The Writer's Garden

Lady of Cellophone

2026-06-05T19:12:21.661-04:00

there's hunger and hunger

one will be filled soon

the other gnaws forever

in a broken blue moon

I thirst for a love

that never shall be

the love of parents was

always denied to me

Hid with no one seeking

Lost and forever unfound

to transparent self-image

I'm quintessentially bound

That's how I see me

hidden in plain sight

or how I don't to be exact

kept blinded by their

Mrs. Cellophane by name

and I can see right thru

clearly no point to me

Can you see thru me too?

All my innards on view

faults and failings on display

Vulnerabilities exposed

to sun-scorching day

Where are the parents

with the hat and sunscreen

to protect the little child

to make sure she's seen?

This one is free-falling...

2026-05-27T02:05:08.242-04:00

Once it starts it's over

this addictive syntax

can't help myself still

rhyming, achoo, plus tax

And I go down to ships

and ride again to hounds

just a lot of gibberish

but I like the way it sounds

Homeric and Om-eric

my epic Omi tragicomedy

I sink and think as I drink

such a big lot of memory

how to explain so little

that exists of past-tense me

it only tangentially lives

in my fractal multiplicity

In all other verses I saw

with semblance of clarity

this one is taking me to places

I've no framework with which to see

got no Alaska recall to

guide me on this journey

reaching blind for hand rails

that aren't available to me

This one is free-falling

no Michigan fine pine rhyme

no clue where it's heading

will I finally crash land this time?

I can't see the bottom nor

the edges of trajectory

I'm shooting blind from the hip

to mix drinks metaphorically

There has always been a vision

an encompassing to my rhyme

Even if it changed direction

it always got there sort of on time

What scares the hell out of me

is I'm a ghost forecalling the tune

I'm my own ghost writer

I hope it will end pretty soon

Or do I? Another fine Mar product

the sexy kazoo key change...

Yanno if I'm honest IDK

where this spirit writing will lead

this poem is writing itself

it's my job to shut up and heed

I wonder when I read in the morn

after the wine has worn off

will I see what I see now

or will I just headache and scoff

this free-flowing wine verse

is easier to write than the rest

the others are clumsy and exhausting

this one is just flies off my chest

But for all the Walden existence

for all my Thoreau clarity

in my ever transcendentalism

I still seek some unity

Thank God for the family

the ones that I call mine

help me brother to bring this

into a state of sublime.

I am weary with the speaking

talking with out saying a word

sonneting my hurt in poems

I just finally want to be heard

Bargain basement dynasty

2026-05-27T00:43:35.000-04:00

Porcelana Princess

reclines on rug remnant

in dime store bauble barge

so much for refinement

boatman poles the tune

of byzantine dreams

up dirty old man river

not so romantic, it seems

Vaping Waffle Crisp

he takes in the scene

in Vivienne Westwood suit

offers hit to the queen

Times are pretty bad when

slaves dress better than She

Pharoah's budget cuts

leave only an old jalopy

former litter bearers

in loud check sports coats

wheel and deal barges at

"Honest Ahmed's Used Boats"

blank are the kohl eyes

of Nile's favored one

wearing purple Converse

hair dyed Luxor Sun

In Froot-Loop necklace

Chippy newsprint gown

her cat dons the ermine

heavy the head within crown

panting in bargain barge

in blazing river heat

under lapis lazuli sky

flaps her sales receipt

where's the damn slave

to fan me on the Nile

she now runs a cab stand

of taxi crocodile

perhaps, you, garcon

boatman, man the fan

couldn't possible says he

I might ruin me tan

what's a girl to do

well that sucks, ho hum

leans back on rug scrap

cracks her bubble gum

how boring to be a god

and worse nouveaux riche

this cash strapped deity

is one hot irritable bitch

I'd fan my own fan

if only I knew the way

they don't teach these things

to the Daughter of the Day

I'm useless it appears

with nothing else to do

and all day long to do it

can I trade places with you?

To our furry friend with love

2026-05-13T13:29:21.730-04:00

The fog comes we are told

in on little kitten toes

it stays for awhile then

we watch as it goes

we are sad today for one who

went from life on white fog feet

Our hearts hurt and grieve our

kitty boy so precious and sweet

We're also told, wrongly, that cats

take much and give nothing at all

our cat friend took so little and

gave so much for one so small

that was our Burnt Bagel boy

with coat a tiger shade of gray

so strokable soft and cozy

in his lovable, cuddly way

He was there when we needed

and he would never let us down

and sometimes he was naughty

he was such a funny clown.

We named him Burnt Bagel

because that's what he loved best

he lived a short but happy life

then too soon was laid to rest

Isn't sad how pets leave before

you realized they were gone

people do too, like Moses says

we remember and then move on.

But where shall we go when

we feel part of us also died?

although he was just an animal

our grief is so hard to hide.

and so many tears we cried

perhaps we'll weep some more

it's okay because death's forever

missing them, we may weep forever for.

some days we won't that's okay too

someday we're told all tears will dry

we'll meet them in the sweet by and by

but for now we're just going to cry

Thank you Burnt Bagel for being

mouse police, bagel thief and friend

furry warrior, property protector

We'll love you to the end.

Love always, Silas, Moses, Lola, Lucian, Ezra, Remus, Max, Cash, Mom, Dad, Opi and Omi

(AI couldn't seem to get you the right size Moses, so we made you one of your own.)

