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Friday, July 31, 2009


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Thursday, July 30, 2009


The moment our eyes meet
Yearning begins
In slow motion
I watch you from across a crowded room
Meeting, greeting
Working your way towards me
Occasional glances
But the eyes can’t see
What the heart feels
Or not
Our bodies brush
In the room filled with people
But the eyes can’t see
What the heart feels
Conversations, pleasantries
Smiling from ear to ear
Then our fingers touch
And the eyes can’t see
What the heart feels
But my body is exhilarated!

# #


Working Toward Tomorrow

They called to say
the funeral would be on a Monday

But I mourned that loss long ago

I was told of the figureheads
that would be in attendance

I heard the names
of the spectators and scavengers

An Ivan Ilych’s who’s who at best

But I cried those tears when I was expendable

After burying the demons and ghosts
left in the dust of another's life pursuit

Who will be there for them

So they can say
“I am sorry for your grief.”

So they won’t need to pull at the guilt beneath their collars
when they realize the true love for this soul
had been used up, leaving behind a wooden casement

And I did love…

Knowing the sum of the whole
the shortcomings, and burned bridges
I loved regardless

But it wasn’t enough
And now it isn’t at all….
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Living for the Here and Now...

I met a man with curious eyes
He searched past the surface, past the obvious
Into the interworking of this clock’s heart
While the hours, days, years ticked slowly past

I met a man with a smile and outstretched hand
He joined me on a journey where time had no meaning
It transcends human emotion and expectation
Luring me into the here and now; this moment

And life here is good!...
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New Friend....

Butterflies and quivers
Like flying for the first time
A floor drops from beneath
The rest is clear blue sky and sunshine
With heart racing, craving more, I spread my wings
And hope the feeling doesn’t end…
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A conversation with the soul
You can become so drunk with its beauty
You speak with no inhibitions
Of love and intimacy

It can be calm and soothing
Like a soft whisper in your ear
Luring you to an exotic place

It can be radiant
Like the shining light of understanding
As the secrets of the universe
Are exposed at that moment

Its rays can reach across the water
Like the hand of a friend Saying
“Tomorrow, I’ll still be here.”
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Here I sit
Snug in my favorite chair.
A roaring fire
Reflects in the glass
Against a moonlit, November night sky.
Music on the radio takes me back;
Add the smell of hickory burning and
Crackling, hissing, sounds of
The wood stoves of my youth.
I can almost see you
Sitting in your favorite chair
Contentment and pride are settled in the
Relaxed smile on your face.
And what I wouldn’t do for
One more conversation
One more discussion on
Theology, politics or growing up.
What I wouldn’t give for
One more piece of advice
From a man who somehow
Got smarter, as I got older.
How I need to hear, one more time
Smile and the world smiles at you
While perched on your lap
Receiving my daily dose of hugs and encouragement.
But then again
Thanks to these wonderful memories
I’ll have many more
“One more, moonlit November nights.”

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Wednesday, July 29, 2009


Love Is Like A Daisy

He loves me
He loves me not
How easy for a daisy to say
But then you always did
Smell of flowers in the spring

My chest grows heavy
From the weight of my heart
Once free and easy
Fresh breaths of air
Now stifle my comprehension
As I choke on your words in disbelief

But the crumbling of my heart
Will relieve the pressure
Allowing me to once again
Breathe deeply
And stop to smell the roses
# #


Like waves
My emotions rush to the shore
Tumbling, churning
White caps peaking the closer you get.
Then, with every breath I take
I feel you wash over me
And rest on the sand.
Only to drag out to sea
Pieces of me
As you walk away.

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Tuesday, July 28, 2009


Broken thoughts of you
float like particles
In my consciousness

Candid snapshots
of a love once consuming
Materialize like a slide show
Throughout my waking hours

Words that used to intrigue and engage
Now run discursive in a muddled heart

I don't know what to say to move you...
I used to..
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She crept into your subconscious
Like the smile on a baby in the midst of a dream
She tests your patience
Like a kitten
Batting your face in the early morning hours
Yet her eyes sparkle
With the laughter of a child bearing a secret
Food for every man’s soul
But to whom will it belong in the end?
Shh. Don’t tell
Keep it but a dream
For the dream that becomes reality, is no longer a fantasy

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Monday, July 27, 2009



He was quiet and reserved, his features consistent with his personality; soft, dark, baby fine hair that fell into short ringlets cut just above his ears. Deep brown eyes hidden beneath long, lush lashes, the kind that won't let any one see into his soul, and pouty lips that accentuate a smile or frown. He stood at medium height, not over weight but had a soft middle. There was no muscle tone flexing from gym workouts or racquetball, and he walked with an ever-so-slight hunch; not proud and erect but cautious and guarded. I would always see him in corduroys and clogs, if not in scrubs, and he often fell asleep in the lounge poring over someone's case history. This was the man I came to know; not at all like the others that came before, usually older men with graying hair, racing about from one meeting to the next, or one golf course to the next, having no time to sit and make small talk. But he always had time; time to become involved with families, siblings, parents, children, me....

