Cave People

Tonight in my nest of stones I have not slept.
Through the walls my neighbors fight over how
best to spend their time as it silently slips through
the space between their fingers.
As the last grains fall it seems reasonable to be
present for the hours left.
When the  dawn  climbs above the ocean I can see
that deep amber on the shore,  the color of
 my lover’s eyes when  aroused,  waning to hues
of   gold that glint  in my half empty glass.
In the unkempt night I rearrange decaying books
wander halls of memories pillaging my mind.



Trinette Reed photography



I want to fly but fall like

a silent prayer.

My limbs are an anchor

as I slip beneath the surface.

Opened mouthed my lungs expand,

my once struggling palms lie flat

as gentle waves of the river rock me.

Strands of weed mingle with my breath,

my only thing of value.

Everything beautiful is here,

all that was lost.

Birds chorus to the ancient stones.

A thousand warriors rest in an

estuary of flowers,

I can hear their mournful lament.

celtic woman by woad

Celtic Woman…art by Woad

Frida – ( Deutsch by Hutschi)

Every so often I am fortunate to have a poem translated  by  Hutschi at Neues vom Hutschi,  a favorite blog of mine. I  am honored that he has chosen my poem “Frida” to translate so beautifully to German.  I hope my German readers  and all who love the German language as I do will enjoy this.


(Deutsch: Hutschi)


Im Porträt
Sie trägt ein
über den Schultern
Terrakotta-Lippen sind
in Granit geformt.
Ihre Augen haben die
Farbe der Erde,
sie schreien heraus
die Angst der Welt.
Ihr Bild ist gewirkt
in zerlumpte Wandteppiche,
an Nägel ist es gehängt an
einer Bauernhausmauer.
Sie ist gefangen von der Hand
eines Aufstands der Frauen.
Sie ist stolz,
Sie ist Mexiko.


Find the original German version at

self portrait by Frida Kahlo





In the portrait she wears
a coral shawl across her shoulders.
Terracotta lips are set in granite.
Her eyes are the color of the earth,
they scream the anguish of the world.
Her image is etched into ragged tapestry
hung from nails on a farmhouse wall.
She is captured by the hand
of a woman uprising.
She is proud,
she is Mexico.








Indulging Conjecture

Pink sand pulls away
from the glistening shore,
melting fondant in the
sticky heat.
Minute  ecosystems inhabit
tiny  grottoes in  tide pools
of wet sand.
Some days I stroll the coast alone,
escaping in realms of lovers
where there is no logic but
an aching crush I hold to my breast,
a passage between a heart and the
mountains where I left you.
Allow me to come undone beneath
the  weight of tender hands on eggshell,
the gentle quake of my sigh upon your
unshaven cheek.
Let me   drown in the deep river of
your eyes where there
is no threat of war, hard silence,
or the burden of forgiveness.