Mothers

Sundays Were the Worst

we waited for my father to finish his last drink and come home from the bar

Early onset Alzheimer’s

“No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.”

Molding A Child Into A Man

A Free Verse

Walking Wound: Mom’s Sonnet

The hospital where I was born,
the first day that I met you.
Now the ward your child was torn
wounds; that…

Finding Diamonds In The Water

Reflections on the gene pool

All The Imperfect Lovely Things My Mama Is

A dedication to Mama..

Memories of a Baby Bird

A poem about secure love

Omar Khayyam

A poem

Was Omar Khayyam
born in a cabbage patch?

The surgeon tells me

— almost en passant –

that he’s left instructions
that should he…

To Every Doctor

To every doctor:
At an unconscious level
every patient is your mother.