Potluck Passion

where my poems are born

Stephens College lies 1,400 miles and thirty-five years from my childhood home in Massachusetts. As I walk across campus here in the heart of Missouri, chapel bells strike the hour and Westminster chimes warp and converge time and space.  At this moment, I am home in a confluence of nostalgic feelings that wash over me like water.  The Connecticut River of my youth, the Missouri River of my present, and the Mississippi River that flows between lap at the shores of my consciousness.  I stand barefoot on the banks and dig my toes into the memories. The chapel bells and the grandfather clock of my childhood unite, resonating inside me, sparking a rhythmic intonation.  Home – home – home.

The sound of the chapel bells on campus or dried leaves scuttling across the sidewalk remind me of my childhood.  A certain gesture or gait of a stranger brings to mind a loved one I haven’t seen in a while, and miss.  Something touches a sense in me, the warmth of the sun on my face as I walk out of shade or shadows or my infant grandson’s body curled in slumber across my chest.  Moments and memories, these are where my poems are born. 

My writing reflects a confluence of past and present in a home that travels with me.