Photos for January Stones and April PAD 2012 property of M J Dills (exception 1/16)

Friday, November 26, 2010

Black Friday

Based on true events Black Friday 2008

Giving their thanks with no ordinary feast
Americans from coast to coast
shamelessly devour food enough to cause complaint,
which quite often puts them to sleep
so they may
store energy for the equally traditional
Black Friday shopping on the following day,
when consumers boost the country’s economy
and push the red ink over the line,
turning it magically to black.

Doorbuster Deals to entice the post-Thanksgiving shoppers
was not a concept taken seriously by Jdimypai Damour
until the entrance bulged, snapped and overflowed
with eager New Yorkers
at the darkened hour of 5 a.m.
seeking a most important supreme Christmas gift.

The blood and bones of Jdimypai Damour
remained on the floor
of the Wal-Mart store
as checkers scanned the treasures of holiday shoppers,
who went back home to eat leftover turkey sandwiches
with chilled cranberry sauce,
and watch the 6’o’clock news
of the California shootings that left
two people dead in the aisles of Toys-R-Us,
for the sake of one sought after toy
giving new meaning to
Loss Leader.



Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Para Mis Padres

Dia de los Muertos

To honor the dead and make offerings.
Last year I would not have believed I'd be including my mother in my altar this year. My altar is to both my parents, who I miss every day with all my heart. My wish for them is to have a fun card game, enjoy some fine whiskey, make cookies, maybe a game of golf in the sunny afternoon. Dad can be up to his usual tricks and Mom can send blessings to us all. My love to you, Mama and Daddy. May we meet again.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Poem to a Lost One

You held my hand and squeezed,
again and again,
with all the mighty power left to you;
Your strength that so made me a shining star
in your remote universe,
now ebbing,
calling you to some other place,
perhaps home,
or another small kingdom to rule.
How will I know until I get there myself?

“I love you,” we traded back and forth,
cheeks on facing pillows,
your eyes closed,
mine capturing whatever remained of you.
“I’ve so many things I never had a chance to talk to you about,” I said,
though without your hearing aids it’s unlikely that you heard.

The others were foraging in your now abandoned kitchen,
or shooing children down the hall,
or chattering in a distant room.
Little did I know I had you to myself for the last time in those passing moments,
too short,
and shorter still than I could dream.

I could not wake the next morning. The laziness
that invaded my bones
could have been my empathy with your exhaustion.
Exhausted with this world you were.

After the phone call, knowing you were gone,
no more goodbyes,
I felt a loneliness that only death can impart.
Like a mechanical foot, I walked through the remainder of the day,
and when I was the last one left in your empty house,
I felt a shattering in my middle,
peering at what was now disarray
of once the absolute modicum of order.

I will reach for the phone to say:
“We cut Mila’s hair.”
“The Mariners won.”
“My blood pressure is too high.”
“Where are you?”
“I got a photo of you from Marian.”
“I had a good day.”

But your number is disconnected
And now your mail comes to me.

I imagine you at your sink,
your red apron (I have it now),
the timer clicking (tick, tick) on the stove,
And in the living room (why do they call it that?)
the cuckoo measuring the hours.
The scent of baking sugar fills the air as
you turn to tell me I am late
and walk my way to give me a hug,
your fingers splayed to keep bits of flour from my back,
but then
the image in my imagination fails me.

Because you are not there, I can no longer
go to you. And you can no longer
leave me messages that berate me for not answering my phone.

I am unable to identify the strangers in the photos
and your sister
was not acquainted with many of your friends.
So they will remain strangers
into infinity. I brood over faces and names
of people I will never know,
just as I never completely knew you.
Remember that day in the hospital
when we spoke of how we never really get to fully know
even those to whom we are closest?
We had so little time,
didn’t we?



Friday, October 15, 2010

The Shoe

Leather, brown, sole, ties, tongue, laces, black, Sunday only, sturdy, heel, needed, warm, cool, style, protect, comfort, footwear, design, fashion, athletic.
Takes me places.
Takes me home.
A harbor for my foot, a station for my toes.
The dock for the boat of my body.
The earth’s surface and me.
Journey maker.
Brogan, boot, flip-flop, heel, pump, sneaker, oxford, mary-jane, ghillie, two-strap-t-strap, sandal, spike, slipper, loafer, ballet, mule, walker, orthopedic, high-top, tap, tennis, black patent, runner, slip-on, loafer, stiletto, slingback, moccasin, clog, platform, espadrille, boating, hiking, walking, bowling, poulaine.
Damaged. Too small. Too large.
Hammer toe and corn and bunion and fallen arches.
Dr. Scholls.
Propels me forward, ahead, into the next.
Takes a beating.
Gets used.
Gets forgotten on the closet floor, under the sofa, on the porch.
Gets bronzed.
Hangs from the rear view mirror.
Dragged behind the wedding chariot.
Hung mysteriously from electric wires in your neighborhood.
The shoe.



Saturday, October 9, 2010

The Beach of the Dead (He Said)

“I’ll meet you at sunset,” you said,
Tossing jumbled words over your sun-kissed shoulder.
Was it me you called out to,
Or was it your Rafael instead?
My hopeful ears heard you say
“Be at the Beach of the Dead.”
The sand grew cold between my feet,
Sipping tequila that went to my head,
Warming the places I’d offer to you,
Once we collapsed in my white linen bed.
Moment to moment the sun did its sinking
Upon the horizon, while I did my drinking,
And mulled over what you had said.
Was it the language that caused a mistake?
A misunderstanding inviting correction?
And not a blatant, left handed rejection?
These thoughts upon which I fed,
While sitting on the Beach of the Dead,
Caused me to question my comprehension,
Completely denying my intoxication,
Allowing the wandering of my attention,
Almost accepting an enticing invitation;
I admitted my grasp of the language was flawed,
Perhaps I was not so smart while abroad;
Paying my bill with a small sense of dread,
I crept slowly from the Beach of the Dead,
Alone for the night was better instead
To digest and translate what you must have said.

At morning I woke with little regret,
More than anything glad that we met,
Incentive complete with self recommendation,
That while visiting a neighboring nation,
To make no assumptions of what has been said
Or find oneself drinking alone with the “Dead.”



Friday, October 1, 2010

Step Out

Prompt is about stepping outside your house, world, box, whatever. What is there to see? Do?