I watched him over the weeks I was there, tirelessly making his rounds, stopping to check on patients, not just their physical conditions but their mental health as well. Did the families have everything they needed? Did they have access to all the institutions that could benefit them in this, their hardest time? Was the wife or mother getting enough sleep? His patients were his life, bringing him pictures of their dogs and cats, school friends and relatives; he was an extension of their families. He celebrated birthdays and holidays, their recuperations and even small steps in progress to a better , healthier life. He grieved with them too, in their times of loss or setbacks; this would be his undoing.

Patient after patient would eventually be committed to an internal place in the soul of this young, gifted doctor of internal medicine. Death had become as much a part of his life, if not more than his living. How could a person not want to wrap him in their arms, rest his wearied head in the crook of their shoulder and eradicate his illness, his cancer? So to the industry, he too will die, a victim of that which he fought so hard to eliminate; death. Death comes to us all they say, but for him and his community it will be a different sort, for he will live to see another sunrise and ski down another snow covered alp, just not as a gifted healer; to him this was an oxymoron anyway....
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Sunday, July 26, 2009

Writers Are Rodents


My mind spins nocturnally
Like a hamster on his Habitrail wheel
Juiced up on a caffeine IV

Chewing at thoughts
Like that rodent with its paws
Around a kernel of corn

Teeny tiny pieces gnawed on
In rapid, repetitive bites
Until a line or phrase
Regurgitates without a bile sound

While the world
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When the autumn winds shake the
core of your foundation, it will not be
my hand that fells you to the ground.

I will not leave you as underbrush,
to become brittle, and burn with
summers first crack of lightning.

Instead, I will scoop in my arms,
that part of you, which can
warm me on cold winter nights.

Looking forward to spring, and the
greener, richer version of that which,
like the great redwood, only grows
more precious and rare with age.

Still Here
# #


Your eyes are black and vacant
Yet they completely understand

Your fur is matted and worn
But nothing could provide more warmth

You arrived in my infancy
And here you are still
Providing a listening ear

You have been a guardian angel at night
Keeper of my most personal secrets by day
And an unconditional source of love

You are my “HUGS BUNNY”

# #

My Chair

Cup of coffee
My favorite cotton sweats
And a good book
I sink down into the soft, overstuffed cushion
And pull on my blanket
Brisk, autumn air smells of
Fires burning on the hearth
Late afternoon sun beats warmly
Through the glass
Burgundy and gold colored leaves add a calm, Soothing touch
Then you climb into my lap and snuggle me
“Ready for my book, mommy!”
The best thing about my chair
Is it is big enough for two

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Friday, July 24, 2009


What do you think of
In the still of the night
When your mud settles
And you’re feeling just right

When your mind is clear
Your heart rate slows
And your body tells you
All that it knows

Can you hear the whisper
The call of the wild
Do you feel the presence
Of destiny’s child

Has she taken liberties
In your subconscious mind
Does she flow through your veins
Are you two of a kind

When it’s calm and quiet
Can you see her face
Does she take you back
To a time and place

When your soul was liquid
Free flowing and pure
Like the fountain of youth
She would assure
You were never more alive
More connected or loved
Part of the universe and heavens above

This is no illusion
No dream that must end
For destiny’s child is
Not only your friend

You’re what beats in her heart
The spirit in her soul
A love like no other
And what makes her whole

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Thursday, July 23, 2009


As Nature Would Have It...

When winter winds
Blow through naked limbs
Clinging to their trunks
Howling and moaning

When the sun submerges
Into a cold dark sea
Not allowing the sky to blush

When thick fog
Breaths heavy on the ground
Indifferent to the beads of rain
Slipping from the lashes of
The meadow’s wild flowers

Mother Nature did not prepare
Her daughters well

For the forces known as man
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Wednesday, July 22, 2009

Why I Write

It's been a few years, my daughter is starting college in the fall and my son is a high school Jr.; but the sentiment has not changed....

I never thought about “mid life;” age has not been a tangible concept for me. I work out, am in fairly good shape, healthy, and at close to forty feel pretty good over all. I am married to a wonderful man and great father. I have two active, intelligent, school age children, and am fortunate to be with them full time insuring, to my satisfaction, their childhood security and happiness.

One day, however, as my best friend Nancy describes it, my euphoria seemed to hit a brick wall. My youngest was in elementary school full time, and the need for mom’s around the clock attention was waning. My good friend and neighbor moved away, and other mothers were back to work, so I did the sensible thing and took some college courses to prepare myself for the day I too might return to the civilized world of adult interactions, and let us not forget the almighty paycheck.

Petrified of re-entering the school arena, I was pleased with how many brain cells had not been caricatured to format Nick Jr. or Maryland Public Television. Writing, which had been my worst nightmare earlier in life, became my way of telling the outside world a viable adult still resided in an entity that knew more about Main Street USA in Disney World than Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington DC.

