Writings
Heminway's Cats
When the clouds come, when the sun sleeps, when the moonlight hides, the Cuban tree frogs speak and go silent, when the gardens expose their full blooms of yellow, pink and orange, when the long Spanish colonial windows allow the reflections of yellow and orange fill the busy living rooms of the Hemingway house, that’s when the house becomes alive for those looking for escape from the past, looking for a chance to imagine freedom, looking for a chance just to be.
Poetry
Highway 24
Lingering webs drape forgotten houses.
Hidden fields seek refuge from interrupting sounds.
Morning light reflects and zigzags from passing cars.
Silk crows scream for breakfast.
A marching fog covers his sunflower-body.
Murmurs parade over him.
Hidden eyes blend with overgrown fields.
Silence waits.
Haverstick Cove
40 years ago…Maybe 30…
Here the maybe maple trees and wind grew together,
and empty houses with cobweb maps became our playgrounds.
The gravel dust filled our hidden forest neighborhood.
My lime green house (aka…the shack) welcomed fairy-tales mixed with fear.
The whippoorwills hummed.
The bullfrogs bellowed.
The cove dreamed in riddles,
of racing waves,
of stillness,
of small footsteps echoing,
and of empty docks waiting.
The steep gravel hill led to crowded towering trees.
I slept in a small hammock waving back and forth
waiting for the return of the cricket’s song.