Make your own free website on


My Published Writing

About Me
Published Writing

Here you will find excerpts of my prose that has been published and one poem that has been published. I am also including poems that were published on another website.

Please click on the link to see the entire prose piece.


SUMMER MEMORIES - Originally published in
the muse apprentice guild - October, 2002

I remember picking blueberries as a girl at the house in Monroe. The blueberries grew wild, and we rushed into the woods to pick them - our baskets holding those juicy blueberries piled high. I picked the biggest, bluest ones. Then I stuffed them into my mouth, the blueberry juice staining my lips. The leftovers I brought to my mother and aunts, who transformed them into pies.

OUT ON A LEDGE - Originally published in
Moondance ezine, Fall, 2002

Helen washed her coffee mug, put on lipstick, popped in a mint to remove the coffee taste, opened the window and climbed onto the narrow ledge. The warm wind brushed her dyed brownish-blonde hair across her face. She was tired. Events had gone too far. In fifty years of living she had never felt so lonely. It was summer in New York, and she stared down at the sea of people moving in an undulating mass like schools of fish. She crunched her knees up to fit her body into the small space between the window and the emptiness and sat down as comfortably as she could on the cold concrete ledge.

Orginally published in Story Station, 2003

"Move it, you flat leaver," Charlie poked Terry in the back forcing her to move faster. "Follow the line or we'll lose them."

Terry felt the sharp pain from Charlie's finger and the worse pain caused by the words he said. Flat leaver, that stupid expression they called you when you left the game too early. Gee, it was only follow the leader and she couldn't always do the stupid things the gang decided.

"See they're climbing onto the ledge and we're not there." Charlie said.

Terry hoped Charlie wouldn't poke her again. She turned to tell him not to poke her, but his size made her shiver and she kept quiet.


The first story is written in second person. This was my first attempt and it was written to a prompt.

ON YOUR OWN - Originally published in

The Muse Marquee, August, 2005

You know that it will soon be over. Things have gone too far. You can feel the poison taking hold. Your right toe begins tingling where the venom entered your body.

They said take the snakebite kit, but you had to be the brave one. Now where were you? Lying in a dense forest on your back, separated from your buddies. The crushed pine needles tickle you, but you can’t move. The poison creeps up your leg. You feel it stealing toward its goal, your heart.

Recently I learned to write a 100 word story called a "drabble". Here is my first drabble.

BOWLING NIGHT - Originally published in

The Fiction Flyer, October, 2006

Every Tuesday night Tom carried his bowling bag to the car. Mary, his wife, told him she'd just watch TV.

Tom drove to his girlfriend's house, rang the bell, and his girlfriend opened the door. Seeing Tom, she grabbed him and steered him to her bed. They made passionate love.

Earlier than usual, Tom tiptoed past the front door, bowling bag in hand. Hearing voices whispering and giggling, he stopped.

The open bedroom door revealed two wriggling bodies on his bed. His wife's head and another appeared from beneath the covers. The other belonged to his girlfriend's husband.

Who knew?


The first poem was published in an ezine. The rest
are on websites.

SHOUT - Originally published in
the muse apprentice guild, Spring, 2003

I have stayed quiet
While the guns of war have assembled.
I have stayed quiet
While the sons and daughters of our generation are
Shipped to fight in a place where electricity is not an option.

I have stayed quiet
While history has repeated itself and the world gasped in horror
At the whims of the head of my country.

I have stayed quiet
While freedoms have eroded in the name of national security.
Now my silence is ended.
Once more I will raise my voice against the
Senseless battle about to come.

Would that we invested such wealth into the education of our
Baffled children who must swallow the mixed messages we give.
Now my silence is ended
I will shout my words upon this page
Shout and fight against the plans of the few
Who wish to substitute bombs and bayonets for books and
Whose wishes send the bodies of our young as fodder for their
Deja vu war in Iraq.

TIME TO SAY ENOUGH - Originally published on
Poets Against War, 2003

The body count rises like the price of gas.

