Selected Poems
With many thanks to Brian Whelan for painting my poem!
The Poet Imagines Her Retirement on Martha’s Vineyard
After Shirley J. Brewer’s “Making Change”
I buy a cherry red biplane
on a whim
while on the island
for a poetry conference.
A splendid specimen —
gold shimmering propellers
coiffing a glossy, black nose.
To no one in particular, I announce
I have decided to stay!
I take lessons at the airfield,
pay for them in poems.
There is space for two passengers,
so I take strangers for rides.
Dogs with long ears can ride for free.
With kids I perform loop-de-loops
losing hats to beaches below
(where hermit crabs find them
and claim them as homes).
We fly low and graze the forests
Will any of these trees become
paper for poems?
I formulate a plan to save
the trees and the poetry —
I order aerial banners and fill them
with stanzas worthy of the sky.
All week across the boundless blue
I traverse with verses
in my cherry red biplane.
I spread the word!
Previously published in Gargoyle Online #12
Fridays in Baltimore with You
It’s nights like these
I find myself looking back to our small flat
in Spinnaker Bay, Charm City,
to when evenings were open to fancy —
we could spend two hours baking quiche
if we wanted, cracking eggs
leafing thyme, baptizing our tiny kitchen
with decadent aroma. Washing dishes
together we’d laugh and flirt,
the sink full of warm soapy water,
our mouths with caramel words.
After dinner we’d peel open
the red Netflix envelopes,
then each other,
and binge-watch TV,
bodies braided on the couch.
Next, a late-night walk outside
to the eighth floor balcony
on Lancaster Street,
wine in one hand, yours in my other,
watching tiny people-dots down below,
whispering in wonder at lights across the water
gazing at the red reflections
of the Domino Sugar sign twinkling
in your perfect blue-gray eyes.
Previously published in Bay To Ocean Journal 2025
Artwork by Palden Hamilton
Jungle Green
With guests arriving Monday I seek sheets on the top shelf.
Packed in plastic, I find bright whites saved for best.
Unfolding, I grimace at that stubborn smudge of waxy green.
You see, years before, little fingers, unseen
placed into the dryer a crayon, Jungle Green. Probably
the result of a wonderful game, origin now lost to time.
An emerald, perhaps, stashed deep in a cave? Or a princess wand
hidden from mountain trolls? Or a cookie baked in a giant’s stove?
Whatever the reason, the outcome remains: Jungle Green tossed
in my tumble machine. A permanent reminder on guest-best sheets.
At the time I cursed Crayolas and their tendency to wander,
but today I wonder: should I have savored those moments?
Houseguests come and go, but green stains linger,
like memories of princess pretend and kissable little fingers.
Previously published in Maryland Bards 2026