Chilkat nattering

2026-05-12T21:18:30.666-04:00

speaking then, of mountains

best to articulate

round Tlingit council fire

immemorial lore relate

up to the Klehini

where ebullient waters run

to meet up with Chilkat

for Ku.eex' in the sun

drove through Chilkoot pass

in my summer of '69

in International truck

I thought the world was mine

Matchbox pickup did a

skyscraper condiment hop

on mammoth dinner table

at the world's tippy top

crane neck, open eyes wide

look up past where earth ends

that's when you'll meet my

Alaskan mountain friends

breath-catching deities

cloud swaddled tips of pine

titan elders at feast

on stratosphere recline

it's all different here

we've stepped out of space

land so large it echoes

with the Tao of the place

Omi Pause

The Tao (pronounced Dow) is an ancient concept meaning "The Way." It is the natural rhythm of the universe—the force that moves the salmon upriver and keeps the mountain peaks steady. To find the Tao is to both natter and listen. To hear but also be heard, perhaps for the first time. And then to just be still and in that heard-ness, listen. It is the "Way" the mountains speak when we are finally small enough to hear them.

evergreen shrine sublime

whip-crack cold makes jaw ache

snow cone blue firmament

admires reflection in the lake

Dust who-speck speaks freely

with Lords of the wood

too small to see or hear

yet her say is understood

ponderous giants ponder

and bow with deep respect

lower their almighties

to me the little speck

Tlingit reverence for

all creatures great and small

as Horton heard each Who

from smallest to the tall

My friend Mrs. Moose sits

in forest fire Holy See

knows reincarnation grows

from just one burnt-out tree

Omi Pause: Holy See and Seeing

Holy See in Rome is the Seat of Peter. Here it's a cathedral of nature presided over by Mrs. Moose, the sacred witness—the one who "sees" the holiness in the fire and the rebirth of the woods.

Baby pink shells collected

named on whimsical whim

where tins-ical salmon

with the hooligan swim

as if posed for post cards

naughty black bears play

lonely abalone beach

Baby Whale in the bay

Last Post and Chorus sung

Eagle calls down the moon

rock cave dwelling bats wake

for it will be dark soon

in the land of Klukwan

we're on Chilkoot time now

nattering with great spirits

transcending all, somehow

content in our oneness

no alpha nor Omega end

contemplate much muchness

let tranquility descend

Omi as Dok-du-Yik speaks: I was adopted into the Tlingit nation at 6 and given the Chief's grandma's name "Dok-du-Yik" and I am probably spelling it wrong but forgive a spell by sound first-grade memory. Ku.éex’ in the Tlingit language (pronounced koo-eex) means "to invite." (Thanks AI for helping me get all that down, such help being unavailable in 1969 and the memory of it being 55 years old!) While often called a "potlatch" in English, this is the traditional name for the ceremonies that bind the community together through song, dance, and the distribution of gifts. I have attended two of these, one along the Klehini and the other in the blanket ceremony, which gave me my name and adopted status. The Ku.eex' was held in Haines at the elder house belonging to Mr. and Mrs. Austin Hammond, sometime in late 1969, at a guess. I think their home was on Lutak Street. It was big and white like a bunkhouse and held unutterably precious memories for me.

Down's just a button on a high-rise elevator

2026-05-08T02:18:53.097-04:00

I pour out my outré

in rain-colored refrain

my goth Gaia goddess

rules this house of insane

what's sanity anyhow?

is it something I can drink

if not then shove off you

this gal really needs to sink

down black as printer's ink

down where grim waters flow

down past my own hell

to Charon on the Ohio

and for that, I usually need a drink.

words are my ferryman

to the bleak place I go

and find no strangers there

only dear friends down below

cuz really who decreed

that up was so great

and bad was down under

supposed land of devil's hate?

I know, we're told that

heaven resides up there

and his Demonic Nibs

holds sway below stair

Down's just a button

on high-rise elevator

not north nor south on map

just place-name moniker

Down is a valley

Between mountain highs

Where rippling waters flow

Through minds high rise

I'll meet with the elders

Where Chilkat winds blow

River of remembrance

Down in the valley so low

like a dream I just had

So William Carlos Way

Plums in the icebox

And this is just to say.

I'll take you with me, Jesus

2026-05-08T01:24:54.725-04:00

neon bombazine

cetirizine dream

eau de Nil crimplene

Bailey's and Benzedrine

a night cocktail menu

I might just recommend

strolling my word cellar

and liked the sound of them

trying hard to keep out

postured sensibility

just wanna paddle here

in land of Honnalee

Seussically senseless

what larks, Pip, have we!

dragon fruit first mate

to take 'er out to sea

with sails psychedelic

mine eyes kaleidoscope

in Shambhala halls

Sister places her all hope

like bets at roulette wheel

who cares what they think

ride candy floss carousel

sip Pepto-Bismol drink

that's what they serve on

this train bound for glory

So I said a ship before

don't you contradict me

it's my fractal party

I'll cry if I want to

or go drowning laughing

it's up to me, not you.

bumps-a-daisy back up

may this ride never end

boat, train or cabriolet

no matter, I've time to spend

and all day long to ride

this bracelet says it's free

buckle up and hold tight

gonna get loud and bumpy

but damn if this poem

didn't turn to sensible verse

try as I might to not

it just keeps getting worse.

back to the ship, comrades

hoist freak flag of crimplene

man pink Spandex billows

shake cocktails Ketamine

Keeping rhyming weird

that's my mission and goal

if I liked the ganga

I'd call for another bowl

But I don't so I don't

and don't need no LSD

my crazy train keeps on

rolling down to Kankakee

in the land of the free

this land is yours and mine

I'll take you with me, Jesus

to the land of the pine

unseen clear as memory

can't stop this fine pine pain

touch of Michigan madness

tilt-a-whirling in my brain

They don't know shit about shiva

2026-05-08T01:01:25.042-04:00

here's me spiraling again

down the drain of memory

If only beloved ghosts

would just damn let me be

their molasses quicksand

grips my sanity so tight

pulls under with them to

that day of endless night

I know they don't mean to

they don't haunt me by choice

just hope that my riffing

helps me to hear their voice

Greeks I'm told do death

better and louder than we do

openly mourn and grieve

while I just sit and brew

and drink.

parroting dead platitudes

that people at funerals say

I want to yell "shine bright!"

at closing of Life's day

Squeezing tears like pee

I clutch my grief so tight

I wanna scream "rage, kick

fight against that good night!"

used up like a Kleenex

there's no way to explain

shocking tiny moments

mini mortars to the brain

his little flag lapel pin

small perfect things he did

in repose composed had me

wailing on his coffin lid

Get a grip they said as

I sat mind-shiva at our lake

all-knowing scolding me in

this farce they called a wake

they don't know shit about shiva

you gotta keen out your pain

rage, burn and yearn for folks

you will never see again

Selah.

Bombazine becomes Electra

2026-05-02T23:21:50.362-04:00

we interrupt this program

to answer macabre bell

far-off summoning of

gothic mourning knell

Got myself bitten now

it's opened up a vein

psychotic butterfly

crash-keening in my brain

of mourning and morning

and many hues of grey

doves in pearl morning suits

funereal iron dray

( don't even get me started on why it's "grey" as in "earl" and gray as in Eeyore. I don't know.)

death on little cat feet

or fog but either way,

it becomes Electra to go

round roulette wheel today

got up in bombazine

counts jet rosary beads

corseted in her hatred

a thneed's what she needs

place your bet, milady

as the croupier tells his tale

watch now will the die turn

a snake-eyes shade of pale?

tough luck you lose, you

drank fizzy lifting drink

cocktail called "bitterness"

one part gin, one printer's ink

chipped polish bitten nails

hands shaky from the booze

this is one creepy chick

who doth not like to lose

black lipstick stained tumbler

hurled down on the floor

You called for another yet

couldn't even find the door

well that's what you get

for dicing with the dead

the wound-too-tight neurotic

who's about to lose her head

the doom's come upon you

in your spiked Flavor-Aid

they slipped you a Mickey

just to watch your gray fade

(here comes another of my famous sexy kazoo key changes)

But wait, what's that I hear

an eleventh hour reprieve?

comes the midnight special

unless my ears deceive

Rise up sister and dance

puppeteer loosed your strings

Time to can-can like you can-can

shake loose grudge-holding wings

let the pigeon drive the bus

crack the mirror side to side

flip Rorschach psychedelic

Play the acid punk B-side

Here we go, gonna get loud now...

So before you ask, what the actual just happened, I'll tell you. I don't know. I was clacking along down my reluctant gothic poem trail, when all of a sudden, Mother of Tarquin! Cue the sound the cartoon makes when it backs up and starts over. It's like a Polish dzu sound. With the z, j plus sh sound. Like bezsh-oop, plus the double take doy-yoy-yoy-yoing. Do. Not. Judge.

That is what has happened to my poem. It has done a double take with about face. And as so often happens, the poor poet never saw it coming. Here was I just trying to write my psycho-delic verse, for once, without tying it up in any sensible ending. And speaking of accidents called art, I wanna do one of those urinal or paint drip works of art thingys that gets understood. When it's just a blasted bed pan!! And if like Man Ray or Jackson Pollock it makes millions, well, all in a day's work. Anyways.

(Evidently THAT's a word going by the spelling. I always thought it was just bad grammar.) So I wasn't even on board to go down the bloody goth route. I mean, look.. at..the.. picture AI made me. It's so Helen Mirren, Winchester--esque. ( I hate anything -esque.) And the "Rorschach" in the dew of the window. So dead common! Bangs head hard on desk, requests refill on the gin and ink. Even that sounds Seuss-esque!!

But did I quibble when the muse-whatever called, nooo, Not I!! Needs must, I soldiered on. And we turned left. Again!! It's that damned pigeon's fault.

Hello, it's me the clay

2026-05-02T21:12:46.516-04:00

Hello, it's me the clay

on the potter's wheel

waiting for the girl who

My form's fate will seal

mind turns endlessly

thoughts begin to reel

hands that shape my base

have a strangling feel

cold, wet, smooth and hard

grip me so very tight

forcing me to shapes where

I cannot see the light

squeezing me into what

I do not want to see

I don't even know just

what it is I want to be

maybe potter knows best

I should just let her mold

go along to get along

release from life my hold

cast myself upon the

whim of the almighty

let my self go down

the drain of infinity

(this is a rather melodramatic piece of clay!)

If I knew for sure

what for me she'd choose

would it make it easier

my autonomy to lose?

It would look rather odd

if clay began to shout

"take your hands off me

quit all this pushing about!"