Each day one or two soldiers are gunned down.

Each day one or two cents higher.

Each day our freedoms erode

Like soil in a treeless forest.

Fear directs us to follow tyrants

Who usurp our lives;

Who weave the threads of patriotism;

Who use us to fuel their greed;

And waste our young.

The fabric of our flag is strong.

It supports a tenuous vision - our country.

It rails against our enemies and embraces our allies.

It welcomes diversity,

Embraces us like a doting parent

Can we allow this assault to mar its beauty

Until it disintegrates piece by piece?

Until law is replaced by decree?

Until war is the law?

Or is this the time to say, enough?

This poem was inspired by a newspaper article I read about a woman who died only three days after her son's body was shipped back to her.

LAID TO REST - Originally published on
Poets Against War, 2003

"My son is gone!

My son is gone!"

Blinded by tears

She'd seen the body

The one she'd rocked to sleep

The boy whose hand

She'd held on his first day of school.

No longer to see the wonder

No longer to see the joy.

Now laid in the coffin

Her little boy no longer.

She'd be no grandmother

For his unborn children.

No longer wonder why

He didn't call more often.

No more worries of his

Nightmares in a land of sand.

No longer hear his stories

About friends lost each day

No longer fear the ringing phone

The unknown car at her door,

Her heart cracked

The pain moved through her body

Like a virus had invaded her blood...

Crept silently, steadily

Until reaching its goal

Tore through the solid walls,

Resting its weight

Pressing hard against the valves

Swallowing all in its path

Her body, overtaken,



Clear, constant,

An insistent presence.

No comforting shoulder -

Nor her husband's solid chest

Could obliterate the loss.

Her heart, unable to bear

Its burden

Gave up the fight.

Now the ones left

Have one more to mourn.

THE INVISIBLE WAR -Originally published on
Poets Against War, 2003

The war is over

There is no war

Invisible dead stare

Their unshed tears flow

Over the bodies we no longer

See on TV.

The farce is played out

As games must

The enthusiasm waning

Lies piled high as ammunition dumps


Allow the inauguration of a liar

Who dragged the young through

The detritus of his lies

Into the sands of a wounded country

To slice the life out of a place long

Forsaken by its leader and the world

Raped for its oil

The deed done we must run.

What is war

But the stripping of a country

Until down to its underbase

It grovels face in the mud

ON LAKE CHAMPLAIN - Originally posted on
Albany Poetry Workshop, August, 2000

Light, water, and sky merge

Clouds wash across the the blue

Little wisps of white hang in space

Lavendar mounds rise above forested shores

Rock- covered islands appear

One with a secret cove where boats

Are tethered like horses in a corral.

Moist breezes bring possibilities

Sunshine and the drone of the boat's motor


I am at peace.

This was a poem I wrote for my daughter's 21st birthday and for the Millenium to come.

ON THE THRESHOLD -Originally posted on
The Albany Poetry Workshop, May, 1998

When you are in your twenty-first year
and I in my fifty-fifth,
may you walk in my footsteps
until they disappear and you
follow an untrodden path
to your future.

When glass shards and bits of metal
lie before you as you inch toward
the blinding light, continue onward
heedless of the cost or your wounds.

Do not be enticed by others
whom you meet along the way
the businessman, his suitcased life
a blur as he passes you,
the teacher who offers you Shakespeare
and Aristotle for tea,
the pessimist who warns you of danger
yet hangs around to party
Nor should you ignore the strains of their songs.

Be sponge, not rock.
Let their words seep into you
and join with your ideas
until they merge into a ballad.

You will need courage.
The trip will not be easy.
I hope you find someone
who will help you smooth
the rough spots on your journey,
someone who will bind your wounds,
who will be your home.

No longer needing my shelter,
you will stand on the threshold,
wary of the danger, hopeful
of the wonders yet to come
in the golden orb
of your future.

Write to me if you have any comments. Either leave them in the guestbook or email me directly: