is..
I’ve forgotten your address.



There’s nothing about something
I loved, always
You were the lucky one
Walking away
Avoiding the scar
You’re here, still
Coherent and thriving
I’m slowly picking up the words you left
And forming new sentences
Never missing a beat
Finding a life
That is worth the defeat
Sailing down the hill
in a dory made of wishes
A signal without the flare
Trying so hard
I’m slowly picking up the words you left
And forming new sentences
Writing myself anew.


The Road

The road was the towing ground by which our culture rambled out on. We aren’t as ‘we’ as we used to be. There exists a frayed connection between our sunburned, wind burned, salt water caked faces and our now tightening belts behind the wheels of diesel trucks. The calluses have disappeared. Coffee scents the cup holders. This is not naivety, this is a different form of power and majesty. You are still whole and uninterrupted by the horns, buzzing, spinning, cartwheeling, concrete ways of ‘new’ life.

The human form stretches and surrenders to its surroundings – confounding. Be the tree but not the tower.