How would I even start

to articulate my choice

what could I ever say

do I even have a voice?

well here she goes now

she is about to add glaze

I have fully emerged

seems I'm a flower vase

Guess it could be worse

my neighbor next door

his potter got upset and

smashed him on the floor (!)

I can live with a vase.

My lady of the lake

2026-04-28T01:34:24.938-04:00

well they say all good poems

begin with a stiff drink

I've had two so far so

slainte ma, I'm ready I think

I've written to them all

my baby grands have one

yet tremble I to air

firstborn's poem to the sun

why am I who blathers

on transient views

felled, like timber by a

wee girl in teddy shoes?

that's how I remember her

my universe true deity

with pompadour ponytail

"high and to the side, mommy"

it's not for her growing

that my heart does grieve

it's how she grew and flew

before I ever saw her leave

to ode-ify milady

blanc page in quill noir

even dreamings can't sound

all to me that you are

as a sojourner

Setting out upon quest

no foreseeable destination

just the road traveled less

I could tell of beepees

her softie nighttime friends

I wake keening when

my memory dream ends

you only hold your babes

when they're on your breast

you spend your life asking when's

the last time you laid them to rest

is it regret I'm feeling

that's a familiar pain

I've often penned on that

repeated sad refrain

for my little girl not lost

just lost to me it seems

Kahlil says I can't go to

her world even in dreams

I hear self-indulgence

as words drip from my pen

a railroad whistle stop I'd

rather not halt at again

but if I can't even sit

for a spell with my rain

even in my verses

Can I not try to explain?

Not trying to didact

ain't no preachers on this train

just a limberlost momma

trying to sort out her brain

I think recall hurts

and makes it hard to say

all the stupid things I did

in all my yesterday

things I know now but

I didn't see clear then

I wish I had it, my love

to do over again

I'll pony up and admit

I got so much wrong

even that sounds indulgent

I should play another song

so here's the B-side of

my melancholy memory

I'll make it all about you

instead of my misery

because I'm not (miserable)

I'm most delighted to see

the wonderful you are, honey

that kinda came through me

k, here's what I never got

but I surely do now see

I was but a footnote in

your amazeballs history

You'd never deprecate me

you'd always make me shine

that's my baby, mister

I'm hers and she's mine!

she deserves more, milady

you'll understand some day

my baby star-god deity

will always have her say.

selah.

Elysian fields forever

2026-04-28T00:33:42.656-04:00

here I go again making

it all about me and yet

there's a heuristic logic

that the young have yet to get

this one picks up where

my other poem left us

wrangling with specters of

my memory prospectus

and why I get buy in

on my kids grown and flown

they came from me dammit

they're all that I've known

they get it, I guess

I don't ask for more

probably better than most

still they close my door

I'm tempted to compare

my parents' shut tight

locking me in and out

alone in the cold light

that's a place I won't go

sadly never to rescue me

only to protect now folk

who'd never be able to see

the rub is ironic

can't show me now nor then

that damn chafing blister

hurts like it did back when

we who'd nothing then

still have nothing today

all our now are gone

up and went far away

time was I was all to them

they're still here technically

but it sure as hell feels like

they're sure as hell gone from me

it's about me, damn time

that's what this verse explores

it ain't about mine now growing

but mine then closing the doors

--sexy guitar riff--

Damn them. What do they know??

Why am I writing this poem?

Why each night do I keep

mending the "unbroken circle?"

(and we're back to the lament of the lonesome child and the outgrown parent)

it's about us because

it's all that we have left

what was ours is gone

we're inexplicably bereft

graveyard friendly ghosts

we see but are unseen

haunting living footsteps

eager to help, we keen

should I stay or should I go

is there a place for me

with my little loved ones

is where I want to be

yet I can't drag them back

to elysian fields we knew

they've flown to places

when past me they grew

mute ache of them going

for lose them you sure do

can't sugarcoat it, my dears

someday it will happen to you

the unbroken circle comes

round and round once more

wish I could, my darlings

close for you that door.

wish we could all stay

in my Elysian field mind

there's room for everyone here

and everyone is so kind

Transmogrified Friday Feasts

2026-04-17T21:50:00.001-04:00

Jesus on the mount

begot loaves and fishes

I'm blest to be fed

on pescatarian dishes

species so beloved

yellow perch and brook trout

once graced our tables

now all but fished out

floating fish factory

forced austerity

sad contradiction to

our "land of plenty"

more than mere food these

beasties provided we

round grandma's table

haute gastronomy

Friday night dinners

white box with string ties

from local fish joint

with coleslaw and fries

chatting as we ate

in her cozy kitchen

no TV interrupted

weighty discussion

such as what kings held

I said sepulcher

that's a grave, gram gravely said

he carries a scepter

(Grampa didn't weigh in because he probably didn't know himself.)

she was right of course

but wouldn't admit mistake

said I was 9 at 10!

now that took the cake!

