Are you a leader?
Do you follow?
Do you walk with the masses
or in the silence of your own thoughts?
Only you can know where your direction leads.
Give us a glimpse of your journey, 
knowing we’ll be with you every step of the way.


Elements of Design
a sonnet

Her longings go beyond where he has led.
His nightmares see her leaving him behind.
She takes his hand, in hopes that he will tread
Uncertain pathways – pages yet unlined.

His ruler and his compass firmly gripped,
He pointedly denotes their journey’s source.
Just staring blankly, feeling ill-equipped –
No dots to link; no way to chart their course.

She tenderly removes the tools in hand,
Endows him with a palette of rich hues,
Presents him with a canvassed-life unplanned;
Excitedly, they watch the tints diffuse.

Her watercolor fantasies achieved;
His fear of spontaneity relieved.



The journey is long in this life.
We share our joys; suffer through strife
learning to give and love and grow,
teaching to others what we know;
this experiment in true-life.

In this life, we find it is rife
with heartaches that cut like a knife,
but we carry on even though
the journey is long.

From here until the afterlife,
I will walk all paths in this life.
The world has so much more to show.
So much to see before I go,
and here I’m stuck in this mid-life?
The journey is long.


Take a little road trip. You’re going on a vacation. Write about it. You had a favorite vacation. Write about it. You haven’t been on vacation in a LONG time. Write about it.

Or write about your dream vacation. Write about your vehicle. Write about road maps. GPS? Write about the street on which you lived. You see where we’re going? We’re on the road in one way or another. Write one more for the road!

Marie Elena’s Road:

Snippets of a Brooklyn Mission
(A daughter in crisis)

Calls in the night span nearly 600 miles
Of separation. In desperation,
We talk and pray for hours,
As schizophrenia’s power
Plots to devour her very core.

Grasped firmly in the jaws of crisis,
Dad and I turn the ignition,
On a mission only love can drive.

Finally face-to-face, we
See her palpable relief,
But this thief is unyielding,
On a mission of its own.

Her minute apartment becomes home
For a spell, as we try to slay this hell
That has claimed residence in her being.

But not all is lurid, as warm memories attest:
Love expressed as “Grandpop” meets her on the Pulaski Bridge
Each day after class, as her fragile-as-glass mind
Finds comfort in his care.

Laptop in hand, we’d snub our concerns, and
Sit on her stairs to catch our Buckeyes.
Or have a slice at Triangelo’s,
Reminiscent of Grandma’s own.

We soaked in the Brooklyn tone –
Polish bakery scents,
Market and Laundromat treks –
Nothing complex,
As we walked where we needed,
And nothing impeded our task
As we basked in the 50’s feel of it all.

Seeing through our eyes
Blew home’s breath into her setting,
Letting her fears reduce from life-threatening,
If for only precious moments.

That Fall, we followed our hearts to Brooklyn
On a mission only love can drive.



I grew up near where the metal monsters rode.
Raised on the rumble and roar,
impressed by the power and speed.
Six abreast the rails curved around the bend,
straight and narrow the metal runs
under the trellis, Northward toward Buffalo,
to the South along the lake shore toward
Erie and Cleveland. They were the major players:
New York Central, Pennsylvania, Nickel Plate,
Erie, Burlington, B&O. Saturday afternoons
spent sitting among the corn in my
grandfather’s garden, trying to guess
which rail carried the next train through.
A blast of diesel horn, and a half wave/salute
from the engineer,  and the train continued
to high ball it to its next destination.
Always my dream to ride the big
NYC 20th Century out of town.
Born too late, the dream will
always remain just that.