I want easy and natural. I want hard-earned and well-fought. I want rainstorms and bookstores and steaming mugs on candle-lit tables. I want close conversations in hushed, urgent tones. I want laughter spilling over, uncontrollably with tears streaming down jaw lines and cheeks aching with pleasurable pain. I want luxury and madness. I want to … More Desire


Lit – by Kate Coyle   What lights you up? What sets your world on fire – that grabs you from behind in full bodied bliss, contracting every fiber of your being in preparation to release like a spring and burst forth expanding, exploding, and raining down particles of dust like sparkling stars unleashed from … More LIT

Headlands Sunset

earth rose up to kiss the sun – that brilliant, flaming ball a pucker which spread languidly into a smile, dripping golden honey over undulating waves of emerald peaks and valleys. sky blushed deeply, pinking up behind our backs as we sat and watched – voyeurs – strangers on the edge with only the quickening … More Headlands Sunset

Ode to My Son

I would volunteer to saw myself in half On your account. The resistance against the flinching To lessen your pain I’ll swallow. It started there at the beginning- As you made your way into the world, Forging me into a warrior, Preparing me from that first dawn Into a samurai equipped to bow down For … More Ode to My Son

Fifteen Next Month

After the hour has passed when I sat beside her for support while others informed her that Home is no longer an option,   She requested I take her outside Twenty feet as far away as she could get from the air-controlled stone buildings housing room, school, and treatment Meds in the morning, drum circle … More Fifteen Next Month

Fickle Muse

There is a poem inside everyday – A look, a moment, the words we say. Heed this now And be prepared To meet it quick Or clutch the air. Keep close at hand something to transcribe the coded data of our lives. Buzzing with the news of one quick-witted, worried muse. Lift thine eyes to … More Fickle Muse

February Migrant

Odd, how the sun can be so bright Blindly scattering fractures of the day Inside the biting cold, so frigid, women spit into the mist at one another as they make their way – bundled, faces obscured by raised collars and shrugged shoulders – into the courthouse: “This is Georgia! This is not New Hampshire! … More February Migrant