Happy Valley, United States

Growing up in middle class suburbia, my first writing haven was our backyard fort. I spent hours there scribbling my heart out on lined pencil tablets, making up stories about brave children who ran away from cruel parents, children much braver than I.

Through a lifetime’s journey away from the devastation of my childhood, I’ve had to learn all over again what once came naturally to me as a young child: telling the truth. This has become my life’s quest, to speak and write the truth wherever I can, and by whatever means I can in honor of my younger, abused self, and in honor of children everywhere who suffer in silence.

When the need to tell my own truth collides with my desire to bury it, I remind myself of this little saying:

“It’s impossible,” said pride.
“It’s risky,” said experience.
“It’s pointless,” said reason.
“Give it a try,” whispered the heart.

So then: I’ve written short stories, poetry, and am now working on a novel and my childhood memoir. Whether or not my words will mean anything to anyone else, they help ground me in the present day and assure me that my life is worth fighting for.

Thanks to everyone taking the time to leave a comment, whether it’s positive or negative. I can always learn something from the feedback of others.

I’m so excited to announce the publication of my book of poetry, Brightwood Street Chronicles.

I wrote my first stories in my suburban backyard fort, my haven from the madness of my family’s dysfunctions. This collection of poetry covers my years of sexual abuse as a redheaded-stepchild. I wanted to express the horror and sadness of such abuse for myself and on behalf of abused children who don’t have a voice.

For those who are recovering from such abuse or know someone who is fumbling through its aftermath, this collection of poetry is a must read.

  • Age: 62
  • Joined: November 2007

Recently Added

The Canary That Ate the Cat

Some day the tables / will be turned: you will stare in amazement / from the confines of your cage / at me looking in at you, / a cheshire …

System Restore

The bed sheets rustle. / You’re an octopus of hands / here and there, and everywhere / I haven’t been touched before. / You tak…


Soon she will fly into the night away from / his drab lusts, / the movement of her glorious wings / awakening women everywhere.

I Change You

Because I love you / I promise not to leave you / as I found you.

Dream Coat

All that school year I coveted, I dreamed, I ached. I even went so far as to tell my mother about my dream coat.


Come home to me at twilight / when the day is at its best and, / weary of this maze of life, / you long for warmth and rest. / Come home to…

Sidewalk Patriarch

His dignified bearing stirs me as I take in / the determined set of his shoulders / the faded glory of his once expensive suit coat . . .

Until I’ve No Reason to Hide

Oh I was a hider, alright. I hid in Girl Scouts and religion, I hid in daydreams of a whole different life with an entirely different famil…


She’s the bag lady in several layers of clothing, toothless and greasy-haired, pushing her shopping cart like a silent wraith along t…


If God were to smile upon me as in the days of old / If he gentled my step and blessed me / with soft spoken reassurances of love— / …

I Refused to Be Grafted

Our grafted dogwood tree was pretty in an odd sort of way— though didn’t it just figure that we would be the only ones in our n…

The Challenge of Ordinary Days

What did the warriors of old do with themselves when there were no more wars to be fought, or they were simply too old for the fight and hu…
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