When aging, one is relieved of lust, greed, even energy
And accepts faith,
Embraces sorrow, grief,
With a knowingness
Almost comfort.
To glance back over one’s shoulder
Is easy.
I stand on the threshold and teeter upon the topmost step.
Inside the door behind me I see the look of love,
The warmth of one crooked arm along my back,
Not guiding me, nor holding me back,
Simply allowing me to make what choice:
To go forward
To weep not for what went before
To weep not at all.
“Forget me, forget me, forget me”
Is the whisper in my lingering ear.
“Remember, remember, remember”
Ricochets back.
There may be richness in hope,
Optimism in trust.
In my cocoon I must eschew despair
And step out…
Step out and grasp what is left of my youth.



Saturday, September 18, 2010

Fires that Fester

Rain on my window mimics the grief that hides under pillows.
Why can it not quell the fires that fester,
Building bitterness, with no relief from confused emoting,
Lack of acceptance…

This is done now.
Let others sleep while you keen.
Do so quietly,
Like a ghost.




She Has Nothing Now

The chill is cause to pull one thin layer tightly over another;
Kid gloves are tattered, exposing white fingertips, chafed knuckles.
A diamond will not be parted with, kept rolled to the palm,
Keeping one solitary memory vaguely warm.
She has nothing now.
Stands on a corner with a sign
Reduced to a caricature of her former self…
Praying God no one identifies
The Maven of Maple Leaf Square.
Winter coming;
Once a time of making lists, brewing grog, scent of cinnamon in the air;
She dreads the season
Of glittering store windows
Cheerful shouts in the streets,
Her head only filled with the odor of her rotting teeth.
She has nothing now.
Tearing a piece of stale bread, she fills her mouth,
While words fall out
Spoken to no one, as her eyes dart from nothing to nothing,
Fearing eavesdroppers.
She is a shredded woman.
No longer thick of skin nor high of chin
Once she gave for the joy of giving
She has nothing now.



Wednesday, September 8, 2010

Nothing to Contribute

Set apart from the sparkling, snappy gathering,
Where relationships and ice melt with the same rapidity,
His semi-glazed observations
Of clever conversationalists
Whom he would dread sitting next to on an overseas flight
Go unnoticed,
For it may be assumed
He has
Nothing to contribute.

Reserve mistaken for animosity;
Asthma for anxiety;
And is accused of offering little companionship.

Desperately plowing his mind for one kernel of reflection
So as to join the edge of one cocktail huddle
Only to discover the topic he mistook for economy was
A discussion of Matthew McConaughey,
He turns on what is perceived to be an attitudinal heel
And captures the elevator for the next ride to impartial pavement.

Disappears into the shadows, in clouds of deeply inhaled,
Exhaled smoke; his footsteps forgotten before they can echo.
Failure to notice. Painless lack of impression.



Monday, September 6, 2010

The Condition of the Human Heart

The Condition of the Human Heart

The condition of the human heart,
As defined in the compassionate sense,
Is of delicate nature,
Fragile, like the wing of a butterfly;
Once pinned and no longer in flight,
Yet such a thing of beauty
When seen through the radiance of a sunny day.
The human heart is
Easily broken, like the fallen petal of a red rose,
Symbol of splendor,
Crushed underfoot, gone unnoticed,
Left to the wind, a future of dust.
One can protest the very existence of being born
To ask
Why am I here?
To live in mystery of the moment when even the protest
Ceases to exist,
And takes all the secrets that craft a lifetime
(Tragically short or overwhelming fulfilled)
Of the condition of the human heart.



Sunday, September 5, 2010

Jimmy and Fred

Weapon of choice

He claimed it was his legal right,
Protection his ultimate need,
From varmints that came out at night,
And thieves with an unhealthy greed.

“I’ll lock it up and hide the key,”
He told his mothering spouse.
“The bullets and the gun will be
On opposite ends of the house.”

“That hardly does you any good,”
She made her point quite clear.
“If you must protect this brood
You’ll need to have it near.”

Jimmy was a most curious lad;
At dinner used his mouth to eat
While listening to his mom and dad,
Chewed thoughts as well as meat.

In the field out back the grass was high
And the crows flew overhead;
Raising rifles they aimed for the sky,
Jimmy and his best friend, Fred.

It didn’t seem to them that morning
That anything bad could take place.
The weapons they’d borrowed were marked with no warning
Of the tragedy the small town would face.

Little did he know that what goes up,
Earth’s laws dictate must come down.
He fired and gave a command to his pup
To go fetch a bird on the ground.

Poor little Fred never knew what hit;
The bullet went straight to his brain.
He was dead in less than a minute.
It wasn’t a bird that was slain.

The little dog barked and jumped on Fred,
As Jimmy plowed through the weeds.
One small eight year old boy was dead,
But both of the children would bleed.

In a small town, word travels quick
And stigma becomes who you are:
The boy that shot little Fred Schmidt
Would never go very far.

Both were students their teachers had thought
Had the promise of men who’d be great,
But who could predict what the future brought
That would be Fred and Jimmy’s fate.

Fred in a grave when just a small boy
And Jimmy who never forgot
The day he discovered what he thought was a toy
Ended two vital lives with one shot.



Thursday, September 2, 2010

Back into poetry blogging

Back into poetry blogging. I had a long absence. Mom was diagnosed on May 28th. My life took a turn then but things are getting "back to normal" now, but without Mom in my world. I miss her every moment of every day.

Today's prompt is to write a poem, using a line from a song. I have chosen:

“And sometimes there’ll be sorrow.”
From *Little Green* by Joni Mitchell

I’d have cautioned you,
Had I known,
Of the bitters life can bring;
But there are no warnings for earthquakes.

I’ve not been able to make choices for you.
Not that I could have shown more wisdom;
After all,
I was just a mere child. So I have been told.
I have grown as you have grown,
To losses and heartaches,
Disappointment, regret.

Happiness outweighs all these things,
As I told you:
One joy dispels a thousand sorrows.
But you prefer rage and resentment;
Perhaps it is the drama in your blood.



Z Completing the Alphabet Prompts

Z is for Zero-Down Don

He’s busier than anyone
With something going on,
Making deals and fielding calls;
He’s Zero-Down Don.

He can get it at a bargain,
Anything you need;
If you say you’ll get it cheaper,
He’ll refuse to concede.

He’s got friends in higher places,
Connections everywhere.
He can haggle with the devil
And negotiate with flair.

If your phone rings in the morning
And it’s long before dawn,
He’s been up all night bartering.
He’s Zero-Down Don.

Be it microwaves or jewelry,
Televisions, cars or bets;
He knows someone who’s sure to help
To improve you assets.

For cruises in the Caribbean
Or smuggling contraband,
A package to deliver;
Zero-Down Don is your man.

In case the deal goes awry,
Or the transaction seems bizarre,
Be advised: Don’t bother Don.
He’ll be in the bar.



