The Pressing Solitude of Decisions

A decision pressed closely against the glass

Reverberates a prism of thought

Of connection.

Of dissonance.

A decision of solitude.

A decision of birth or denial.

A decision pressed closely against the glass

Strains its ugly ear to find you.

Strains into your deepest thoughts.

Listening, pressing close.

Making a crowd or closing in solitude.

A decision,

A decision.

Some say there’s choice.

I say there’s a decision.

Shakespeare said, “Life’s a play and we’re all but actors.”

A decision pressed closely against the glass. 


Here the truth lies bound up in thought.

A decision made.

A decision wrought.

Holding Tight

A letter slides from my desk. Containing painfully sad thoughts. Drawn up with an ink stamp insignia.

When you hold tight to this insignia, this name of known love.

Grasp it with all your life.

Sometimes it responds and sometimes it just belies.

Belies the time it was crafted.

Belies the scribes hand.

As a woman of love

I hold tight to that insignia.

Hoping, wishing,

It to return.

Will it see past all my heartache

To rekindle and burn?

I wish for those moments when we didn’t say a word.

The insignia.

We fought.

We loved.

The letters twisting to and fro.

Now it’s all I want

Now it’s all I’ve know.

How to press that insignia bright and curling to and fro.

When you hold tight to this insignia, this name you know and love.

Grasp it with all your life.

Going through turmoil and strife.

The insignia is your future.

Carefully wrought.

Carefully wrought and made, you wait.

Holding tight and wishing for it’s return.

Layers of Life;

Layers of life fold like an onion.

A worker can stop and pick from a field.

Layers of life

Cause joy and confusion.

Lay awake,

and count the stars in profusion.

Orion a star

A hunter, a fighter.

Gatherer of glee.

A summon.

An answer.

A Jubilee.

The strong thrust of reason.

The small pull of faith.

You’re alone with the world.

A star that will not shake.

5:45 the Writer Wakes: El Yunque

The cheerful ringing of the chimes outside my door wakes me. Sitting up I yawn languidly and think pleasant thoughts of coffee, scones, and my hike through El Yunque National Forest. It seems ages since I drifted into this memory, floating still in my head like a balloon without a string. It was quite a trek for the condition I was in then, as far as my foot goes. But, a memory that I believe will stand or rather float in my head for quite some time.

The trail ahead of me is uneven. I look to my right as the rain drips over my hat. The sun scatters the path ahead of me, shining through like the sun behind tape art, creating little indistinguishable patches ahead. Birds flutter and monkeys pitch across the rainforest, their sounds, terrifying shrieks, for the unwitting tourist at least.

My foot aches. The path is very uneven at this point. My bunion presses outward as my foot strains onward.

The forest reminds me of one of my favorite poems by Vachel Lyndsay, The Congo. After reading that poem for the first time when I was 12 I became completely entranced by the Congo which lead me to study The Nile. I wrote about it and studied hydrology articles and water levels; water sampling. Hydrology fascinates me. Water is the root of everything. And is so incredibly important to human survival. Anyway, that’s definitely, another blog post…

We make it through the forest, at last, the shining light flickering off of the dripping leaving that shine like tiny mirrors.


Dear Lost, I Wish you Well

If you are reading this you may be seeking something more in this chaotic life. At least I feel as sometimes I feel very lost in this world, as I’m sure some of my other survivor friends who are reading this must. That is an especially hard problem that those recovering from TBI’s have; that lovely word— indecision.
There is so much living to be done in this life and its easy to feel as if there are limits, medical limits that make “grasping this life by the horns” impossible. You may be thinking that you’ll live a mundane life of ordinary. Sometimes it’s easy to fall into this thinking.

This feeling of being lost and in many TBI survivor’s cases, short-term memory loss, is one that seers any plans you may come up with for a change. Your head will be constantly spinning with some grand plan that you may vigorously attack for a day or week but then forget and your mind runs off on some other rabbit trail. Feeling lost has become somewhat of a constant and as the winter months swell and blow across the prairie, you may seem completely miffed. This is the moment, you must, my dear friend, take refuge in the blessing of what you have. Being gracious is always pique in this world of uncertain grief.

To bring you solace and perhaps a bit of comedy, here’s a funny little poem, about yes, haystacks:

Feeling like a haystack.

Many pieces scattered but all together.

Cut twelve inches long.

A stalk splintered by yesterday’s scythe.



One and one

On top of another.

Counting would be a waste of time.


The plow is finished

All is done.


Haystacks aren’t so bad after all, just don’t go trying to find a needle in one!

Chin up, my lovely readers, there is hope in the days to come, I am certain!