Trail of Crumbs

There’s something about the smell

of fresh bread baking

in the oven

that by association

calls a weary guest back home,

and there’s something about

the trail of crumbs

left far and wide

that causes the birds to leave it be

and sing a song

of prodigals

and family



These cell phones and computers

will age and fade

into obscurity–

funny how they were never the problem

some have made them out to be.

It’s these hands, operated by

a nervous nervous system,

that hesitate.

That’s where the problem lies.

What I want to say

and how it comes across

are often misunderstood,

taken the wrong way.

I hesitate to fully write

what I mean,

unfortunately content to let vague

platitudes plague others.

I hesitate to hit buttons that say


as if they were the red button.

Even reading this now

causes me hesitation

because it will never feel right to me

to write poems with computer terms.

I wonder if they felt that way

when painting caves and rocks,

scratching ink on papyrus

or moving the typeface of the printing press?

They didn’t write a stream of consciousness

like this when they did;

they couldn’t afford to waste

the paint and ink.

Am I wasting it now? It sure feels that way.

Perhaps they hesitated talking

to others, though.

Funny how universal that is.

Funny how there are numerous ways

to hesitate saying

what you want to say,

what you need to say.

It’s funny to me

how I’m nervously laughing

as my thumb hits these small keys

in this rambling mess.

I hesitate to find words

to finish it–

who knows if they’ll be the only words

someone reads from me

that paints an out-of-context picture?

Who knows if the urge to write

should leave

and make them my last?







Last time I wrote a stream of consciousness like this, it was misconstrued. Thankfully it wasn’t misconstrued too bad but I still find myself hesitating to post stuff. In all fairness, that has always been ingrained in my mind. I think I’ll keep writing until I perfect how to craft words and sentences. In other words, I’ll keep practicing until I shuffle off this mortal coil 🙂


Something in the Air

Other things would make more sense,

would work out more, be far less tense,

and still I’m reaching for a star

to fit a hollowed puzzle’s scar,

to cauterize my wounded heart

by poisoned lips disguised as art







Started writing a new story, which sounds great until I think about all the other unfinished ones. Also, this will probably be a busy week so you’ll get one of two extremes: either I’ll be procrastinating and spending too much time here or I might potentially disappear for a few days. Seems there is no middle ground 🙂

Have a good week either way!


Bad Dreams

Hang the bad dreams

on the clothesline

to whip in the wind,

stuck in place

as they would do to you,

and iron out

the woe trapped in the wrinkles,

pressing them into


with look and smell and feel

of summer warmth

Poetry · Stuff

Window Dressing

Wouldn’t you, couldn’t you,

shouldn’t you agree

that there’s problems with the site

and not the dressing?




There are quite a few people on WordPress just giving up their sites. Many of the ones I know of (many, not all) are fed up with the app and block editor. I don’t blame them for that–I took a posting hiatus late last year with the same issue. The editor seems to be getting worse these days.

I only bring this up because while that’s getting worse, the font on the Reader has gussied up. That’s great! But in addition to that, every contraction is showing up separated on every post I read. Has that been happening for you all too?

It’s their platform and they can do what they wish with it. I would be upset if I was shelling money out to host this site but fortunately I’m not. I just wish the right person(s) in charge with updating WordPress would value functionality over window dressing.

Here’s a screeshot of the app after this post was published.

Waiting, Wanting, Needing

She dances gracefully

on the wisps

of non-existent memories

in my heart,

spurred on by music box melodies

of songs yet to be written.

I want and I beg

for her to leave,

to trod on the worn-out

welcome mat

on her way out,

but the thought of her leaving

hurts me in another, yet familiar, way.

My head bobs,

my foot taps.

Some pollution of ignorance

still travels through

my veins.

It wants her to go


I need her

to stay.


back in time

if i could go back in time

to take back those words i said

in haste

then i would ask for forgiveness

in light of my mistakes

with remorse and all alacrity and

with apology and action, still vulnerable,

because love is still

and it’s always there

as it’s the past’s and future’s present

from one soul to another

in patience, in kindness, in selflessness

to love more each day, your love being

the only thing i’d want . . .

if i could go back in time