A tribute to Fiona Glover (2010–2025), our regal, funny, fiercely independent calico who ruled Glover Gardens with wit, affection, and attitude. From feral kitten to queenly companion, her life was a master class in curiosity, courage, and love. She was ours—and we were lucky to be hers.
A deeply personal tribute to my childhood friend Tracy on what would have been his 62nd birthday, reflecting on our shared roots in Gilchrist, Texas—a town erased by Hurricane Ike—and the indelible imprints left on our hearts by those we love. This remembrance honors friendship, loss, and the echoes of childhood that never fade.
A quadrille poem for the dVerse prompt dives into the tales that shaped me—Puff’s fading magic, Gulliver’s sharp satire, Jonah’s stubborn faith—and the beachy wonder where I first heard them. Fish, wish, and childhood spells: stories that still shimmer like sunlight on the water.
Poetry and prose have helped me process the shocking, gut-wrenching loss of a precious, unique, complicated person: my brother.
A story of a hat and a shared sense of identity borne of innocent and playful times spent with friends while growing up at the beach.
Heart-felt culinary love prose in response to the dVerse Poets Pub prompt. Food is my love language… what’s yours?
My childhood at the beach is a constant muse for poetry and a guide for how to live, an everlasting gift from my parents, who chose to leave suburbia for a life on the coast that would their children to be children and their lives to authentic and grounded in nature.
A tried-and-true family heirloom recipe for chili that gets a very subtle kick from the not-secret ingredient: white pepper. No beans in this rich, red meat stew. Bonus track: Harvell family stories and memories.
February has been a circle of life month, punctuated by the rejuvenation of the yard with spring’s early onset, birthdays at both ends of the spectrum, and the end of a life journey.
Obituary for Leland Eugene Glover, a wanderer and industrial electrician who loved the Yankees, his family and his lap dogs. RIP, Gypsy Gene.
A poem about ripples reminding of those days of cooking and wine, stories and trust, laughter and imagination, acceptance and love.
Tossing out my anchor for this Glover Gardens 2023 Labor Day all-over-the-place ramble, with memories of rollicking good times and barbecue, family trips and dolphin sightings, recipes and Jimmy Buffett.
Pumpkin spice is a thing, a social movement, a gotta-have-mine-it’s-October pull of nature almost stronger than a biological clock, but geeeeez, trying to project that onto poor birds seems like a Big Bad Bird Wrong
An example from another poet helped me break through writer’s block and honor my grandmother’s passing 2 years ago today.
Remembering Dusty Hill and how he and ZZ Top were part of my childhood.
A remembrance and a haiku for the intrepid little lady we lost, Ruth Violet Hiatt Holt.
My grandmother is 100 today, a bona fide centenarian. Wow!
A poem dedicated to my brother, a victim of suicide, who suffered in silence. Call the suicide prevention hotline at 800-273-8255.
Remembering storms whose names have spawned headlines and headaches, headstones and heartache, hardships and heroism. And wondering, why do we have to name storms after people? Why not use diseases or the periodic table? Or colors?
