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Writings previously published on my site's front page.

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Becca

The delicate leaves of verse, held together by a woven spine, tell treasure stories in shades of blazing gold.

Inky black narratives tell the mysteries of an evil soul and the torment of a love-heavy heart.

Where wild adventures are shared in short tales, a small sketched cryptogram hides within the pages.

Many pages turned before my mother was mine.

The her before, veiled by the hands of her children's reach.

Her gifts, those of an artist's muse; creations of her own hands.

My father wanders paths the he need not see to the end;

Exploits of grand ideas and cumbersome expectations.

Their collective works: volumes of joyful contented days.

Inquisitive and eager, I consume the stories of life.

Her, before my mother existed; the portrait of her mother's grace.

The soul inherited by my father; a traipsing soul, unrested.

With uncontrollable zest, I gather more history, more heritage;

I bind the pages safely, as I listen to the past's narration.

And with the book in my lap, I tell our tale from memory

---

Changing Winds

Becca

Her eyes open to the wind blowing the gurgle of the fountain into her room.

The gusts interrupt the bubbling in rhythmic intervals.

She pictures the water's staccato beat, pointed and sharp. The musical version of her potted cacti sitting on the windowsill.

On an open, deserted Route 91 she drives fast with the convertible top down.

The wind blowing out the nightmares, or maybe they're just bad dreams.

It grabs her hair pulling her head back.

It yanks at her scarf, tight around her neck.

Twisting in circles, brushing her cheek, flapping in her ear.

The whip and snap reminding her of another wind.

Torn rags tied on the tail of the last kite they built.

How high it flew, how far it drifted.

If only she had been there.

If only she had been there.

---

Conquest of Devil's Ride: A Broken Sonnet

Becca

About the rough and turbulent seas toss

The black and angry skies too lurk above

A widow on her walk does mourn her loss

Her eyes upon the yonder search a dove

The sky of red warning to all who see

A hanky blowing in the wind a sign

"Children to the cellar," her crying plea

Lost mate and father long for whom she'll pine

The morn's horizon comes now to dry-dock

A waving hanky necessary no more

The would be widow comes in from her walk

Her kids crawl from cellar's hidden door

His tride is confident and full of pride

Sailor's smile reveals the thrill of devil's ride

---

Secreted by the Under Toe:

Coast of York, Maine 1981

Becca

I often wonder if you remember me.

If somewhere in your depths, where my sandy footprints have dissolved,

my brokenness remains.

Stronger is my memory of you than of the event that created me.

Perhaps as my feet were tickled, then engulfed by your foamy edge,

my soul found its peace.

I do remember standing on the brink of your angry waves, crashing into

the jagged wall of stone. Your cold Maine spray robbed me of my breath and

christened my dream-filled vessel.

Yet under a clear dark sky, hidden among the flowering brush at the edge of the footpath; this child born of trust sought her shelter. My vessel lost to your shore.

It was you to whom I ran to wash myself clean. Ran until your waves lifted me

from my feet and carried away my loss.

My innocent tears were poured out into the forgiving sands at the edge of your

reaching fingers. My sin of acquiesence secreted by your under toe.

You provided me with the relief from the weight of my lies. The little girl who did nothing: nothing to stop the attack, nothing to stop its recurrence, nothing to prevent it for another.

Do you recall my encumbrance upon you, as you, curling around my body, cradled and rocked my naked child? I, laid bare, was safe in your nocturnal tide.

Do you taste my tears among your salts, or have they long since dried in the sand

and the sun?

Upon my return as a child anew, an adolescent; I relaunched my vessel--repaired.

I smiled at the sun's warmth as you carried my new fancy far from your jagged shore.

In your soft water's edge, I spelled but did not speak, of new love. When it passed,

I knew you had already washed away the pain as the tide went out.

In my sleeping whispers, I remember you, I remember my healing.