Shower Scene

In the shower
Temple rests
Cool travertine

Wet heat pelts
Tight lumbar spine
From grip unseen

Loosen, soft-stroke, ease, release
Stored, hoarded energy

Washed away with day’s decay
Let go, un-hold, be free


Entreaty to Therapist

Locked within arthritic body

Yogi, dancer, freedom seeks

To the savior of the moment

She prostrates herself, beseeches ~

Knead away the rigid tightness

Unlock joints, issues stored deep

Cleanse the settled-in arthropathy

Into darkness, let light seep

To warm me, soothe me.

Let me move unfettered

Let me flexibly test flux

Let the tensions gently melt away

‘Neath your well-trained touch

Raw, Now Better

I AM better.

It took years to purge the hurt, the pain

Remove the stain

Release what remained

Of the deep humiliation.

White trash label from parents of friends

Grandfather who’d not make amends

Father, mean drunk, nights, weekends

Relatives who’d deny and defend

Then reprimand

Because I spoke up.



Banged the gong.

Told the tale ~ told the truth.

Offered proof.

“Every family has secrets.”

“They’re no better than us.”

“You’re no better than us, little miss high and mighty.”

But I was.

Sometimes there is better or worse.

And all you have to do is choose.

I AM better.

*Thanks to Sunday Scribblings for the prompt ~ raw
*And to Writer’s Island for secret

Lion Heart

I considered photographing the image reflected in my screen, but opted for an in-progress shot of one of my paintings so as not to garner a higher than PG rating. :-)

About to jump into the shower as

The muse struck

I ran, naked, to the keyboard

And wrote the five syllable line

That would otherwise have dissipated with the hot steam.

While sitting there,

My sunlit torso reflected back at me in the screen, bare.

“It is beautiful,” I thought.


The breasts are slack,

The neck, weather-worn,

Décolletage, mottled with spots.

But it is utterly feminine and firm and strong

And safe within lies the heart of a lion

A big, bold, beautiful lion

Who, in her nakedness, really needs a shower.

An Ode to My Hands

*I wrote this poem hours before my right thumb/wrist reconstruction

I’ve demanded much of you

Abused, neglected, forced you to do

More than you were intended to

More than a pair of hands should go through.

Heft and cut and carry and carve.

Knead, paint, write, fold, twist apart

Pushing then pulling beyond the limit

Until, cartilage gone, the pain~ can’t inhibit.

So you need repair.

Your lesser partner’s already been flayed.

It’s your turn to join the brigade

Into the cold room, stainless displayed

Give up bone, grist, tendon waylaid

To the surgeons deft blade.

And then

You will be strong again.