Purple's Platitudes

nothing but words …

Sonnet 46

06 July 2013

Sonnet 46


I don’t glance behind, to see who follows,

or stop to listen for echoes, they’re hollow.

I’m not your idol, don’t worship this man,

your own gifts and voice, more important than

trying to be somebody else. Trust me,

I encourage you to explore, to see

what you and you alone need to create.

It’s there, don’t despair. it’s never too late.

Don’t let them tell you how you have to write,

listen, but always know, it’s just advice.

Learn from all, but follow your heart and soul,

when it is right, you’ll know, you will just know.

Pay it forward has become a cliché,

but that’s advice I’ll willingly obey.

6 July, 2013 Posted by | Poetry | , | Leave a comment

twice read lives

06 July 2013

twice read lives


three bookcases,

twenty-five empty shelves,

a bittersweet reminder …


boxes piled in corners,

stuffed in closets,

waiting …



we pass on our stories,

that is all.

6 July, 2013 Posted by | Poetry | | Leave a comment

all I have left

06 July 2013

all I have left


your couch, armchair,

and living room

rug, a small,

stuffed, butterscotch and

white kitten, a

solid glass bluebird

paperweight, gifts given

for Mother’s Day,

your birthday, or

Christmas, reclaimed as

mementos, a handful

of photographs, and

memories …

6 July, 2013 Posted by | Poetry | | Leave a comment

hazards and giggles

06 July 2013

hazards and giggles (aka Ouch and Ooops)


uneven sidewalks

low-hanging branches

a pile of dogshit

DOGS! (as in unleashed and less than friendly)

CATS! (ok, just kidding about them)

walking under pigeons

Wet Paint

banana peels (again, just kidding, so far)

foul ball at a softball game

seven foot iron angle giraffe sculpture

(conveniently located smack dab in the

middle of the already busy, overcrowded sidewalk)

trying to find a seat on a dark shuttle bus

after coming in from bright sunlight —

"Excuse me, do I look like Santa Claus?"

leftover mud puddles, you know, the ones

that could almost swallow a truck

drivers who parallel park on the sidewalk first

6 July, 2013 Posted by | Poetry | , | Leave a comment

that’s just batty

06 July 2013

that’s just batty



could be,

I’m perfect,

I never sleep,

I’d almost suspect

I’m a vampire except

I’ve been staked in the heart, yet

the facts I just have to accept:

I love garlic and hate biting necks.

6 July, 2013 Posted by | Poetry | , | Leave a comment


06 July 2013





I never cared to swoosh down slides.

Likewise, I detested the teeter totter,

mostly because I was that kid

who always got stuck dangling up in the air.

Forget the monkey bars too,

which was kind of strange considering I loved

climbing trees.

Okay, once in awhile I would indulge

the merry-go-round, proving over and over

I could outlast anyone without

puking no matter how fast it spun and spun.

But, the swings …

eleven times out of ten, that’s where I’d be,

for hours and hours,

sometimes spending so much time

swinging that I could barely walk

when I finally did get off.

I never outgrew my love for

swinging I guess, only nowadays

I disguise it slightly,

in a hammock.

6 July, 2013 Posted by | Poetry | | Leave a comment


06 July 2013



Digital ones do not tick or tock

or chime the hour like grandfather clocks,

why, I’d almost miss the old cuckoo.

(there must be a ringtone for that too?)


Remember the ones that flipped and whirred?

I had one that dripped water, absurd!

I don’t like ones that don’t make a sound,

I tried counting sheep when I lie down.


I guess I need noise, it’s too quiet,

Got a suggestion, I will try it?

Walmart might sell an old-fashioned clock,

something that ticks or something that tocks.

6 July, 2013 Posted by | Poetry | | Leave a comment

Sonnet 45

06 July 2013

Sonnet 45


grandma taught me to cross-stitch and crochet,

which didn’t win me many friends you see.

A boy should go outside to run and play,

get dirty and in trouble and be free.

I did all that, but still I must admit,

creating scarves and pictures I enjoyed.

But gender roles simply crushed my spirit

and something deep within me was destroyed.

I learned to play guitar and started writing,

songs could say the same things as a poem.

(but poetry too was uninviting)

I wrote, but I barely ever showed them.

I wish I would have just been myself more,

I have closed far too many open doors.

6 July, 2013 Posted by | Poetry | , | Leave a comment


06 July 2013




Insomnia-driven waking dreams delight,

regressing to 1975, turning twelve …

Chippewa Bay, an irresistible siren call,

darkness punctuated by more stars

than I knew existed and the eyes

that blinked and slinked away far out along

a distant uncertainty …

I hid grandpa’s binoculars under my pillow,

just in case a Leviathan bellowed,

out of loneliness, or more likely, a greeting

in passing one of its kind.

Perhaps even now,

when I restlessly rise,

pad softly to my window,

and stare futilely out into that darkness,

I am still hoping to catch a glimpse

of what has passed me by,

uttering my own mournful cry.

6 July, 2013 Posted by | Poetry | | Leave a comment