Younger Now (Haiku for Y)

Younger Now

Born at summer’s end.
Autumn passed into springtime.
I am younger now.




Sunday, August 15, 2010

Eulogy for My Mother

Given at the Danish Hall, Enumclaw, Washington
August 15, 2010

Thank you everyone who came this afternoon to honor my mother, Myrna. It means the world to her family and I know she would be pleased you are here.

We are not here today to mourn my mother’s death. We are here to celebrate her life. It was a rich and rewarding life that lasted 89 years. She was full of energy, adventure and was active her entire life, right up until the end. Her life served as a healthy model to me as she strived to live it fulfilled.

My mom was born on May 3rd, 1921 the day before her older brother Russell’s 5th birthday. Her father, Carl Grove, emigrated from Denmark, arriving Ellis Island in January, 1911. Myrtine Petersen, her mother, was born to Danish immigrant parents in 1891. Baby Myrna Mae arrived that spring day, joining the family on their farm in the little town of Colman, South Dakota. She also joined a brother, Norbert, who was seven years older. Another baby girl, Verla came exactly five years later, just two days before Myrna’s own birthday.

The farm, named Ash Grove, was a fully functioning and thriving operation. When we were growing up, my mother told us tales of bareback horse riding in the fair weather and digging out of snowdrifts in the harsh winter months. There were gardens and fields that sustained the family and several others over many years. Cows, pigs, cats and dogs, chickens, geese and belligerent roosters that terrified Baby Verla. A beautiful two story wood house with a veranda was surrounded by acres of rich farmland; a real house on the prairie.

My mother had some brushes with fate in her life beginning at a very young age. When she was two, her father backed over her in his big Model T with steel rimmed tires. He couldn’t really see well and though there seemed to be something lumpy under his wheels, he continued to back out and ran over her with the front wheels, as well. Horrified to see his baby daughter in the mud, he picked her up and carried her to my grandmother, who’d heard his awful cries. Because the mud was so deep and soft, Mom amazingly survived. She liked to tempt fate though and when she was a few years older, convinced she should not wait for her ride from school, decided to walk home in a snowstorm. It’s really a miracle that my brothers and I are here to tell these tales. She managed to survive getting tired from walking, settling down in a snowdrift and falling asleep. Before she was completely covered, her brother who’d been searching for her found her and she escaped death once again.

In 1935, with the Depression having devastating effects on the farm, my grandfather moved his family out west, to Enumclaw. My mother didn’t want to move to Washington State and she did stay behind in South Dakota, but eventually completed high school in Enumclaw, after enjoying wonderful friendships, an admirable academia and enthusiastic participation in the thespian society. I remember over the years her reciting lines from her favorite performance in Charlie’s Aunt.

Besides my mother’s theatrical talents, she was an accomplished musician. She was pianist and later organist under Lutheran steeples, Danish gatherings and impromptu songfests and continued to tickle the ivories until only weeks before her death.

She learned to wait tables at a young age, working in Enumclaw at the Canteen, which was later Harold’s, and in her twenties, in Los Angeles, where she had also worked as an aircraft builder. In 1944, she met my father, John Lewis Rieck, 16 years her senior. He was working as a bartender at the Elk’s in Seattle and Mom was looking for a better job. Dad hired Mom, they fell instantly in love and were married three weeks later. (Yes, three weeks. And that was a marriage that lasted 42 years.) In a few months, my dad was off to the Aleutian Islands in Alaska, followed shortly by my mom. She almost didn’t make it. Tempting fate again, she slipped on the icy decks and nearly slid through the stern of the boat into the Bering Sea, saved by a lone sailor, the only other person in sight at the time. It was an exciting and sometimes frightening time in Unalaska, where warships could be seen daily off the coast.

In the following years, my parents moved to Olympia, where they ran a little gas station, with an adjoining store. Those were good years, with the birth of their first baby, John Carl, JC, in 1946. Then mom got spinal meningitis and had another battle with the other side. But she wasn’t ready to go, even though she always claimed she’d heard angels singing. Once she recovered, they moved to Enumclaw where baby Margo Jodyne was born in 1949. The little house out by the Wishbone Inn where they first lived is long gone but their next home, on Kibler Avenue is still standing and that is the home of my childhood memories. We lived there when little Roy Dana was born in November, 1958. For awhile, Mom’s brother, my Uncle Russ lived in a little house next to ours and we kids grew very close to him. It was a devastating loss when he died after an accident working at Boeing in 1961. In 1966, my grandparents had just moved into a house on the same block on Kibler, when my mother’s mother passed away suddenly on Easter Sunday. Her dad died in Denmark, only 4 months later while visiting his sister. They were married 54 years.

For a brief time, we lived on Porter St, right here next to the Danish Hall. It has always seemed longer to me, but we lived there for one year while our house on Kibler was being remodeled. The old kitchen was tiny and Mom needed more room for her growing baking business. The new kitchen was huge and it was the first official home of Myrna’s Kitchen. Many of you will fondly remember the blue and white Dodge van, known as the Cookie Wagon. Many wedding cakes were delivered in that car. I won’t forget the cakes my dad and I delivered and oftentimes, Mom was home working on another one. He would drive like the car was full of hummingbird eggs, drop off the first cake (sometimes as far away as Seattle or Tacoma) then tear back home, watch Mom put on the finishing touches and off we’d go again. Myrna’s cookies were legend.

Her Christmas cookies, delicious Danish delicacies, were a labor of love. This last year she lamented that she’d only been able to bake eight different varieties. That was because she didn’t produce as quickly as she used to but it was also because Christmas was a very busy time for her and a time of year she truly loved. To quote from her 1996 journal, “Christmas has always meant so much to me: purchasing gifts and wrapping, decorating the house, writing cards and letters, stringing the lights outside, candy making, cookie baking, lever postej, rolle pulse.” That was the year she spent Christmas in Denmark with her cousins Erik and Myrna Storgaard. It was a hard decision to go but one she never regretted. Lile Jul Aften in our family, Danish Christmas is a very special time. Traditional food, drink and song, and family getting together just this one time of year was a ritual my mother cherished and honored after her parents were gone.

