Melt the hearth and melt the soul;

melt the winter harvest bowl.

Melt the fire from within;

melt her psyche streaming in.


Melt the still and wild air—

wake the hunter's hungry bear.


Collections of me,

Reflections you see—

Yes, I know her.


She came at dawn,

Gentle and strong—

Quietly, I hold her.


Mama's resting safely now,

Humbled by her chores.


Daddy's eyes fall upward,

He's swimming with the stars.




Sleeping Lady lies alone,
Lost inside a mountain home.
The man I loved, gone, cast aside—
Through anxious s
torms, his time I bide.
A quiet vigil, silent, strong,
Still she stays, her days are long.
Sometimes bitter, painful, steep—
I cry for him, myself to sleep.
Then dreams let slip a distant sound,
As clouded thoughts part, tears splash down.
Her starry sighs enrage the night—
And empty days fuel raven's flight.
Susitna woman, sculpted pride,
In mourning, still, Cook Inlet bride.
Solid, pure she knows the cost—
Adrift at sea, I grieve his loss.
Mountain mistress, soft and stern,
Rests while my horizons burn.
Crimson, pink, and hazy blue—
Sleeping Lady born anew.


I, MY*
Winter's cruel and crystalline
With wind shears bitter, bold.
A glowing sunshine warms, and then
It sheds, en masse, the snow.
Ice dances,
Water prances,
Spring waltzes through.
Fires churn,
Flowers burn,
Summer rages, too.
Fall again sets in now;
She leaves her carpet lie.
My wing-ed friends mock daylight’s end—
They laugh, it snows, I cry.


I smiled at the sun today,
But when it frowned my world reigned gray.
Quantum matters, wanton skies,
Yes, even Mother Nature cries.

This life’s a splendid, soulful craze,
A brilliant, blended, splintered maze—  
Of choices etched in opal fountains,
Emerald, tree laced, chocolate mountains. . .

Some counsel now, my darling doves,
Defend your hearts with golden gloves.
And smile at the sun today,
But if it frowns just fly away!


Lonesome feather, bitter wind,
chance our meeting at life’s end.
Brief she tilled that tender ground;

lonesome feather, lay her down.



Hold my hand, little man, walk these fields with me.
Lift your eyes to the skies; show me what you see.

Lost in thought, I place you in the pocket of my heart,

And in this warmth, I play with you. We run, we stop, we start.

The day is ordinary—striking, fresh and new.
I feel the sun, the wind, the air, and hear your laughter, too.

“Mama!” you cry out to me, “Come see this . . . hurry, quick!”
But moments just fly by us; life lessons are so swift.

The day begins again for me as if I’ve never breathed.
We toss our sticks into a stream, the time has come to leave.

I carry you, now on my back, your feet can walk no more.
Mama knew it couldn’t last. She's happy for the chore.

So go on gentle reader, and take your child’s hand.
Let them lead you far away into youth’s sweet heart-land.


Thirty miles from heaven, I rest upon a road.
It’s long and dark and narrow, and my thoughts want to erode.
Which way am I headed? How far have I come?
Will I lead or follow? Should I turn and run?

Thirty miles from heaven, memories reappear,
Dancing in the limelight, skirting doubt and fear.
Here! I am so small again with all my days ahead,
Smiling up at Mama as she tucks me into bed.

There! I am a woman, taking on the world
With all the strength and innocence of oyster and of pearl.

At last! I am a mother with my heart and soul in tow;
He’s splashing in the water now, but soon we’ll have to go.

Thirty miles from heaven, I rested on a road,
And watched the life I’m making journey on its own.



Hear her pain, it falls like rain,

wet dew against soft skin.

Reach inside, she’s still alive,

though sorrow has swept in.


As her world stops and turns

to wave a last goodbye,

The birds in God’s great evergreens

bow their heads and cry.


A test of fate, a test of will,

a test comes every night.

Can she see the flowers bloom?

And should she even try?


The trees loom tall above it all

while dark waits idly by.

Listening, leaves glistening,

her tears take to the sky.


Joy and pain, they fall like rain,

wet dew against soft skin.

She wakes up feeling hopeful,

another day streams in.


Rhymes are fun, but overdone, the publishers will preach.

Mother’s looking for a book to soothe her little peach!


Words to knead while children read as twisters twirl her tongue.

Mother says that rhymes are best when served fresh and well done!



I stole a moment, it slipped my mind,

then wondered off with Father Time.

To the land of socks, that mismatched lot—

Oh to ride the rails with a fleeting thought!




There once was a moose and mouse

who made an igloo snow house.

They set up in Nome,

and called it their home.

Yes, there once was a moose and mouse.

Oh, the pair were a sight to behold,

(and the bears thought them much, much too bold).

But the birds and bees aloft in the trees

aimed for love stories oft’ to be told.


Boy grows up and Mama grows old. 

Boy grows old, but Mama still scolds.

Silly, silly Mama! That ain't the plan. 

Boy's no boy; he's a full-grown man.

*Many thanks to Alaska Women Speak for publishing these poems during 2020-22 (and a photo for the Fall 2021 cover issue).