My chapbook George Washington Is Dead was released in April 2012. My chapbook Time Travel was released in August 2016.

Four poems from Time Travel that have been previously published in journals are included on my Poetry page. 

The title poems from each book are reprinted below.

If you would like to buy a copy of either, please contact me or order at Finishing Line Press or at 

George Washington Is Dead 

my friend announced, swirling her wine, looking stunned,

like a kid who’s just found out where babies come from.

She’d been on the porch, reading a bit of history,

and it struck her – every person in the book was dead. 

She would die.   

George has his face on quarters and currency.

Schools, squares, and even a state he never visited

bear his name. But no one remains who drank a pint

with him, knew if his dentures clacked when he chewed

or ran her fingers through his powdered hair.  

I’ve spent hundreds of hours assembling albums with snapshots

of babies, kids clowning next to monuments, Christmas mornings,

pimpled teens departing for the prom with their third-choice date.

I’ve preserved news clippings and diplomas under plastic

for generations who will never know us.  

Sometimes I don’t recognize my child’s face a half block away. 

Yet, across an airport, I can spot her firm gestures, his lanky gait.

A neighbor lamented she no longer knew her son’s stride after boot camp.

While he was at war, my grandfather’s first wife died, childless, of flu.

I wear her gold ring – all that remains, except her name: Anna Dean.


Time Travel

How fast the foreign becomes the familiar.
How quickly old releases young.

Time and place bend and weave

until I have always awakened 

to a rooster's crow and summer sun gliding 

through gaps in wood-shuttered windows 

recessed in stone walls half a millennium old

while breeze tousles the olive orchard,

and the toast-and-trout aroma of hillside 

pastures pocked with grazing gray sheep

competes with the perfume of espresso.

Italian undulates around me,

Inexplicably, I respond with French 

nouns and Spanish phrases.

I am as old as the rolling hills

and Etruscan ruins and as young as

my jeans flung over a rope

strung between two gnarled pines.

I watch them dance and dry in the wind,

my feet bare in the dying grass.


Individual or small groups of poems have been published in various literary journals, magazines, and anthologies, including Cradle Songs, an Anthology of Poems on Motherhood; Kansas City Voices; Main Channel Voices; Marginalia; Mountain Time, a Poetry Anthology; New Ohio Review; Red Wheelbarrow; The Women’s Review of Books; and Whetstone.