My dad died in February, 1985 and my mom was only four years older than I am now. She missed him so very much but she knew the answer was staying active. And for the next 25 years, that is exactly what she did. She was an avid golfer and a fierce card player. She enjoyed her morning swims at the local Community Center and kept a fast pace walking. She continued to bake, cook and entertain and little slowed her down. She worked as a chef at Anderson House, took small catering and baking jobs and when she moved to Fircrest, even worked for a babysitting service for awhile. She had many hobbies, quilting, doll-making, sewing, reading, bible study. In later years she began to keep journals and had one notebook where she wrote down her favorite quotes and poems, from which the May Sarton quote came in your handout today. That was one of the last things she copied into her book, after her diagnosis. She loved writing letters and receiving mail. My parents once had an entire wall lined with bowling trophies. Myrna was a member for several years of the walking club Volkssport. She was a faithful Sister to the Danish Sisterhood and loved traveling to conventions, whether a delegate or not, and had wonderful memories with hilarious tales to tell. A lifelong baptized, confirmed and devout Lutheran, she was a member of Hope Lutheran in Enumclaw and their organist until she moved to Anderson Island where she was actively involved in the church there.
Later, she joined St. John’s Lutheran in Tacoma. When she lived on the island she was a very active member in the Anderson Historical Society and the Community Club. My mom started FISH, with Dort Hart, in Enumclaw, a community outreach program for the needy. She raised money and walked in many 5 K’s, including the Bloomsday in Spokane and was a participant in the America Cancer Society’s Relay For Life in the past few years, making even more precious friends.

In 1988 she hosted a French exchange student and entertained Helene all over the state. In her mid-80’s she began taking Spanish lessons.

She absolutely adored her seven grandchildren and four great-grandchildren and bent many an ear bragging about them.

My mother drove herself to the doctor on May 26th. She’d not been feeling well and actually complained of a headache that wouldn’t go away and she ached all over. I knew when we had lunch that Monday that there was something wrong, as my mother rarely complained. The Grove sisters celebrated their 89th and 84th birthdays together on May 3. My Aunt Verla had broken her hip and shoulder in January and my mother went that day to stay with her as she was moved from nursing home back to her apartment at Radcliffe Place in Kent. The sisters were able to spend nearly three treasured weeks together, lunching, playing cards (but they were so busy they hardly had time for that), visiting and reminiscing. Myrna even got to go on a shopping spree with my cousin Marci, a pastime they both thoroughly enjoyed sharing. God does have a plan. In hindsight, those three weeks were precious and both my aunt and my mother were very thankful for that opportunity. On May 28th, the doctors gave my mother their dire diagnosis. She opted not for surgery or chemotherapy but decided to have ten days of radiation, which helpfully eased the pain. It was an agonizing decision for her. She had to decide quickly and, as she put it, she needed to “get her affairs in order.” She said “I don’t want to linger. I don’t want to be a burden. I don’t want to be in pain.” I won’t forget that day as I entered her hospital room and we talked about the future, what needed to be done. In the next couple weeks she arranged for a day to sit down with her three kids with lists. Mom was the master of lists. She was the most organized, prepared person I will ever know.

In the past few days, I’ve had the privilege and pleasure of going through old photos. I could wallpaper both levels of this building with the photos she kept. As I put together these montages, I have been reminded of how much fun my mother had living, how much she enjoyed life. When she contemplated trips to see the fjords of Norway, the fall foliage of the Northeast United States, Nashville, Disneyland and Disney World, Spain and Italy, the Caribbean. Virgin Islands and so many other places, we encouraged her.

She met her grandson Charlie in Paris and traveled with him when she went on her trip to Denmark for her 86th birthday. She spent time in Copenhagen with her granddaughter Emily when Emily was at the University of Copenhagen. She traveled with both Dani and Emily as they participated in Danish conventions, competitions and festivities.

She held on to her purse in Morocco, climbed cliffs in California, hiked in the jungles of Mexico, just in the last few years.

My mom had many friends and was loved by young and old. She could carry on a conversation with anyone and often did. She was an opinionated liberal and didn’t mind sharing her views.

I don’t suppose I have reconciled with my mother’s death. I think that will take some time. And I know my brothers and I will miss her terribly. She never got to see my little apartment in Seattle and we talked about that a few weeks into her illness. I told her I was sad she wouldn’t ever see it and the wonderful things she had given me to make it a home. I thought she was just exhibiting another sign of her growing confusion when she patted my hand and said “I’ll be there.” But she wasn’t. She is and she always will be there.

I’d like to thank Joan and the Danish sisters today for making this memorial possible and also those who contributed to the display. Thank you all for coming and thank you for your kindness, your cards, your flowers, your contributions.
Thank you to Dana and his daughter, Dani for diligently staying with mom in the few short weeks she had left with us.

I would like to extend a special thank you to my brother JC for not complaining or wavering, always being reliable and sacrificing more than many of us can know during my mother’s short illness. He was the absolute rock of Gibraltar of our family and I am eternally grateful.

Please join us and share your own memories of my mom and enjoy the desserts provided by the Danish Sisterhood.

My mother will be missed by many. Thank you for coming.

Monday, July 19, 2010

X Marks the Spot (Where Do We Go?)

Under the Big Dipper, I lean back and stare at the dotted sky.
Its indigo vastness
Causing me to ponder:
Where do we go?
When we go away.

One large dot moves and travels in my direction
Takes on speed and sound…
(Red to port; green to starboard)
Roars overhead, then disappears to the south,
(A different kind of leaving, a route…
Mapped and charted).

Senders say goodbye on one end
Wishing Bon Voyage
See you later;
Blotting handkerchiefs to eyes and
Missing those who’ve departed
While they’re still in sight.

In some far terminal,
Eyes strain to catch the approach
Of gleaming metal hurtling through the sky,
Wait with open arms for arrival of some loved one.

One cries tears of sadness,
The other tears of joy.
Farewells compete with greetings
And sparkles in the sky.

Where do we go?
When we go away.

I sit back and mark the dotted sky,
Shaky finger following constellations
(Real or imagined)
Arm flagging, drunk on stars.

Friday, July 9, 2010

What Night Brings

In darkness I hear sounds that don’t exist in light of day.
Though my ears fail me when I need them, at night they are alert to noises I can do without.
My flesh tingles, heart races and sleep that was imminent quite suddenly escapes me.
All my thoughts are rounded into one tight corral where they battle for my attention,
Repetitive mantras in my mind rendered useless.
Numbers, green and dotted, melt into the brightest glow in a room encased in darkness
And I fumble for the switch that will illuminate the dread and take it away.
Reading words repeatedly that won’t be absorbed,
Giving up and
Making another attempt at slumber;
When dawn begins to creep through thin slats that have kept the deepest shadows out,
Exhaustion folds over me, like the thick blankets that weigh on me imitating layers of unmet dreams,
Hazy visions, near hallucinations and harsh realities I can’t be free of.
I beg my body to end this competition with my feeble mind,
Yet begin another round.