Sometimes grampa grilled

rainbow trout outside

grama didn't want it

stinking up inside

Alaskan sockeye salmon

reigned with halibut

hooligan in it's own oil

don't knock till you try it

Louisiana catfish

fried in lemon butter

or as court bouillon

too yummy to utter

No matter what we ate

I always loved best

fish picnic suppers

like those the Lord blessed

sad to think our kids

seldom fish do see

what teemed the lakes

swam into history

So I pen a verse
of thanks to these beasts
for sharing themselves as
transmogrified feasts

Riffing in ombre on a blue Coltrane

2026-04-14T02:27:00.006-04:00

riffing in ombre

London foggy rain

strolling in Memphis

in the blue Coltrane

psychedelic raga

once wept from sitar

Carnaby street lad

now props up the bar

his Nehru jacket

in velvet brocade

for a proper pint

he'd now gladly trade

those were the days we

thought would never end

now hurdy gurdy man

can't even find a friend

fancy Afghan coat

once posh and natty

can't turn his collar

the fur's so ratty

so go striations

a bedrock timeline

in Jurassic coast

can you spare a dime?

it is not kismet

it's no fault of his

nor karmic justice

just is what it is

youth calls to aged

folks who crossed the bar

a dear old lady

who reached out a spar

my ancient mariner

by the name of Mary

her bar-crossed Russel

the old lady of the sea

riffing begets memory

as down deep I go

wind at my window

holy wendigo

I' ne'er cease ceasing

to call and call more

shall I bid the gods

enter through my door?

Disco requiem at the rink

2026-04-14T02:08:00.006-04:00

riffing in ombre

liquor layered drink

drain rainbow cocktails

round the roller rink

long before deejays

played your favorite song

a man on the dais

piped us all along

playing grand march on

Wurlitzer organ

gaily funereal

round we go again

mirror globe twinkles

gypsy crystal ball

many tinsel diamonds

reveals us to us all

did it show me sad?

when my dad said no

only up the block

but I couldn't go

there was a time when

nothing stopped we two

back before they came

and he'd other things to do

(hmm conspiracy theory there. Stepmother needed me there to babysit.)

he'd bought me white skates

with pom-poms of pink

but I wasn't keen to

wear them at the rink

time for pom-poms past

while he bypast me

I had moved on too

I'd other life to see

skating rink changed too

no more organ dances

now the records spun

on to other chances

or to letdowns when

the one I loved so

after saying he'd come

he didn't even show

(hmm sounds like SOMEBODY's DAD! oy vey, men. I ask you...)

so oddly it seems

I see so clearly

me in the mirror

that boy I don't see

don't know who he was

yet I do not blame

this two-faced lothario

whatever was his name

got no time for grudges

on this memory train

does he recall me

my half recalled swain?

what I see are colors

FD&C Red No. 4

kidney killing yellow

candy floss blue floor

Fanta red pop and Hi-C

tried some recently

nearly gagged myself

just for posterity

tawdry and garish

artificially bright

the best place to be

on Saturday night

ubiquitous shag

carpet lines the walls

fluorescent remnant

to buffer the falls

booby-trap bathroom

with sink hole floor drain

mind how you go now

or you'll fall again

skater hangover

not from too much drink

Sunday morning bruises

from punchup with the rink

hadn't thought for decades

of all my rink rash

those damned waxed floors and

falling on my ass--hhh

signature scented

mildew, carpet and sweat

stale popcorn machine

I can call it up yet

garish colored walls

all go rushing past

so merry were we

how quickly they passed

hollows echoing

lilting organ call

we'll never hear again

plays to no one at all

rinks evaporated

no more disco requiem

now bougie sweet shop

still I see and hear 'em

dad and stepmom sleep

many moons in the ground

so quietly gone that

I barely hear their sound

saw by Facebook photo

that boy has just died

like Kinks at the Pally

for youth's death I cried

Let us keen a dirge

calliope symphony

the circus death march

sung in perpetuity

Tlingit Memory: the many-eyed shawl

2026-04-08T22:38:00.001-04:00

gathered by a river

Chilkat or Klukshu

was so long ago

just recall the view

coming from Klukwan

in a Volkswagen bug

wheezing through passes

with a cranky chug

mountain skyscrapers

eagles and caribou

air so pure it hurt

skies bombastic blue

Tlingit river mother

splitting out her seams

fattened on spring thaw

where the sockeye teams

cascades carousing

whipped to violet foam

dancing through mountains

where the grizzlies roam

assembled were we

I've vague memory

of native celebration

blanketing ceremony

chosen and adopted

by Chilkat Tlingit

draped like a queen in

our native blanket

I had a picture

of smiling little me

with missing front teeth

snuggled cozily

enveloped within

a many-eyed shawl

formline spirit beasts

mute but seeing all

adopted name given

from Chief's grandmother

titled Dok-du-Yik

to me and no other

(I know that I have spelled the name wrong. Perhaps said it wrong too. Apologies. It's how young me heard it. And I've never found another).

I didn't understand

yet knew was serious

wearing her name robe

ancient and mysterious

such a large mantle

for one so small to wear

big responsibility

for a child to bear

I've long treasured

my Tlingit memory

but given few thoughts

for this much loved lady

Hope I'm good enough

to carry honor's weight

she deserves a worthy

namesake and soulmate

Girl with toes of poolside blue

2026-04-05T15:59:00.005-04:00

lovely little lady

our sweet Emma Grace

with endearing charms

and cookie on her face

many grand ideas

too large for likes of we

only outpaced by

invincibility

pizzazz by the pound

with mouthful of sass

ambition by the peck

and yacht-load of class

motto of our girl

with smile open wide

was can't never did

anything till she tried

simpler to say sorry

than ask mom or dad

was personal creed

our adventuress had

nicknamed Po after

Red Teletubby

percolating fun

and some frights gave she

left for minutes at 4

created famous 9-egg cake

recipe requested when

to potluck we did take

Some Po adventures

ended less fragrantly

nearly gave Anthrax to

friend invited for tea

via her deceased

pet bunny in repose

exhumed decomposing

to show to Anna Rose

(Hers and Anna Rose's mum had their rest interrupted as well, by stench!)

