In working through my own issues, I found I was much more like my Dad than I had realized, and parts of his journey had illuminated my path to healing.
Upstairs
Easter Sunday, 1952 – A poem for my mother, Magda Kovacs.
Evolutions
As I evolve, sometimes things change and friends drop off along the way.
Victoria’s Daughter
A poem for my Magyar grandmother Maria Kovacs – Austria Hungary, in 1897
Stallions
This poem digs into the need to stand together in a world determined to find differences.
The Czech Village Of Lidice
Where a baroque church once stood, bells no longer ring at birth, at death, the joy of a wedding. In the hours after midnight, the village of Lidice was razed.
A Poet At War
This poem seeks to demystify those who are called soldiers. It seeks to find the humanity in its uncovering and its pain.
Sirroco
Red desert sand, blue-black cliffs. Lemon sky. The smell of fried arancini and calzone …
The Rug Weaver — Mojave, 1904
Piñon nuts, prickly pear cactus, she gathers juniper berries …
Every Word
“Every word was a lie” is what I wrote one day, but then again, how would I know? I believed it even when I knew it wasn’t true because that’s what you do when she’s young and time is running out …
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