Published on Life in 10 Minutes

A Room of my Own, a ten minute write I published here was published today on the site that inspired me to begin the daily habit of ten minutes to drain-write. I’m finding the creative sprints have opened possibilities, even whistle beckoning to begin or finish those bigger projects. 
Read the piece here. Hope you enjoy… Again. 



Morning quiet, 

the children and their father 

 are visiting far family 

–the other coast kin.

Silence woke me at 5,

in nature’s alarm,

floored by fleeting time’s passing.

So I padded through a dark kitchen

out the French doors opening

to trees, wall-ivy and cement.

Fog painted my yard early or 

late last night.

My morning treasure hunt,

gathering fruit like ancients before me,

I pluck a near ripe tangerine.

Dew muffles the circle’s slow awakening.

Only the witness and I ruffle the thick, cool air, 

she inside, me out–both dark of day denizens.


Inside, the brewed elixir–arisen–awaits 

the heat of my lips, warm breath

chicory and oily coffee bean permeates.


Drawn along softly in my wake, 

unprepossessing, anticipating

every  step and saunter, click

and rushing air precipitated by

daylight’s motion in muted tones,

she watches–just in case.

I feel her eyes and cast mine downward.


Patience–she sits center in wait,

eyes beaming a steady pinpoint plea:

Notice me. Give me hand.

And I do, bent over her supplication

until the toaster pops and

the noise straightens my knees 

and takes my face away.



A bite of breakfast timed to her arrival,

stirrings from rooms behind, 

the caretaker wheels her in,

the ritual rousing now complete.

My first meal companion–

brain-shut in stifled words

uttered inside an airy maze,

once an ordered, meter-mind    

sounding poetry and song, love

and laughter, the mothering kind.

“Good morning, Mom.

Another unpromised day greets us,

so let’s play the lottery with our luck.”

Her inward stare toward the window

flickers only hair trigger slightly.

And the powerful sun, 

still swallowed in mist 

nods assent.


The Leak



Burst pipes in the ceiling, flood on the floor
running water, feet paddling wooden slats
tread the milling seeds of parodic shrugs
shouldered under duress, swamped under.
Not my burden, not my share to offer any.
Only advice I can give is phone a plumber
fix the foundational leaks pouring in on us
seeped slyly wet sopping our shirted skin.
Make a claim, seek help, buy a plan, a key;
we’ve been sunk up to our necks before.
Open your mind; see the broken thoughts
splintering the walls as the fragments fall.
We both knew the roots would unearth us
bring a house down to the water’s surface
strangle the strangers within in knotty lies 
and so we sink as the tides rise and rinse.
I can swim but the weaker ones will drown
no doubt the inundation will sweep them
as blown broom dust nests sit atop a pond
casts shadow on upward sea eyes beneath.
We must leave our stake, abandon the plot
unworthy of its keep at the edge of leaving;
the walls, children, mothers and fathers go,
poised to leap finally sprung from the fount.

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