Her misdeeds now live

in family infamy

alongside siblings with

their own quirky story

mini merry soul with

toes of poolside blue

painted by her dad

who'd better things to do

round pinky finger

she'd him wrapped so

what's more important

than painting nails of Po?

(change the oil, paint upstairs, replace roof shingles...)

blest was I to hold

for sugar cubes of time

a funny wee sprite

who briefly was mine

glad for memories

so quickly she grew

into firmament

our baby bird flew

A word when dealing

with such a busy maid

snuggle but don't cling

and hide your garden spade.

Night Shift Change in the Glen

2026-04-04T15:42:00.001-04:00

Ma Hen snuggles chicks for rest

Mother Bat wakes hers to play

As workers at evening shift change

Each begins and ends their day

Father Snake glides home

on his silky self-made train

in crumpled suit and tie

caught in the rush hour rain

Stare-eyed feather alarm clock

Ms Owl hoots the night awake

Little fox sleepily stretches in

his flat above neighbor snake

a gal who's both driver and bus

is multitasking Mrs. Opossum

with eight little joeys in tow

now that's one very busy mum!

Brother bear nods "g'night, ma'am"

heading home with dozy stumble

munching bedtime snack of berries

gives him such a silly mumble

let's not forget Raccoon with

his handsome bandit mask

washing lunch in the river

is this critter's endless task

Milady skunk emerges for

the woodland cocktail hour

wrapped in her finest furs

like a queen in her bower

the deer family creeps out

to feast at our bird feeder

satiated on the nuts and seeds

retreats to forest of cedar

in the room in the house

overlooking the forest glen

a freshly bathed and PJ's lad

beds down in his own den

his rest arrested by many

inquiries large and small

about animals he sees and hears

much wondering about them all

"where do fish sleep and when?"

asks the nodding boy of dad

to prolong the nightly ritual

as pop tucks in his weary lad

"We'll speak on the morrow

of your perplexities, my son"

yawns the nearly sleeping father

"but for tonight, your papa's done!"

And satisfied with promises

he knows his daddy will keep

like the woodland creatures

the boy snuggles down to sleep

Amen and good night to all

For my grandson Moses who asks and answers many, many, many, many questions. And to his mother, Mrs. Opossum.

A Lenten Story of the Honest Little Boy

2026-04-03T16:34:00.002-04:00

Hello readers! A blessed Good Friday, April 3, 2026 to you all. My how the minutes sometimes crawl while the years fly by. Here's a piece I wrote a decade ago (!) about an experience with our oldest son. And while the decade in between hasn't been idle, and we now have 13 grandchildren, I do probably need to sit with the fact that 10 years is a long time. It's not that I'm disappointed by my family, not in the slightest, they are my everything. I'm disappointed that I seem to have done so little if import. Every Christmas when I hear the John Lennon song "so what have you done?" I think "not a damn thing, and thanks for the cattle prod to the conscience, John!" But anyway. This isn't about me or my maudlin regrets. It's a tribute to a small but gestalt act of kindness by my little son. Here's what I wrote.

It's the Lenten season, 2016 and with all but one child moved out (and the last one a busy senior) I'm feeling a little reminiscent. After homeschooling our children for years, it seems odd not to be wrapped up Lenten activities the children. Here's a story to warm you, on Lenten virtues about my honest little boy. It's true.

My husband and I have always lived frugally, by necessity and by choice. We raised four children in a 20-year-old mobile home, on a single income, with one 15-year-old shared car. We practiced minimalism long before there was a word for it or it was cool. So it would have been easy for our children who often did without the luxuries others enjoyed, to grow up selfish, greedy and demanding. They heard the words "we can't afford it" all the time.

But they are unselfish and generous. In fact, they practiced Lenten generosity to a fault. Here's a Lenten vignette to illustrate just how unselfish and kind my children are. The protagonist is Albert (affectionately named "Albie" the oldest son). He is now almost 26 and was eight when this occurred. What Albert did wasn't particularly heroic. He didn't save anyone's life or perform a superhuman feat of courage. But what he did is perhaps one of the hardest things for little boy--he was honest at his own expense.

While at the beach one hot summer day, Grandma and I were cleaning up from the picnic. The children were helping/milling around to give the 15 minute digesting period before heading back into the water. Albie ran up with something in his hand and said "Here Mom, I found this." He casually tossed it on the picnic table and ran off to play. It was a lost wallet.

Grampa inspected the contents and declared that it only had a few singles in it." Grandma, being made of good Hollander stock, made a more thorough inspection while I nursed the baby. Well, the little boy had found not a "few singles" but $226 in ones, fives and a few tens. The lost wallet was empty of everything but the cash. No identification, papers, nothing.

I called Albie over to tell him what he had found and so began the family debate over what to do with the loot. His sister and Grandpa were for Albie keeping it. Grandma was for turning it in to the lifeguards (this idea roundly scoffed at by Grampa who declared that they would just pocket it).