Thursday, July 8, 2010

V is for Verano

Venetian blinds flutter in the
late afternoon breeze that
pushes collected heat into narrow corners as
a gray spider with long delicate legs
slowly scales its flimsy net
where a trapped fly buzzes with frantic resignation.
Birds peacefully nest, songs stilled,
waiting for dusk and
the reappearance of delectable leggy creatures
who come out to eat and be eaten.
Scents of crushed petals
and new mown hay
drift like motes as they
settle like perspiration
on the upper lip of
the gentle hair of a very blond fellow.
Somewhere down the dusty hallway
the Evening News prattles about high temperatures,
and wars on foreign shores.
A ceiling fan clicks
against a pull chain with a faded ribbon that
twists and dances to the draft from above.
Cicadas, hidden in rushes and trees,
murmur and hum,
eager for relieving rain,
then go suddenly quiet again.
Outside a car door closes with a thud
but no one turns or cares to know
who else might protest the heat.
A screen-door groans on rusty hinges,
and the crack of a divided watermelon
is heard above the drone of a
weary refrigerator motor.
Bare feet pad on a cracked linoleum floor,
seeking the summer tonic of fresh, ripe fruit
and Gino lights the barbeque with a whoosh.

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

The Alphabet Continues....(almost done) This is "U"

Under the Overpass

Under the overpass
An insolent crow
Investigates a used sandwich wrapper
In the cool shade
While cars zoom overhead,
Unaware of past murders,
Stolen kisses,
Mishaps and
Multiple motorist’s fury
At being pulled over by hot cops
Who choose to tally statistics
Whilst avoiding the swelter
In the shadow of gigantic ramparts;
Hats off, cocks gunned,
Itching for a finger…
And the crow flutters away.

Sunday, June 20, 2010

To The Snake (And Those of Similitude)

The snake is exquisite when concealed by sticks and reeds,
Bending her way on her journey,
Wearing her cloak of camouflage;
Diamonds, shingles and shoals
In brilliant colors, silver and gold,
She glitters in her sly, crafty manner.
Some rattle before striking,
Others attack in silence
And the viper treats death
With casual disdain,
Undiscriminating when choosing her victim.
Perhaps the bite is not fatal
But its effect is everlasting,
The damage always permanent,
The site of the assault bears the scar.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Such Things that Still the Memory

Just to visit perhaps, in a blink of the eye
(Lord knows I’ve no intentions of staying)…
But to ease myself into that old kitchen of memory;
Smell onions frying,
Beans swelling in the pot,
Mixed with the stale garbage that wafted in the daily heat
from the covered can with green peeling paint,
that always gave its daunting scent as a greeting to all who entered
(I remember well.)
The screen-door, full of clawed holes that let in tiny flies,
which buzzed around in a gray circle,
because that old alley cat (who left this world long ago)
gave meaning to the term caterwauling;
Always someone telling him “hush”
Then the baby wakens from the noise.

South Westmoreland confused those seeking it;
Never getting the name straight.
Turn left at McArthur Park
Pass the Elden Street Church
Where daily, the choir sang their hymns,
In harmony with ever present sirens.

How young we were when we were young
Skin tight on our cheeks
Touched by the sun without a bother.
Bodies firm and unsuspecting
Voices raised in protest of things we now favor.

To go back for a little moment
Dangle my feet in the pool I never found the time to dip in
(Life was too busy)
(What on earth were we doing that was so important?)
And thank that brown eyed boy for saving me,
Even though I seemed to get lost time and time again.

Sounds and scents are vivid reminders
Of images put to rest long ago.
Living takes on new meaning in life’s decline;
Songs bittersweet intone long ago forgotten lyrics,
Tokens of the past, omens of the future,
Carried in the same tattered pocket,
Confused in the memory,
Blessed in the moment of when.

Monday, June 14, 2010

R is for REST THEN

Rest Then

You gave everything
‘Til the emptiness was something you could feel,
Like little teeth nibbling at your center;
So you must rest then.

Your hands with all their sadness,
Cradled in your lap,
Have long toiled honestly your entire life;
It’s time to rest then.

You pushed with mighty strength,
Expelled from your body
An entire human being with an uncontrolled destiny;
So you can rest then.

Your legs pumped with relentless vigor,
Drawn from unknown depths
And the victory is yours now;
You can rest then.

Your heart sang like the thrush,
A sacred melody of love until your very bones
Ached with joy;
It’s your turn to rest then.

You fought the unknown enemy
In darkness seared with only blinding light.
Weariness takes you in its arms
And you can rest then.

You gave,
And found the resources to give more.
You never relented and encouraged others to go on
Take time to rest then.

Friday, June 11, 2010

June 11, 1969

Forty-one years ago today, I gave birth to a baby boy. I’d entered the hospital in the middle of the night and labored until the early evening. Doctors examined me once an hour and were accompanied by students since I was in a teaching hospital, where I was giving my baby up for adoption. I was nineteen years old, turning twenty in a couple months and my parents, mainly my mother, had persuaded me to not keep my baby. During that day three friends visited me while I was still in a hospital room, before being transferred to labor and delivery. Although I was drugged, I was aware of their presence and have not forgotten their kindness and thoughtful words. Other than that, I was alone.
The doctors discussed several times taking this baby by cesarean section but the heartbeat remained strong so surgery was delayed. Shortly after 7 in the evening, I was wheeled from the labor and delivery room to the birthing room, where a tiny baby boy was taken from me with forceps and suction. He was strong and healthy and gave a vigorous cry. I fell asleep soon after.
When I awoke, I was in a lot of pain. It was morning of the next day. I had been given an episiotomy and also had lacerations. I will never forget lifting the sheets and having a peek at my deformed stomach and pubic area. It was a shock that I just as soon would forget about. The nurses kept trying to give me drugs for the pain but I’ve never been a big fan of semi-consciousness, so I refused.
They fed me a breakfast of hot cereal and a grapefruit with half a maraschino cherry decorating its middle like a big red belly-button. I didn’t have much of an appetite but I did eat the cherry. After they took the tray away, a young girl opened the door and brought a blue bundle to my bedside. When I told her that I was surprised and had been told I wasn’t meant to see the baby, she left him with me and went to ask someone what the proper procedure was.
I placed this little baby boy in my lap and sat up as well as I could. His little pink face peered back at me with rosy lips, shaped just like a cupid’s bow. Stork bites covered his eyelids, just like all the babies in our family who came before and after him. I unraveled the blanket and found the prettiest little body, dressed in a diaper and tiny t-shirt, blue booties on the feet. I pulled off the booties, inspected the toes and counted fingers, too. Peter Anthony, I whispered to him, having picked a name for a boy months before; I’d never thought of a girl’s name. I’d been convinced the baby growing in me was a strong male, who deserved a name with power and clout. I chose two names that historically belonged to men who were peacemakers, conquerors and leaders.
As this little boy-child lay between my sore and aching thighs, the door burst open and a matronly nurse with the face of a sow appeared, followed by the remorseful and apologetic aide who had mistakenly brought the bundle to my bedside. The superior nurse chastised the girl and me, even though I was of total innocence. The die was cast. Though my baby was returned to the nursery and with a whole week in the hospital, I never saw him again, I began my scheme to get him back. After all, he was mine.

