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.
Obituary for Leland Eugene Glover, a wanderer and industrial electrician who loved the Yankees, his family and his lap dogs. RIP, Gypsy Gene.
Steven Thomas Harvell left us too soon. But his imprint is indelible, as you’ll know from this ragged, jagged little poem. A decade without him. A lifetime to go.
Talk of poems and prayers and promises and things that we believe in;
How sweet it is to love someone, how right it is to care;
How long it’s been since yesterday and what about tomorrow?
What about our dreams and all the memories we share?
Along with my Sister-in-Love, we are grieving the loss of Jimmy Edington.
A remembrance and a haiku for the intrepid little lady we lost, Ruth Violet Hiatt Holt.
A poem dedicated to my brother, a victim of suicide, who suffered in silence. Call the suicide prevention hotline at 800-273-8255.
A remembrance poem for a gentle dog who licked my hand and leapt into my heart.
I remember my brother now more with joy at what was than sadness about what will never be.
A footprint, a feather and a leaf, about to be swept away. Remembering my brother in a haiku.
I’m not on the recommended pace to write a poem each day this month to participate in National Poetry Month, but this one happened in about 30 seconds. There will never be another muse like my Dad. He was a remarkable, wonderful, loving, accepting, listening…
A vignette in the produce section inspired a poem about dads and daughters.
My dad was born 80 years ago today in West Texas as the Great Depression was coming to an end in the shadow of another Great War in Europe, a time before regular Americans realized we’d be involved in that war. With that backdrop and…
An elegy for three, from the one remaining. They live in my heart-theater, their voices all trumpets and whispers and hugs.
For people like me, there’s a sense of loss from the abrupt ending of Anthony Bourdain’s huge contribution to the canons of travel, food and cultural understanding, and a reluctant but absolutely unavoidable comparison to our own unwelcome experiences with the savage, raw, rollercoaster aftermath of suicide.
Processing continuing grief with a haiku; and also a link to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. NaHaiWriMo
A haiku for yesterdays, with images from the enigmatic Bolivar Peninsula of my childhood.
A little Christmas poem from Glover Gardens about sorrow, joy and the Christmas miracle.
