How Does Time Work?

And then one day the mountain is crumbling
at the edges, he rests, mind racing down
paths we can’t follow – a voice that echoed
becomes a whisper then a mumbles of
confused words – move from picking strawberries
to a request to get out the vote.
He calls for siblings and children wanting
food – wanting out – asks how did I get here
where was I before here and before that.
His eyes stare beyond me – they are searching
sees his mother, then asks his daughter
‘how does time work ‘how do trees know the time’
Eyes now closed, lips moving in prayer ease pain
realize a life well-lived… this mountain
A man – my father – my hero now gone
leaving me to ask myself
how does time work?


Love Did Not Fade

Her eyes did not wander
no kisses were shared
on another’s lips
love did not fade


she walked away
from mistrust
and pain



love did not fade

Lost in the words of a song –
a bitter boy
clings to the hands
of time
and the widow     separated
from the bride
by years of experience;
love does not fade
it all becomes part of his game


even when she is not the one
he is thinking of
love does not fade

it remains

hidden, locked away
the passion of six years
bittersweet, held tight

surrounded by wishes and desire

no it didn’t
does not
did not

~ Siobhan

Doing Laundry

Another night, stretched out
in emptiness. My fingers play
with memories scattered across the cool pillow
where you rested.
Sheets washed with hope
of rinsing away the lingering scent of you
– of us –
an intimate reminder of what was
no longer
clings to the fabric.

revised/reworked 6/12/15

A Spoonful of Wonder

Fables and fantasy his forte, art
the heart of his soul,
he flew over, around, and through our lives –
bigger than life himself.
A simple tune to stir a smile,
a ditty to elicit a chuckle;
he loved the odd, strange, and the fantastic.

With his parry and thrust of wordly wit,
he countered my poetry with his own.
Themed, random, passionate or platonic,
round for round early Saturday mornings
canto and verse road the air waves.

Between a bite of cherry pie or spoon
of lemon tart, he welcomed us to step
“Just across the hall from reality”
and ours will not be the same – now…


I will miss you, friend, and yet hold you in a smile of memory, Hugh. Thank you for sharing this space and time with us.


Scattered across the credenza, their shells
smooth and hard reflect pictures artfully
arranged side-by-side. No image captured
in photograph is necessary to
remember him; these buckeyes elicit
images of his smile, the rasp of voice,
and affectionate squeeze of his warm hand.

I cannot hear a Langston Hughes poem
without hearing his interpretation;
his voice fading in and out as he moved
close to then away from the microphone.

Passionate about trees and our freedom,
liberal in his heart and mind, he found friends
wherever he ventured. Buckeye in hand.

~ Siobhan
For Ken Sibley – our own Lorax


She left a piece of herself riverside.
A fragment of what she once was – nothing
significant, only a light shadow.
It hinted at romance and desire,
once worn on her sleeve, now buried beneath.

Wind chilled, her heart hung there, a remnant left
in tree limbs stripped bare of leaves. Sharp contrast
to autumn’s barren branches – yet the same –
each yearning for new life, to recolor
grey days spent in dreams – imagination.

Woken from self reflection, she feels life
inside, however dormant it appears.
Abandoned and re-found, she welcomes back
those pieces she thought were lost in the woods.

~ Siobhan

Late October

Sunshine drips from mottled yellows and reds,
their dying lights evening, reflects sunset,
catches a hint of purple, left over
greens of summer. Scattered across the drive
sidewalk blanketed, they crunch under foot,
play my personal sound track, with neither
symphony nor rock band, just late robins
wondering where everyone else has gone.

Pink skies brighten to azure without clouds
darken to violet as cold settles in.
It’s the season to harvest ripened fruit
and prepare for winter’s chilly long nights.

I delay the rake, set aside bagging
and delight in the disarray of fall.



Fortune Teller

The future, caught
in a prism
by a fortune teller,
she sees herself
tangled in sheets,
naked – and

Her lover hides
his image; faceless,
he presses against her.
His voice – soft murmur – caresses the length of her;
his fingers
follow the trail
 carve into her his own
stroke of want.

No mystic could predict
     such need;
         this passion
with such eloquence.


rev 7/16/14

No matter how hard I try

this day remains…still

embedded in memory




buried in memory

and I remain…still





Bucket of Lust

Straddling the console, bodies twisted
in bucket seats, desire undimmed by
discomfort; passion pushes aside
the gear shift stuck between,
they are oblivious to it.

In the back of one mind
or the other
want for a bench seat pokes through, the other
wonders whether this was a wise move.
Perhaps this is best left for those younger
bodies – a fleeting thought – this question
does not break the build of sexual tension.

Fogged windows mirror the emotion
uncertain in the afterglow
each silently wanting
to ask
was it good for you?