Makeup Artist

Imparting her beauty secrets

With farewell kisses from her pumpkin-coral lips

She slowly exhales

And gently blows the leaves from trees

Watching patiently as they

Flutter and spin to the earth below

Not to wrinkle and fade,

But to exult in their timeless glamour.

Hues of red and gold and brown

Fall like finely milled powder from a Kabuki brush

To shadow and contour the landscape

In a palette of crackling color –

Autumn’s face revealed.

fall leaves watermarked



Careless words, like scissors through silk,

Cut an ugly pattern.

Not meant for me, but still

Meant for others who didn’t deserve them.

I laughed along so no one would notice

The painful needles of guilt threading their way through me

Like so many stitches, fashioning an inelegant garment

Worn by so many.

I silently vowed to don different clothes


needle and thread

Writing Space

My preferred writing environment is the desk in my bedroom. My desk is a mess!  It’s piled with masses of papers and receipts, jumbles and tangles of cords, along with my laptop and printer and other assorted electronic gadgets.  But, it works for me.  Of course I know where and what every scrap of paper is and its purpose (at least that’s what I tell myself!) And I need all of it!  A bit of a hoarder?  Perhaps, but I confine it just to this desk.  I periodically do a sweep of it, but inevitably almost everything finds its way back onto this surface, its home.

I like to write in complete quiet, and preferably when no one else is around. At times I can’t get away from the strains of a Spongebob episode or a football game, and that’s when I close the door and the family understands that means ‘do not disturb’ (unless life and limb is in peril or there’s a food emergency). I don’t listen to music, but I sometimes have the television on with the sound muted. Occasionally for a change of pace I’ll use the laptop that’s on my kitchen counter (which is devoid of mess, go figure) but for the most part the desk in my bedroom is writing central.