My Poems
If you want to be a better writer, read and write poetry.
Silver Spurred Galoshes
No Stetson hat
no bolo that
might pair with old galoshes
So globs of glue
pinwheels will do
to craft cowgirl galoshes
I strut with pride
prepared to ride
gussied up in my galoshes
I’m on a course
to tame a horse
In silver spurred galoshes
Past bales of hay
I make my way
Jing-a-ling sing my galoshes
I grab a halter
never falter
spurred on by my galoshes
My steed she moos
her cud she chews
my cow stomps my galoshes
My silver spurred galoshes!
Silver Spurred Galoshes
No Stetson hat
no bolo that
might pair with old galoshes
So globs of glue
pinwheels will do
to craft cowgirl galoshes
I strut with pride
prepared to ride
gussied up in my galoshes
I’m on a course
to tame a horse
In silver spurred galoshes
Past bales of hay
I make my way
Jing-a-ling sing my galoshes
I grab a halter
never falter
spurred on by my galoshes
My steed she moos
her cud she chews
my cow stomps my galoshes
My silver spurred galoshes!
I Say Grace
as they leave us again
in the woods at a campsite
closed for the season.
The fresh air is crisp.
BabyDoll breathes a little
easier out here.
She runs, laughing through
ribbons of sunlight, chasing
shadows across the ground.
We follow a worn trail
to a silver-blue stream
where we dangle our feet.
From my old backpack
I pull out two stale sandwiches,
our meal for the day.
PB & J
She’s the jelly
pure and sweet.
I’m the peanut butter
keeping us together.
BabyDoll and me,
we do the best we can, stuck
between two pieces of old white bread.
Mom and Dad.
Poems are taken from GILT, a novel in verse, which won an SCBWI Work of Outstanding Promise.
Life Reflected
Light and shadow play tag between buildings
a child stares back at me bright from slumber
rolling through sun showers and rainbows
I wonder where is she going?
Raindrops muddle on the window’s dirty glass
a young woman glares back at me dark as thunder
streaming down her face a trail of mascara
I wonder who is she leaving?
My ride lurches to a sudden screeching stop
an old woman peers back at me groceries asunder
tracing the tiny avenues on her beautiful face
I wonder how did she get here?
Honorable Mention, St. Paul Almanac,
IMPRESSIONS Poetry Competition
Repeat Pete (A Very Short Pantoum)
Repeat Pete’s my pesky parakeet.
He doesn’t use hashtags when he tweets.
Instead, in raucous voice he repeats
my words verbatim—he’s not discreet.
Sisters are dumb. They have stinky feet.
Word for word his raucous voice repeats.
Dad gets mad and grounds me for a week.
Thanks, Repeat Pete—pesky parakeet!