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

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?



Sunday Chapel

Afternoon, a walk in the woods, I feel
the pull and pinch of past life struggling
to resurface, like springtime new growth.

I stop beneath a pair of oak trees stripped
by the winter, release my gloved fingers
wanting a campfire to relieve the itch
and ache of cold – or other hands to hold.

Over the crest, a break in the water
signals a short thaw giving me some hope
Spring will soon melt away the dreary grey.

The adventurous partner in this pair
he goes ahead of me searches, explores,
finds wonder in just about everything.

A glance over shoulder as if to ask
permission to venture farther away
he smiles when I nod, and he runs. I walk.

A slower pace to practice my breathing
– slow and steady, in through the nose, and out
through the mouth. Deliberate meditation
in our Sunday chapel by the river.


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