Thanks for reading.

Monday, June 7, 2010

Q is for Quiet

I’ve learned what to be quiet about,
And when to say my piece;
Times in the past I missed my cue
And failed to keep the peace.
But now I know when to speak
And when to hold my tongue;
This is a gift bestowed with age
Rarely given to the young.
The thoughts I spewed upon deaf ears
In my clumsy past
Have issued forth some mellowness;
I’ve discovered tact at last.

Friday, June 4, 2010


Playing with the devil,
When he carried a guitar,
Living on stolen time,
While riding in his car.
We thought we were invincible,
Ours cares were never free;
They were bought and paid for
With willful obstinacy.
We stormed the Crystal Palace,
Blew our minds out in the park,
Read Ginsberg and sang Cohen,
Burning candles in the dark.
The devil lit our pipes for us
With deceits our parents feared;
Ignited bras and draft cards,
And then he disappeared.
Ages later he came back again
As what we loathed the most
To spew more lies and twist our minds
He’s the Radio Talk Show Host.

On Joseph's Abrupt Departure

On Joseph’s Abrupt Departure

Crashing door
signal of strident discord
caught my attention, disturbed my feeble attempt at work;
Rattled windows and
put portraits on the staircase askew.
I cringed and leaned across my pockmarked desk,
Rising slightly from my chair
to pull aside lemon colored frilled curtain…

There he was, striding long
and determined,
the street shiny with rain
As the day embraced dusk.
White starched shirt flapping against his back,
Cap at hasty angle,
Jerking his worn and well traveled
pack over one shoulder blade.

Imagined his white knuckles, fierceness of his face,
at least for now.

Then –

Pounding on the staircase,
Wrenching open of the ancient oak door,
it, defenseless to the battering,
inset beveled glass catching prisms from inner lamplight
sending sparkles of light
flying across ceiling of the foyer hall.

“Joseph! Joseph!”
wailed my sudden repentant daughter
Standing on tiptoes at
yawning threshold,
hands clasped

But Joseph’s intention was not related to relent –
Until he relented.



Wednesday, June 2, 2010

N is for No

No, said the voice on the telephone;
No, was the weary reply from ages away.
No, said the girl at the end of the bed;
No, agreed the man, shaking his head.
No, said the chin as it swayed to and fro,
Visiting one shoulder, then the other.
No, said the child who’d grown so old.
No, said the father, No, said the mother.
No, said the clown, this is not a joke,
As they said no from one to another.
No, said the motorists all in a race.
No, said the rain on an upturned face.
No, said the walker who followed his dog.
The answer is no and remains the same;
It could be Nothing by another name,
Or maybe the end of ceaseless pain.
No, is all that you need to know.
Clear the board, pass the deck,
Clean the slate, go home.

Sunday, May 23, 2010

M is for Mozart's Birthday


Born on his day
You allowed him influence over your life
That no other was allowed,
Except maybe Jane Austen.
I missed your funeral.
No one let me know you had died
And when I was told perfect strangers were there,
It made me cry even more
That you were gone,
Unable to leash your own outrage
At such an event.
I remember you in your black morning coat
And ruffled shirt,
Long brown cigarettes
And your love for champagne
And chocolate.
In summer you dressed all in white,
Never got soiled.
Inspired, brilliant, loud, droll.
On evenings you would show at our door, late, drunk and lonely,
We stayed up with you
And listened to your recitations and wit.
It was always so cold on Mozart’s birthday;
Your humble home was warmed by adoration.
You glowed then, like a blaze.
I miss you.



Pain just out of reach
Memories fading
Like dreams forgotten upon awakening
Photos faded or lost in travels
Messages delivered unsolicited
Yet welcomed with a masochistic longing

K is for Kitchen Monday Morning Blues

Kitchen Monday Morning Blues

Coffee pot full of thick black motor starter
Milk jug empty
Rain beating on the window pane.
Cat bowl showing brown flakes, nothing more
And kitty mewing to come in, come in, come in.
Clock ticking at meteoric speed
While kids can’t find socks and pick a fight
Over whose turn to sit in the front
Before you can even get out the door
And you drop your toast
Butter side down on the floor.
The radio tells you the traffic on the interstate
Is a parking lot
Right before they play your old song
And herding kittens sounds like an easy occupation.

Saturday, May 22, 2010

J is for JOHN


I met you with my great belly and you signed my book ‘so much love.’
Those were some days in my life that once I tried to hide but later
When I’d learned a great deal more I knew I was lucky to have all that
And you
If only for those few times
Before everything went so bad for you.
It was you who made me get my baby back.
I told you that and you put your arms around me
Like no one else ever had and you blessed him
Touched his downy little head
And told me you were glad.
I read you died in a broken down hostel
In England and it made me sad.
You deserved so much more.

Inuits on the Edge

Inuits on the Edge

Inuits on the edge of the world
Who slumber in igloos
Live in bright mornings that stretch into bright evenings
With no separation of day and night.
Generations of eyes have sensed
The shapes of ice formations to map landmarks;
Human compasses knowing the way;
Grandfather to grandson
Parent to child
Shapes change with warming winds and terrain
Once familiar
Can no longer be interpreted.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

H is for "Hurt" May 11, 2010


A scar marks her
Like the one her mother bears
She ignores remarks about her
And pointedly returns stares
Her eyes, hooded and dark
Reveal little, only moods
Causing passersby to steer
Clear of her stony altitude
Giants of any kind
Don’t affect her
Angels behind mirrors
Reflect her
She’s waiting
And the drums may pause for warning
But don’t expect it

Monday, May 10, 2010

G is for: The Griffon in the Garden May 10, 2010

The Griffon in the Garden

The griffon in the garden
Was placed one rainy day,
To guard the house and all within
And keep them from harm’s way.
No one told the griffon
How big would be the tasks;
Sometimes the worst of enemies
Disguise themselves with masks.
How could he know a Trojan Horse
Would put him to the test?
While ruin lay before him
Though he did his very best.
Upon that day the griffon
Held up his wings and wept
While something foul and evil
Across the threshold swept.
His warnings went unheeded,
And misery did fall
How could the griffon be of blame?
What is he, after all?
But just a piece of concrete
Carved with human hands;
We must learn to open our eyes
Before making such demands.
And now the forlorn griffon
Guards the house no more;
He’s left to sit and drip with rain
A piece of backyard décor.