Words flooded pages expressing concealed emotions about friendship, love, and rediscovery of myself. This was the scary part, for beneath the inner workings of my “perfect life,” lay dormant the youthful, energetic, dreamer whose spontaneity had been put on hold while adhering to the rules of parenting; scheduling is everything.

Emerging slowly, with the help of a mentor, was that of a woman who would become more than the sum of her children and dreams of their futures. Once upon a time, it may have been believed that when you become a parent your life ends so as to promote that of your family’s. In today’s world, life at thirty-eight is a second chance to become, what I didn’t know I even had in me.

Of Ways Of Looking At A Woman represents a journey for me, one of insight to the deepest crevices of my soul. While writing, I am allowed to revisit the beauty in my life, but too must face many demons. I relive passion, intimacy, love and desire combined with failures, rejection, and loss. My ability to recreate the pain is the most rewarding, for it is the most healing. Putting into words that which is sometimes unspeakable, somehow deadens or numbs the nerves. The loss of a loved one, for example, may never leave you, but identifying it can bring understanding and acceptance.

My goal in sharing my poetry is to help you, the reader, connect your feelings of pain and joy with that of someone else. I have been known to search hours on end for just the right card, expressing the exact thoughts and feelings as my own. That connection, that knowing, someone else feels the same, is somehow irreplaceable.
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Greek for
“Late Summer”

Her smile is infectious
Vibrant, glowing
It injects us with a feeling of
Somehow knowing
All are welcome in her world

As if a late summer sun
We bask in her rays
Feeding our memories
On long ago days

Then, Releasing all reticence
We return in kind
Sparkling eyes and dimpled cheek
Secure in mind
All are welcome in her world
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Tuesday, July 21, 2009



I stood in the shower. Beads of steaming hot water pelted my back like ammunition to numb the pain. It sounded as if the heavens had opened up in the midst of a downpour. The kind of rain you hear playing a tune on your roof during a thunderstorm while snuggled in your bed. And the floodgates of my mind opened as my body began its full release; every muscle went limp. Memories, fluid like water and tears, were washing away. The way your eyes connected to mine, and the feelings of you; the taste of your lips, and the presence of your body in mine, were all slipping through my fingers as the soap glided along. How I longed to be snug again in my bed; in my room filled with dream catchers to sift out my nightmares and leave behind once welcomed fantasies of lying on a beach blanket soaking up the suns radiant glow. But the water runs cold and the step into reality is cushioned by red shag. What’s left of my memories are soaked up in cotton and wrapped around me as a fading reminder….
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Monday, July 20, 2009


She took the rose
Gently pulling it across her face
Holding with extra care
Two, soft, wrinkled leaves

The smooth petals and aroma
Like a philter
Were the perfect aphrodisiac

As the flower began to bloom
Morning dew escaped
Dripping on her lips
As if to quench a parched tongue

# #


I met an angel. No, there was
no halo, nimbus or radiant light,
no corona or presence with an aura.

I do not know if it was male or female;
it came just as a distraction, a diversion
of sorts, from an unholy alliance.

A pact I would gladly make,
not for the sake of fortune
or fame but for love.

Yes, I would sell my soul to feel again,
that which sets my heart on fire; I
would burn, to know the heat of passion.

I would have fought Michael himself,
to know what it takes to make one’s
fists clench and body convulse within.

Then, there he was; I say he, because I
believe him to be; a calming, soothing voice
from a distance, preoccupying my thoughts.

And in my head I hope he will stay,
that voice in my ear, gripping my attention,
until I’m strong enough to stand on my own.

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Thursday, July 16, 2009

Of Ways Of Looking At A Woman Review

Previously published in chapbook sections, Of Ways Of Looking At A Woman has received wonderful reviews from specialty magazines and on-line publications.
Kara L. C. Jones of KotaPress.com reviewed Of My Soul saying, “So many of Nancy’s words remind me of those unforgettable in-the-body experiences that are so overwhelming yet simple and almost overlooked in our day to day lives.” “Nancy is able to write about a loss that is specific to her experience, yet finds a way to address that loss so the poem will speak to anyone.” “ You just need to get your hands on a copy of this book in order to unearth the layers of meaning waiting here for you.”
Kwil of Kwil Kids Quarterly said, “My Reading Chair is a poetry chapbook filled with light, warmth and love. Children’s poetry is woven in delicate strands all snuggly warm… like a winters glove.” “If you are a lover of words and images, poetic insights both old and new… Nancy Watts is a poet and novelist whose reading chair is big enough for two!”
Russell Fulcher of Samsara Magazine says, “The language in Of My Soul ranges from simple and sincere, to passionate and haunting.” “The author is well-centered and a welcome change from most poetry dealing with this subject, adding a sense of hope and well-being in the face of grief and adversity.”

ISBN # 0-9718492-0-X