Mom (me), the mystery reader, had decided that the lost wallet was really planted by DEA agents and full of drug money (don't judge, it could have been!). Our hero, honest Albie, had his own ideas. "I'm going to ask Daddy. He'll know what to do." (I get tears in my eyes every time I remember that trusting voice.) (2026 fast forward, yep, still do).

I said that since Albie had found the money, he could decide what to do with it. Dad, who as at work for the evening, was duly asked when he got home. That wise owl suggested that he and Alb take it to the police department, which they did. The officers in charge were completely delighted with my little boy. They said he was a "great guy" for being so honest and that not many children would turn in $226. (Dad regaled me with stories of how they'd just fawned over him, like in one of those old cop shows from the 40s).

Albie was issued a claim ticket for the lost wallet and told that in 60 days if no one claimed it, the lost wallet and money were his. Just as the 60 days were nearly up (and sister and little brother busy planning how to spend their sibling's hack) a letter came for Albie in the mail. It was from another boy, the owner of the wallet. He was 10, slightly older had been vacationing in our area and lost his wallet.

He said that it had all his saved up money his paper route, raking leaves and odd jobs. He said his parents said not to bring it all but he did. Because that's what kids do. (Been there, raising my hand, lost that money). The boy said he never expected to see it again and was so grateful that Alb was honest. Albie received a $50 reward. I think Albie has pretty much forgotten that random act of kindness over the years. But I have not. I don't think God has either.

My Giving Big little Boy

2026-04-03T16:13:00.002-04:00

I wrote this piece in, I think, 2015, about our first son and I thought it would be appropriate to share for Good Friday. All of our kids, not just the lad in question, are incredibly giving people. And have birthed a baker's dozen more good little humans. Since that writing, he married the girlfriend featured and they have provided us with two wonderful grandkids. I wrote this for a site called Bubblws which seems a lifetime and planetary system away. Anyway, here goes.

I just called Number One Son (chronological, no favoritism). I had to nag him to confirm if he'll be flying with us to New Orleans to see his sister. He keeps saying he's 99.9 percent sure he can get time off. I said, "Son, 99.9 percent only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, not with mothers booking flights."

But I digress. I also wanted to know when he would be arriving for Thanksgiving and if he would be bringing his girlfriend. And he broke the news. He's not coming. He's driving to New York to serve Thanksgiving dinner at a homeless shelter/substance abuse center in the South Bronx.

Naturally, we were pleased and proud. And showed it by yelling at him for not coming home (we're possessive to the point of mania with our kids). And by lecturing him on bed bugs, scabies, body lice and the avoidance of such. When backpacking in NorCal he ignored the advice of his helpful nudist female guide (yeah, there's a story there), didn't use the Technu wipes, got poison oak.

And seriously, the Bronx? He lives in Detroit smack dab on John R and East Edsel Ford! Could you not find a shelter there to assist at, so you'd have time to zip home to visit? No, you have to go haring off across the country, worry us sick, abandon us, we harangued. Dad pouted-- "Alb doesn't love us. He just wants adventure." To which Alb readily agreed he did. But he wants to give back, not just take this holiday (which of course we understood but were too sulky to admit).

The mission is St. Anthony's Shelter for Renewal (410 E. 156th). Bronx readers, if you see a handsome green-eyed, redhead with a smile like the morning sun, looking lost, that's him and he probably is (lost). Just direct him to 156th and tell him his mama says be safe and she misses him. And if you had time, could you just follow to make sure he makes it? He's cute but a little air-headed. Thanks.

Dune spells, Cinnamon toasted

2026-04-01T14:32:00.002-04:00

cinnamon toasted

cherry jam and ghee

memory's comfort food

reminisce-story

coffee perfumed homes

warm me to my core

Uncle Bloke and Aunt Ann

with always open door

grama's dining room

only for company

I was not a guest

I was family

'round kitchen table

solved life's mysteries

ate like a king or

better than majesties

at her plenty-scented

refectory dine we

on mushroom pork chops

with onion gravy

je ne sais quoi whiff

with notes of Big Lake

so profoundly real

little self doth ache

pine spice and hemlock

water with sand sun-bake

takes me right back to

their home on the lake

Sunday was for walks

in woodland with gramp

limber lost we two

in our lake dune tramp

benevolent flavors

from my evergreen queen

peanut butter kisses

berries wintergreen

found in a dune trough

mystical mist fog

signature oak scents

of bicycle shaped log

tramping back home with

many a dune tale

grama on the porch

the dog wags his tail

braunschweiger toast and

sweet gherkins for tea

coffee for elders

a glass of milk for me

old memories clearer

than yesterday I see

those two dear people

always wait for me

In the Bleak Midsummer

2026-03-31T22:57:00.001-04:00

in the bleak midsummer

winter still resides

cold descends my soul

fever chills insides

irony of iron grey

within solar rays

shivering summer

dirty darkened days

sunrise sickens me

sun golden light drains

to dishwater blonde

muddied by the rains

I ran to the dunes

perchance to find Zen

but my lake turned away

I am cold again

frigid similes

frozen to the bone

funerary tomb

in lichen color stone

time scrubbed the name

who in tomb does dwell

has all memory

been erased as well?

my heart aches for her

it seems such a loss

All that's still living

is grave-crusted moss

I don't part well with

those beloved and passed

eternal rest prayed yet

my heart holds them fast

is that why my lake

calls then denies me

Am I refusing them

peaceful eternity?

