The Thing That Made You

I try to understand:

You grew up poor and the Depression shaped you, so all you had was what you didn’t have,

And you didn’t know how to get without taking.

How you thought life had failed you, leaving you with nothing but

Not enough hope to keep the bitterness from seeping out of your skin with

Yesterday’s alcohol.

How it clawed its way into your bones until all you were was anger,

And the thing that made you is what I need to forgive you for,

But can’t.

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This Is What You’ll Get

This is what you’ll get when you mess with us

Unmovable stubbornness no matter how hard you push

Turning away the more you grasp


Arms of branches, wisps of willow

Holding hope for a minute there

I lost myself back in time to when she needed me

Held me back held me dear

You can’t make her do anything she doesn’t want to do

I like to think she got that from me

It’s easy to see resemblance and imagine that’s all there is



The shell of an ear

But more than just a body grows when it blooms inside the darkened spaces

Karma swims up in the soul tasting the salt

Of tears, red-faced and screaming until the miles stretch out and

Alone again

Pictures remind me of who she was when I knew her

I lost myself, I lost myself

This is what you’ll get when you mess with love


(With thanks to Radiohead)

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Destroy the Evidence

Last Saturday I went to a writing workshop in London, hosted by Brian Henry. During the workshop, we had 30 minutes to write a short story about a character named Stella, age 42. The theme  I chose was “destroy the evidence”. Here is what I wrote.

When Stella turned 40, her body fell apart. Now 42, she struggled with her weight, her hormones betraying her as she grew older. A ring of fat padded her around the middle, but she got good at finding clothes to disguise the weight.

Or she thought she had until Jason, her husband, slowly but surely stopped wanting to have sex with her.

“Come to the gym with me,” Jason always cajoled her, as he headed out the door looking slim and muscular in his Adidas shorts and T-shirt. “Or at least go for a walk, for God’s sake. All you do is sit on the couch and watch TV.”

But of course this aggressive encouragement didn’t help. It only reinforced how bad Stella felt about herself as her body grew softer month after month. Nagging didn’t help. Leaving fitness magazines next to the couch didn’t help. And filling the fridge with kale and red peppers and cucumber and beets certainly didn’t help.

Jason was a diligent juicer, concocting elaborate vegetable potions that gleamed almost phosphorescent green from all the kale. Fuck, she hated that stuff! Give her a caramel mocha frappuccino any day. “Mmm,” she hummed, imagining the hot, sweet drink as she choked down the glass of juice he had handed her.

“That’s it!” Jason said. “Doesn’t it taste wonderful?”

“Oh yes,” she lied.

She knew what she needed to do to lose weight. Eliminate sugar or whatever “they” were saying was the right way to eat this year. But screw it. She didn’t want to. Wasn’t she old enough, grown up enough, to do what she wanted? She was tired of having to look a certain way, to be skinny and attractive. She wanted to be known for more than her looks. Finally.

Stella had a secret bag of Chicago Mix popcorn open before Jason’s car had even left the driveway. She shovelled handfuls of the cheesy caramel sweet treat into her mouth as fast as she could, orange dust sticking to her fingers.

Chewing frantically, she pulled out a dish of President’s Choice Butter Chicken when the microwave dinged, and quickly scooped the sauce over the mound of white rice in the plastic tray. No sense dirtying up a plate. She would recycle the packaging later, and hide it beneath Jason’s empty cartons of quinoa and pea protein bars.

Stella froze when she heard the front door slam. Shit! What was he doing home already? She tossed the plastic tray and the cardboard box into the garbage and opened the patio doors, desperate to rid the house of the unmistakable scent of butter chicken. But he was too fast. Jason bounded into the kitchen and stopped when he saw her.

“Forgot my Fitbit,” he explained. “Sure you don’t want to come along? Last chance!”

Stella shoved her hands behind her back, certain he could see the lingering orange popcorn residue on each finger. “Nope, I’m good”, she said. “Have fun!”





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New article on

Great news! I started writing again for, a leading American health and fitness website.

My latest article is here: Motivational article

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Your story

I’m writing poetry again! It’s been years, but this one came to me in a rush. I love how productive poetry makes me feel–I can create something in only a short period of time. Someday I will tattoo this Isak Dinesen quotation on my wrist because it resonates with me.

Your story

Isak Dinesen said, “All sorrows can be borne if you put them into a story or tell a story about them.”

Is this an aphorism or a deeper truth? Say

He is lost in the map of his mind,


Like leaves in November. Wet

With tears,

Gathering memories in his lungs to tell him who he was and still wants to be.

Each breath a gasping war between the body

And the soul,

The right thing can be the hardest.

Squeeze the hand and

Let go.

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Copywriting and Marketing

Source: Copywriting

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Spring cleaning

Spring Cleaning


I thought of you today as I cleaned out our fridge
Elbow-deep in dripping lettuce and bags of green oranges
A Hiroshima of mold exploded when I opened the packages
Remember Sunday shopping?
Now I throw it all away
It’s so hard to keep everything fresh
Maybe I should buy a new fridge
Maybe we should talk

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