It feels like I’ve been fighting the rain for about a week now. I was drenched the entire second day of my trip to NYC last week, but my fiend and I still managed to see the 9/11 Memorial, Times Square and more. We did find an indoor, partly underground mall beside the Hudson at one point and there we were able to get some respite from the rain. As I sat by a window overlooking the Hudson, I enjoyed the scene of New York in the rain.


Ambling New York rain

a respite is found over-

looking the Hudson.

This afternoon, I am back home sitting in a parking lot at the beach waiting for a shower to pass so I can slip onto the beach to enjoy that scene for a while. We’ll see if I get another respite.


A while back, I was listening to a podcast of Between the Covers featuring the writer, Dani Shapiro. I actually don’t know that much about Dani Shapiro, I have not read any of her books, but I intend to. I loved the podcast. I got so much out of it.

In one segment, she talked about reading some of her old journals and how they made her feel about her younger self. I, also, have read back over some of my old journals, and it is a very interesting experience. At times, I was frustrated with myself. I could read the struggles and patterns that would lead me down the road to certain mistakes or life experiences, but on the other hand, I was struck with the recognition of my own personality and the fact that I recognized my own voice, even from an early age. Me at 14, 17, my 20s, 30s and so on, it was always me. There were different levels of maturity, naivete, cynicism, happiness and pain, confidence or self-doubt, but it was always me. It was actually a very good tool for helping me to have compassion for myself. It gave me the ability to stand outside of myself, to see myself objectively, but at the same time, I understood completely what that girl was going through.

It makes me wonder just how early on we develop our sense of who were are, whether we know it or not. This thought process is what drives my haiku for mirror.  


Reading old journals

Younger me is a mirror

of the me I know

Beach bunny

Little beach bunny

steals attention as we stroll

towards the water



This little fellow lives behind some condos at my favorite access point to the beach. He’s obviously being fed and cared for. He doesn’t seem fearful as we walk by on our way to the beach. I’ve seen him several times now and always look for him on my way to the ocean.



Miracles on Mother’s Day

Recently, I checked out a book, “Miracles: Poems by children of the English-speaking world” by Richard Lewis from my local library. I’m currently writing a few things for children and thought the book might help me to gain a better understanding of what words appeal to them. What I found was an impressive collection of poems from children between the ages of 5-13.  Since it is Mother’s Day, I went through the book and pulled out some pieces that address the subject of mothers even if the poem is not specifically written about a mother. They are not as naive and lighthearted as one would think and offer a complex description of emotions. I thought I would share a few of them with you today.

The first one refers to Mother Earth but it’s astonishing how well the child taps into the imagery of a mother’s womb.

“The Mine”

Here we are; in the darkness, 

Close to the very heart of Mother 


Where her blood flows in seams of 

shining coal, 

And our picks beat a rhythm to her heart, 

Where her warm brown flesh encloses 


And her rocky bones trap us. 

By Bronwyn Mason, Age 12


The next one is written by a little boy named David Recht, Age 10, under the subject matter “The Sea”. This one struck me as so sensitive since he seems to project his own feelings of how awful it would be to lose his mother onto a baby fish.

The little fish cries; 

His mother has been

Taken by


He dives 

to the bottom

Trying to forget. 

His stillness makes 

Him afraid. 

He swims after his 


Silently crying. 

The last one, written by a 10-year-old named Martha White, seems to express nostalgia and loss in her grandmother’s house. It appears the grandmother is no longer there.

“The Memory-Filled House”

Along the long, dark hallway, 

Up the memory-filled stairs, 

Walking down the back way, 

In the bare kitchen, with a harshness in the air, 

In the dining room, no table or chair, 

On the sideboard, no apple, orange, or pear, 

In Grandma’s room, no pictures on the wall, 

Again, down the long, dark hall. 

The book is filled with amazing poems on several different subjects. There wasn’t an area devoted to writing specifically about the children’s mothers and if there was, I feel that I would have found more light-hearted poems. But what I did find in the poems I pulled out was a theme of how deeply connected, to the core, we are to our mothers.

If you are lover of poetry, you may want to see if it is available at your local library.

I hope everyone has a splendid Mother’s Day!