Tag Archives: poetry


Dear friends,

I have felt the tug of wanting to share things with you, my kindred spirits, and at the same time a reluctance to put into words what is transpiring in my heart and mind and life. So I have cocooned myself over the past six months. But now I feel the thinning of my chrysalis, the warmth of the spring sun penetrating its papery layers, and when I blink and stretch, I feel gossamer wings folded along my back. I am not who I was. I am not who I thought I would be. But I am very, very grateful for the process of old things dying and new things emerging.

So. Let’s talk about Lost In Scotland. For a lot of reasons, I can’t give you a date when that story will be ready for you. Don’t hold your breath, because I have not touched that story in six months. What I have written, mostly, is poetry. Here are a couple I’ve written during my time in my chrysalis.


I am looking for my soul
It was taken from me long ago
And I have missed it
Ever since
I have tasted fame
It is ashes on my tongue
I have gathered wealth
It goes
It goes
It goes
I have wrung myself dry
Like a cheap rag
I have laid down my needs
On the altars of “work” and “love me”
I have stamped down dreams
I have carried emptiness
Inside me as heavy as death,
And, oh, how I have cried.
outside the window
I see the dry husk of my soul
Leaning listlessly under a ruthless sun
Like a forgotten scarecrow.
It is a sad, forlorn thing
My heart thumps once, then twice
In recognition
I open the creaking door
And walk quietly across
The brown, dying grass
I pick up the thing that once was mine.
It is infinitely fragile.
I cradle it in my arms
I am so sorry, I cry
The door opens
They have missed me
I see them come at me
With outstretched hands
To mold
To take
To mangle
To use up
I clutch my neglected soul
Close to my chest
And I run
And run
And run
Toward the life I want
Dear God
Don’t let me look back


A Dream
What is it?
A seed?
An egg?
A chrysalis?
Yes. Something like that.
Can I…?
No! It’s mine.
I hold it in my cupped hands
And feel a flutter of life
Against my curved fingers
It could be


Along with these poems, I’m going to share something else with you: an updated headshot. This may not seem like a big deal to any of you, but it’s been a big psychological block for me. I loved my last headshot. I was younger and thinner and life had not made so many marks on me, and I found that I didn’t like any of my recent pictures. But I can’t keep going to events and having people not recognize me! So I think it’s time for me to embrace the fact that I am a 42-year-old mother of five, and offer my real self to you with no apologies. This was taken today by my very talented friend Erin Summerill (look up her books!)




Thank you all for your patience and support during my time in my cocoon. There will be more wonderful stories to come. And hopefully soon…a butterfly will emerge.


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