Sunday, May 9, 2010

For My Mom May 8, 2010

I am lucky to still have my mom. She was 89 last Monday, May 3 and we had the nicest day, playing cards and having lunch with her sister, my aunt.

For My Mom

She wished for a butterfly
To dress in white and lace,
And that lasted for awhile;
The little cherub face
Of honey hair and rosy cheek
Became more like a puppy
Whose curiosity did peak
When ever in the vicinity
Of mud or dirt or soil;
Whatever frock so washed and pressed
She’d manage to tear and spoil.
I was that little butterfly
Who thanks her mother now
For every toiling moment
She was able to endow
To cause appreciation of
The finer things in life
To grow and be a mother
And more than once a wife
My mother gave to me some traits
I’d never want to lose
She did her best, I know that well
And never would I choose
To have another mother
I adore the one I’ve got
She deserves a medal
For dealing with a lot
Of childhood miseries
And angst of teenage years
For my mom, forever
Thanks for being here.

Friday, May 7, 2010

"E" is for EQUAL May 7, 2010


We may speak in different tongues
Sounding strange to each other’s ears
Hands and faces used to communicate
But we are equal

You call your god by a different name
Although to me he is the same
And we pray in different words, different times
But we are equal

Your shoes, your hats, your every piece
Which clothes your body is foreign to me
And though it may look strange in my eye
We are equal

Your body has been the den of cruel thieves
Who stole your legs or your eyes or your ears
Or your mind and maybe even your dignity
But we are equal

No matter whom you love or give your devotions to
Regardless of where you live, how you vote
Whether you drive, walk or take the bus
We are equal

I share my shame with others who make judgments
I open my door and set my table
I ask you to forgive if I ever treated you as anything but

Thursday, May 6, 2010

"D' is for "Dem Bones" May 6, 2010

Dem Bones

Dem bones confused me as a child
When I learned to sing the teaching song
While being told to listen to the Word of the Lord
I didn’t understand the connection between the two
Until I grew much older and realized the importance
Of praying that all connections might be well oiled
And in working order.

Coco Skye for the Letter "C" May 5, 2010

Coryn Olivia Skye

This Christmas package was delivered with little fuss;
A delicacy arrived with anticipation of the highest degree
While her waiting cousin slept under the tree.
Just in time for the starring role in the church’s pageant of
A well loved tale of another baby long ago, she
Slept in the Pastor’s arms for most of the show.
A fairy princess of the highest form,
She knew from whence she came, a kingdom far away
And brought with her friends with whom to play.
Cornelius, Louise and Dukes and Queens and Kings,
Sparkling creatures escorted her, some with wands and wings.
A princess she claimed to be and there was little doubt
When she speaks of castles, fancy steeds and pretty dresses
Is to be believed for the acquaintances she possesses.

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

May 4 MY BEE

B is for My Bee

My Bee

Born on Mother’s Day,
A gift to the women;
Her color was blue
Though we expected a different hue,
And then she pinked
From her head to her toes,
And reached with startling strength
Taking hold of whatever was within her grasp,
Like to say:
“I’m here.
I’m hanging on.
I found you.”
The first blood of my blood
Arrived on a May morning and
Her mama wept
When the Bee was
“She will grow so fast,” came through the tears.
And now comes the time she will count for us her first six years.
“The Bee”
She is to me
Though that is not her name;
Just what I heard her say
When she arrived that day.
Tall she will grow
And sturdy;
Her honey colored skin and hair
Betraying not who she is
But who she portends to be
A queen, a busy one, a monarch of all sweet things.

May 3 ARIZONA (an acrostic)

We are going to do the alphabet for prompts. That's A to Z. I will follow best as time allows.

This poem is in the form of an acrostic.

rizona made a blunt statement to the world when its
Reigning Republican signed new legislature in the name of an
Immigration law that would ultimately allow
Zealous profiling of a huge percentage of its population,
Of which most proprietors could not do without, but then Arizona
Never pretended to not be racist and narrow minded.
After all, look how long they took to recognize Martin Luther King, Jr.

May 2 Your Milk

Your Milk

Tears that all but bathe the floor
Of the shattered cathedral while distant
Mortars tell the true mood and
Occasional spurts of coded noise
Like tapping-rapping on the edge of the hills.
Shrouded aunts and stumbling nieces, cousins
In the absence of any true masculinity,
Just stoic little boys,
Whose fingertips flicker and twitch.
The cloying scent of broken incense
Brought out of stowage for instances like these.
Moments that mounted and could
Be counted on lists posted for the fearful to read
While one high pitched wail above all,
Pleading and starving for what can’t be had
Nor replaced and has now gone to waste:
Your warm blue milk.

May 1... the poetry continues DAVID

When I can, I will be contributing poetry from prompts from my Poet's Group, The Baker's Dozen (as we refer to ourselves.)
Today was a free prompt.


With your clenched jaw and chin thrust forth,
You held yourself on the air beneath your feet
So as to appear taller.
Gathered with your conceit,
Your receding hairline drove you to despair,
And your vanity
Led to shattered mirrors…
(Kicked in)
Shattered friendships …
(Caved in)
Shattered memories…
(Vanished in anguish and e-meters).
Born on D-Day,
When others were declaring peace,
We heard each June the endless tales of
The mother you never knew and
Your father’s refusal to wake up
One morning in the tainted childhood
Of your abandonment.
Your disastrous placement
With a family who shared your childish disdain,
Equally foolish until they lost you
To Canada,
Where we found you,
And held you for a brief time,
In the company of our fools.
You suspected you were Tutankhamen
In some past lifetime
And how could we dispute
A man who thought he should be king
Of some small fiefdom.
When we sought in later years to find you
And eventually learned you were dead
We hoped you finally were able
To rest in peace.

Friday, April 30, 2010

The End

As this poetry ship sails into the sunset, I would like to thank you for all your support and appreciation. This has been a good month for poets. There have been features on several radio shows, television and even governmental recognition in these busy times. The only poem not posted is "Five Times," which I wrote on April 26 and just considered it too sappy. I did post it with the PAD Challange. Please peruse the poems and choose your favorite five. I will be submitting them to the PAD Challenge for the honor of being Poet Laureate of the Challenge. Even if I don't win, I have entered and there is true honor in that. Thanks again for reading.

