Autobiography of a Poet
Chapter on Childhood (9 - 17)
Chapter on Childhood (9 - 17)
Chapter on Becoming (18 -30)
Chapter on Becoming (30 - 40)
Chapter on Becoming Pt. Two
Chapter on Being a Mother
Between Man and Woman
Still Working it Out Between Man and Woman
The Man And Woman Thing...It Still Works
Lover, By Name Called
Lover, By Name Called II
Lover, By Name Called III
Lover, By Name Called IV
Lover, By Name Called V
In and Out of Love
Still Falling In and Out of Love
Romantic Love
Distance Loving
More verse
Through Depression
Ending verse

I sometimes feel that childhood passed me by, then wondered where I'd gotten to.



 I sat staring, staring,

 out the window, above my bed.


As restless urgent longings,

filled my young head.


There outside, in my backyard,

in the leaves of an old oak tree


It seemed to have captured sunlight

and showed it only to me.


It was way past midnight,

and I a girl of eight.


My mother would have yelled,

if she'd known I was up so late.


Yet, I held my vigil, which

had become a nightly ritual you see.


For the tree had captured sunlight,

and gifted it only to me.


When loneliness was too apparent,

and fear lifted its ugly head.


I crawled very quickly,

to the comfortable foot of my bed.


And imagined the branches reached down,

and the boughs cradled me.


This tree which captured sunlight,

then nightly comforted me.


When the wind would blow,

the leaves reflected light danced, swayed.


Spinning in the air, on the ground, and

against my nose-pressed windowpane.


Laughing at my solo antics,

and my childish revelry.


As daily it captured sunlight,

and each night presented it to me. 



She was beautiful, passionate.  Of varying moods

Young girl, growing older, you too would have been moved.


But in the space of a moment, from out of nowhere.

She---became cloaked---in despair.


A temptress, a goddess.  Full blown ebony queen.

Full, luscious lips, with a voice which could make you cream.


But without any warning cruelty arose, ripping her soul bare.

And she---became cloaked---in despair.


Her summer and laughter, became shadowed by a cloud.

Becoming muted music, instead of bells ringing aloud.


A once resonant symphony, becoming a blare,

As her innocence---became cloaked---in despair.


Her light began to fade an illusion she became.

Forced darkness in a heart where once brightness reigned.


And though she struggles with the layers stripping them away with care.

Still, she remains cloaked---in despair.

Age 8yrs

The poet was still wrapped in innocence.

Don't Hit

You woke up late the baby cries,

And spilt milk on your dress.

You had another in the closet,

But, oh no time to press.


You're already upset from last night,

When your husband did not come home.

You raise your hand and clinch your fist

And then let out a moan.


You became upset and really mad,

You swung on the child you love.

But once you stop to think it through,

You ask, "What was I thinking of?"


You take in things, a lot it may seem,

That overrides your joy.

Yet, when you begin to raise your hand,

The things you love you destroy.



If I were to look into a mirror

Do you know what I would see?,

Beauty and loveliness through and through.

Because it's all inside of me.


What you are on the inside

Always project outwardly

How you act and show yourself,

Is just what others will see.