Alone in the Room


Look at me!
they cry
waving to the music
and the laughter…
I’m alone in a room.

The party is always in another place,
the welcome mat is never outside of my door.
My mailbox is empty,
and when I don’t open the curtains for three days
and have learned to live without the light,
no one notices.
Once in a while I find a place on the couch
near the music and the wine,
try to absorb and blend
and relax.
But when the smile starts to hurt,
and the tears threaten
to fall,
too fast and too often,
I know that I’m better off,
 back in the room,
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A Jolly Good Fellow

For he’s a jolly good fellow…


Everyone knows he’s a great guy,

it’s just his humor,

you’re too sensitive

you’re too emotional

and why were you there then,

why were you wearing that

and what did you think would happen?

For he’s a jolly good fellow…


It’s a mans world, 

a dog eat dog world,

you need to toughen up,

lighten up,

learn to take a joke,

just a joke,

it’s just a joke…

Boys will be boys. 

A woman’s place, 

a woman’s burden, 

a women’s prerogative is to change her mind

but that doesn’t mean we have to listen heh heh… 

Her lips said no but her eyes told me yes.

Which nobody can deny…

Don’t hit your pretty little head on that glass ceiling,

it might muss your hair,

and while you’re at it can I get some coffee.


You’re too hot to be single,

sweetie honey babe…

But I already bought you dinner,

you’re not a tease are you?

You’re not a feminist are you?

You’re not a dyke are you? You are? Can I watch?

Which nobody can deny…

Calm down.



Jeez is it that time of the month?

I warned her…

She was warned.

She was Warned.

For he’s a jolly good fellow,

And so say all of us…



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The Word Peddler



I once was blind but now I see, 

through the braille of my words and a strangers hand. 

Am I a busker or do I just sing to myself

in that space between me and them?

Where does the music come from?


A poet is a storyteller without the cloak and sore feet,

carrying the songs in a backpack of traditions,

stuffed sausage tight with beginning scraps,

one who scrambles after the departing crowd

to pick up discarded endings, 

blown flapping into corners, tattered and worn.

Some like thin and sour wine made from hate filled grapes

that sting the hands.

Leech the poison my dear companion,

fellow traveller,

 or risk losing a finger to the venom…


A poets treasure is in their words

but words are capricious things….

They fly at you in the night 

waking you with their need and their burning,

then carelessly fade when brought out again,

their devotion quickly turned,

sloughed off like old skin,

and the space in between me and them

empties and echoes with the loss,

the cold growing into a place of no traversing,

an icefield unsteady underfoot,

leading you on…



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I owe you….

I owe you a blog post. Or two….

And some poems.  I have approximately 70002 half done ones (no exaggeration…well…maybe a little) some of which I will share with you Gentle Readers as soon as they are finished and others which will be in the new book coming out in 2018. HOW DID WE GET TO 2018 SO FAST???? It was just Y2K with all the angst and stockpiling. (not ONE. SINGLE. ATM spit money at me….still peeved about that)

Anyway I owe you some stuff. And I will get to it sooner rather than later  – I promise. Pinky swear.

I am just overwhelmed right now. I mean….no. NOT overwhelmed.

Of course not. I am cool and unruffled as ever. *wince*

I am ……being chased by ummmmm  errrrrr… Wild animals. No….not just wild animals….raging ALIEN wild animals. No…..



that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.  Knids-n-me.

In the meantime,

I wish you all peace.


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The Book Peddler


The old man always sat in the same place,

a not-quite-corner,

 behind a table propped up on one side by a broken half brick.

He sat there in the sun,

 seamed face turned up to absorb it,

 scattered teeth grinning into it as if to welcome an old neighbor.

He sat in the drizzle under a tattered umbrella with the faded words ‘Wrigley Park’ barely visible.

And in the cold he sat shrinking into himself.

a small brazier at his feet,

wearing gnarled and unraveling fingerless gloves on his hands,

usually wrapped around a hefty ceramic mug of something steaming.


His books lined the table in no discernible order,

old and new,

dull and vibrant,

whole and scotch taped together.

No one bothered him,

few spoke to him,

truth be told few noticed him,

except to sidestep cardboard carton corners poking out from underneath

the battered card table.

But he smiled and nodded gently to all.

“Books are capricious things,”

he would tell anyone who lingered at the table…

“and the ones who peddle them must understand the way

they work,

and accept the oddness that comes with them

without question,

as old friends must…”

He would finish by nodding and patting the books arrayed on the table.

Some smiled, 

some frowned,

all walked away.



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I Can’t Do It Anymore


I can’t do it anymore. I can’t post “thoughts and prayers” any more. Not to say I am not thinking and praying for the victims and the families. I am. But it can’t end there. People are dying. Not in a movie, not in a re-do-able video game. Dead. Gone. Destroyed. I don’t have the answer. I am not trying to say I can fix it….but someone has to. God forbid I echo the mad cheeto in any way, shape or form….but someone must DO SOMETHING. We have vast resources, great brains and people of compassion and integrity in leadership. Get them together, talk it out, figure out what works, ASK. Other countries have done this, we can find a solution if we look beyond contributions and the art of the deal and the fear mongering, and empty rhetoric. We are becoming Uncomfortably numb. Stop this insanity once and for all.

THAT’S how to make America great again.
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One year ago….

Chimera Poetry

brainless and empty,
tealight the only brightness and toothy grin the only expression,
until the squirrels gnaw him away….
So with this in mind
there was no panic when he appeared,
triangle eyed and dopey,
in the window.
She thought the light behind his wideslashed smile seemed a little…
A little….
The scent of pumpkin more than a little….
But Halloween is a time of happy pumpkins and hershey bars and candy apples
so what could there be to fear,
 she thought, 
as she opened the back door…
much later,
when the questions asked over and over
and left answerless,
were only clean blank spots in a locked away file,
and November and December had banished the taint of all hallows…
not empty
not empty
(God help us…not empty)
shambled up the familiar street,
fresh harvested from an unspeakable slumber,
with a light…

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