The End

It’s over.
We pulled the plug and let go.
The curtain came down
At the end of the show.
You packed up your kit
And started the car,
Waved goodbye,
To follow your star.
Picked up your diploma.
Paid all your bills.
Checked off our lists;
We can head for the hills.
I swept the floor clean,
Switched the lights,
Tossed the key.
It’s over;
Time to face destiny.
We’ve parked, moored and docked
The ship to the shore,
The car in the port,
And the plane at the door.
We may have arrived,
As we say our goodbye.
The future’s the past
In the blink of an eye.

Thursday, April 29, 2010

And Suddenly

We expect our lives to rumble along in a fashion in which we wake up mornings, go to bed nights and perhaps have some minor interruptions. Huge changes only take a fraction of time to make a difference that may effect the remainder of many lives. To get back to a point of comfort is a major achievement.

And Suddenly

A warm morning
Fireplace crackling
Bitter cold on the windowsill
Frost tapping at the glass
Soup bubbling on the burner
Kitty curled in a corner
My music, my book
To comfort me
In an attempt to forget
How sweet was our life
And suddenly
Like an old star dying
Missing in its constellation
Changing all the pictures
Everything we knew
And trusted
Rethinking the future
Reconsidering the past

And this was my Haiku I was inspired to write:

Suddenly spring came
Winter had not been informed
Ice covered tulips

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

The Line

Today's prompt was to write about the end of the line, or a line of some kind. I had a hard time with this one but in the afternoon we were listening to Adele while driving in the car and I wrote this poem (more like song lyrics) imagining her singing it.

The Line

I kept giving you another chance
How many times I took you back
I always knew that our romance
Was on some wild railroad track
We wrecked, we wrecked
So many times
We loved the sorrow
Loved the bliss
The drama as our lives entwined
Crushed rose petals
Bloody kiss
I watched you walk away
Come back
The torment we devoured each day
The nights without you
Someone else’s arms about you
I swore that I would never doubt you
Sat beside a silent phone
Waiting for you to come home
Hoping that you drank alone
The train I rode was fueled on pain
I took you back again
Every time I loved you more
The line I drew was in the sand
Moving with the wind and rain
To lose you time and time again
Until I stopped and
Recognized that
You were never really mine

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

The Curandero April 27, 2010

Today's prompt was to write a poem about "hope."
After today there are three more days/poems. I would like you to vote on your favorite FIVE and will tell you how to do that in the next couple days. I will then be submitting them for the possible honor of Poet Laureate of the PAD Challenge. I appreciate your comments and support. Thank you SO MUCH for reading.

The Curandero

The curandero knocked on my gate.
I heard the little bell tinkling,
Set down my pen and my worries,
Received them with kisses and closed the door.
Maria Leticia led him by the hand
Through my kitchen,
While the cat followed them with her cobalt eyes,
Curled into a ball
Pulled one paw over her ear
As if to shut out any disturbance.
Chima was the curandero’s name.
His arms held fragrant bundles of
Basil, marigolds, coriander and pine sheaves.
On the bare tile floor
He lit a fire and stood me in its ring;
The heat flamed me in all places
And I hardly dared to breathe.
Maria Leticia made crosses in the air
With delicate fingertips dipped in scented water.
Candles burned at the edge of the circle
Where the greens and flowers lay in a pattern,
Smoked by the fire and sheltering its outer rim.
Chima spoke quickly and quietly
But I could hear his words
“Padre nuestro que estás en los cielos,”
With many “amen’s,”
Repeated countless times.
Mingling Magic with the Lord and Nature,
The chants pulled me into their spell,
And what wickedness dwelt in my house
Was banished, sent back to my enemies.
I was left with the scent of heaven
And hope.

Sunday, April 25, 2010

Pachelbel’s Canon in D April 25, 2010

I find it redundant to write a poem based on the title of a song, the prompt that was given by Robert Lee Brewer. And so, in my attempt, I’ve chosen a piece of music that traditionally is without words.

Pachelbel’s Canon in D

German monks’ chins quiver
Voices raised in liquid harmony
Sorrows not quite forgotten
Blend in muted joy
While memories of mothers and possible lovers
Drift like motes
Through eyes closed to lives unlived
Waiting for angels’ embrace
Forgiveness of sins
The confusion of hope, faith
And the countenance of fear

Saturday, April 24, 2010

The Firefly April 24 2010

The prompt today was to write a poem about evening.

The Firefly

The firefly appears in the soft evening light,
Fluttering from one branch to another,
Settling finally on one slumbering blossom,
Asleep for the night… yet
Emitting a hint of its daytime fragrance,
The firefly glows,
At times disappearing altogether,
Like a thought too painful to acknowledge.

Friday, April 23, 2010


"For today's prompt, write an exhausted poem. The poem can be a first person account of your own exhaustion, or it can describe the exhaustion of someone (or something) else. Heck, I guess it even could be about exhaust, huh?" Robert L Brewer wrote his poem today about his new baby and getting him to down for the night. I have come to realize that Robert is pulling these prompts out of his ass. I am proud to say I have been able to make something of them.


The wind has blown me to the wall.
I can hardly move at all.
I feel the sand that cakes my eyes.
I try, but I cannot rise.
My breaths are shallow, short and thick.
My head feels like a brick.
My feet and toes are made of jello
And my bones of marshmallow.
If I could, I’d surely crawl.
To try and stand, I know I’ll fall.
Like Alice down the rabbit’s hole
Escape was not the actual goal.
At both ends I’ve burned the candle;
A little more than I could handle.
The situation isn’t dire
But I’m tired of prompts that don’t inspire.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

EARTH DAY April 22, 2010

Earth’s conveyor belt, the ocean, is
Always moving her changing ecosystems, in
Rotation, while her atmosphere is
Terrorized by the burgeoning
Human population, the overwhelming majority

Damning themselves and generations to come
Aware only of their own needs,
Yet constantly complaining of climate chaos

April 21, 2010 According to My Mother

Thanks for all the kind comments and support. I promise you I will stop bashing you with poetry by the end of the month. Thanks for reading.

According to My Mother

According to my mother,
I have lived a little too high on the hog
And shouldn’t buy lattés,
Go on trips,
Or spend money on others,
Especially those who are not grateful.
According to my mother
I have been too generous
And my magnanimity is one reason I am in
The trouble I am in
My mother suggests I save my money
Budget wisely
And stop being so extravagant.
One day I will go to France
And drink wine in the Provences
Take in the Prado, the Louvre and
And buy Italian shoes in Italy.
I will “return” to my wasteful ways
Perhaps to truly be what my mother thinks I was.
This loss is not too big a wound to heal;
Not many losses on this kind can be said to be
Money is like love…
It is better to have and have lost
Than to not have had at all.