Coloring Outside The Lines

Past resentments fade

and current irritations

vanish as I step

outside. A field of tiny

buttercups colors my view.


Still We Try

The solidity

of nouns, the fluidity

of verbs reflect a

mystery words can only

approach but never capture.



Grandmotherly Advice


You have a bad rep,

sweet dandelion. You should

not make yourself so

available. Playing hard

to get is a better bet.


                                                                                                         photograph by Kali Wells

                                                                                               (my granddaughter)

Questions For Bob

The answers, indeed, may be blowing in

the wind, but two

big questions 

remain –



does the

wind blow and

what will we do

once we hear those answers that the wind brings?


Can You Hear Me? – guest post by Dakota Wells

Can you hear me?

Are my words reaching you

or are you too in tune with your iTunes

to reach out to the person next to you

and have a meaningful conversation?

The people before us believe we are a generation

marked by false connection

that is isolation and emotional repression

in 140 characters or less.


We have become obsessed 

with fame and fortune,

proving to ourselves we are the best

though the lens of a camera

and the approval of others

instead of truly connecting with each other.


I am a goth, a witch, a child.

Most of the time my temperament is mild,

but when I see people who would rather

connect to a charger than a person,

I can’t help but want to scream

for the death of connections we’ve lost,

where human connection is paid as the cost

for a good wifi signal.

So I ask you,

Can you hear me?

                                                                                                      Dakota Wells

                                                                                                                   (my granddaughter)



Still Learning After All These Years

For much of my life

 I’ve stepped up

and stepped forward,

but now, it seems, I’m being asked

to  learn a different kind of step,

 one not familiar to me.

 At first I felt an inexplicable sadness

and perhaps remnants

of that sadness will remain,

but intertwined there is also

an unaccustomed peace

that maybe only 

stepping back can bring.



The Tool Collector

In a neglected field

stands a decaying house

stacked with tools,

 some ancient, some new.

In one corner a skeleton sits.

The occupant had the tools,

but none of them were used.