His voice came across

sternly as
he told her what to do.
She trembled. But she did it.

There were so many thorns on the roses.
Pruning was difficult. But she knew, she knew
that to make the bush more beautiful
she had to cut
away the dead wood.

She cried silent tears, salty tracks down her cheeks
As the thorns pierced her grasp, the scissors slipping just
a little as she cut the overgrowth choking out the new green.

When the dormant season was over,
the roses were more glorious and beautiful
than they had ever been.


These Times

Apocalypse dread and the eclipse, 

Things are weird and strange with smoke in the distance

From fires in another country…

A slight breeze in the trees

And overcast skies

warn us, too,

that winter is coming.

Something Old

Church basement. Circle of chairs, people with coffee and cigarettes. There is a middle-aged woman with dark salt and pepper hair at a podium. Her glasses are down the bridge of her nose, and her brown eyes crinkle at the corners as she looks up at her audience. She twists her lips into a wry smile and speaks:

“Hello. My Name is Jean Michelle, and I am a writer.”

“Hello, Jean,” they all chorus back at her.

Audience smiles encouragingly. They are all writers here. There is no shame in admitting it.

Jean looks at the papers in her hand, resting on the podium, and begins to read her poetry. It is the first of the 9 steps of making amends. Every writer in the program must follow it…

Sometimes, the addiction of writing is uncomfortable is it not?



Once you came to visit, my thoughts

wandered down the hall to

where you were.

My soup burned on the stove,

and so did I, blue hot at the core—

I kept my distance from you

because the heat you gave off

scorched deep,

black marks in my heart—

I can’t imagine the inferno

If we ever really touched.



In 1st grade,

It’s the good boys who

throw things at you from across the room.

In 3rd grade,

The good boys punch your arm

and steal your science book from your desk.

In 5th grade,

The good boys have those feelings they can’t

explain and can’t contain.

Then in high school,

The bad boys are the ones

who whisper obscenities you don’t understand, but

make you faint and thrill with threatening promises.

The bad boys open their car doors for you,

invite you in

and never let on

all the handles have been removed

and there is no escape from your fate.

*************************************        In Indiana, I fell in with a group of writers. We discovered we were a ‘pod’.

I write poetry and short stories, and I attempted a novel during November 2013 NaNoWriMo, but it turned out I was writing three different things disguised as one. I haven’t sorted them out yet
I have a short story in Quixotic: Not EverydayLove Stories, available from Amazon. Our writing group published an anthology called Hotel Stories, also available on Amazon.

One may access my blogs at:

Currently, I am working on a book of my poetry.

I Twitter @jean_desanto.

You may contact me  at if so inclined.