But What I Can See

The days are upside down

and the voices there are someone

always talking, always telling

always yelling, toiling, troubling.

Days are always never-ending

and the clock’s hands all have fingers

(ten, eleven each) all ticking in

directions of their own.

The days are grey, legs twitchy,

and nails claw at cool and

shiny-smooth faux pine:

where a swirl starts in the center,

of the grain and of a child,

spilling now into extremities

and filling every space.

The tingling, insistent spin

takes minutes in its palms,

tearing each one into strips to fold and turn.

See the eyes that question all your works?

Now know they are unphased by even this:

When the delicate accordions

gathered underneath your chair

build a mountain wide enough to hold the day.



They Say It Goes So Fast

My poems never let me sleep,

crying loudly, waking me at night

pulling me from bed to fill them up.


They need constant reprimand,

always eating too much candy or

hurting the feelings of someone they love.


My poems demand my attention,

whining at my feet, clutching my legs and

reaching up to be held while I make dinner.


They make me brave,

putting on their little coats and

crossing the street alone–

knowing I am watching,

their forgotten mittens in my hand.

Field of 33

In honor of the 100th running of the Indianapolis 500, Indiana Humanities opened a poetry competition. The winner took home $1000, tickets to the race, and the title of Official Track Poet! I was excited to hear that the poem I’d written, Brickyard Baptism, was chosen as part of the “Field of 33,” and will be part of a First Friday poetry event in May! The entire Field of 33 can be found here, including the winning poem, alpha by author. I am looking forward to reading them all, and to hearing many of them in a couple of weeks!

Poem at Silver Birch Press

Silver Birch Press has published my poem, “Lines,” as part of their Learning to Drive series. Writing this poem took me on a nostalgic trip back to the stress and excitement of being a newly-Permitted driver, and I had fun writing about this little slice of memories with my Dad.


Over coffee I say, spinning cream into liquid,

that I am three years from forty,

ten from fifty after that.

My friend laughs but she’s just 34.

What can she know?

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