I don't mean to keep

them bound up to me

How to release them

is a mystery

we're told to let go

I think that's fallacy

how can I release

those with hold on me?

p'raps it goes deeper

this cold in my bone

to dank memory

of all my alone

pain like hand smashed

by door slammed on me

peering in a home

with no vacancy

Theirs the backs turned

by family within

windows shuttered tight

so I couldn't see in

now I see her smile

lake's arms open wide

but that doesn't melt my

permafrost inside

is it black all over?

does dark dwell in me?

does this tunnel end?

is there light to see?

I like grey wet days

I do not mind mist

But I'd like to feel

my face by sun-kissed

bleak is for winter

black for a short day

I want the lemon

yellow sun today

this poem isn't resolved

fresh out of great amen

not sure where it's going

it's just at the end

The guillotine kneeler-- a painfully humorous narrative

2026-03-30T18:54:00.008-04:00

This is my noir humorous narrative about my husband and the guillotine kneeler at church. Updated today, to reflect issues heretofore forgotten.

Note on kneelers: Those of you who are Catholic will know exactly what I mean, having probably had your shins injured on those garage-door heavy fold down kneeling benches on the backs of pews. There are more humane medieval torture implements! And if the lowerer isn't careful (like the main character of this story) they come down with the force of a canal lock gate. You uninitiated should consider yourselves lucky. And wear hockey-grade leg guards and steel-toed boots if you visit.

So a quick run down on how pew traffic is supposed to work. Individual or Group A enters pew, the kneeler is lowered for pre-mass prayers. The ideal plan of attack is that on a designated leader's count the group en masse lowers the kneeler after first doing a perimeter check for any feet blocking its descent. This should be accomplished by signals, whispered consultations and consensus. Should be. But often isn't.

If/when group/individual B, C, D, etc. enters pew, group A (B, C) sits back, raises kneeler and allows them to pass. Then, kneelers come down, and back to obeisances. Why you may wonder, don't ya'll wait till everyone is seated to do your prayers? That's far too sensible, why would you even ask such a thing??

Additionally, you may wonder, why doesn't everyone just move over? Which also makes prefect sense unless you understand another weird thing about Catholics. We guard the outer seats as if they were the Hope Diamond. I have seen people literally hug the upright pew end, while skewing their legs over to one side to make room, in this bizarre snake-like slither. As if it is a pier and they are afraid they will be swept away.

Sometimes, in clinging for dear life to the pew end, they forget to coordinate their leg action. One leg slides while the other remains fixed ending up legs lasciviously splayed wide as if in salacious invitation. The result can be pretty alarming to contemplate. I'll just let that mental image stew in your brain.

Then juxtapose being essentially propositioned at church, with the open challenge glare, that just dares you to ask the pew Klingon to scootch over. Trips to the confessional have been required after encounters such as these. And don't even get me started on confessional queue violations. I have had to confess confession line related sins!

And then there's the awkwardness of praying as it were, down the neck of the person seated in front of you, who has either A) gotten there earlier and said his prayers or B) (tsk tsk) doesn't say his prayers. I realized as I was counting his freckles and judging that he really needed to shave his ears, that this is far too close proximity for two strangers to be. And that I was not comfortable being near enough bite him if I wished. I didn't, just saying. And yes, shame on me being distracted on Easter. But c'mon admit, you've felt the cringe too.

So you finally get everyone in their seats, prayers said, and mass begins. But the struggle is not over. Not by a long chalk. Because one thing to remember, these kneelers are not just used before mass. Oh no, that's another thing that would be too simple and too safe. There are several times throughout the service in which those limb-smashers descend on unwary legs. And this is where the blood sports begin. Because there are like four kneelers to a pew and there's not just one Gruppenführer to contend with but several.

And after last Palm Sunday, I have decided that my husband will not be that Gruppenführer. To start, he's not as careful as our feet and shins could wish. It's more like he pulls out into traffic and THEN look for cars. And hubby dearest was in rare form last Sunday. So mass was all discombobulated anyway, beginning with a procession outside, carrying our palms into the church. Which necessitated the raising and lowering of the kneeler as people were finding their seats again after the procession dispersal.

Because did my husband wait until all were seated to start praying? No he did not. I think it's a personal challenge for him to see how many times he (we) can raise and lower the kneeler. I burned 200 calories before mass alone.

Then enter a guy who was clearly as ADHD as my husband. First, he sat on my palm so I could not use it for the blessing. I had to share my husband's and instead of just letting me hold it too, hubs painstakingly separated it in half, slicing his finger in the process. And we haven't even gotten to the entrance antiphon.

Then, neither pew-mate nor husband were paying attention at that ubiquitous kneeler lowering. Husband just guillotined it down with a whoosh-chop-thunk and I (the only one paying attention) had to kind of surreptitiously kick/push the man's foot out of the way to prevent crushing. This happened five times. The third with MY foot getting clobbered.

Mass finally ended and my neighbor escaped unscathed no thanks to himself or my husband. But it wasn't over. I was temporarily put off guard by a friend's greeting and husband came in with a blindside bench descent at the Eternal Rest prayers. I don't know what the poor clueless bloke (or any of us!) had done to merit tarsal amputation. Somehow our would-be hatchet man missed again but he definitely had an axe to grind and feet would roll.

And most ironic of all, was husband's beatific face in prayer after nearly dismembering us multiple times.

Pompeiian reverb

2026-03-29T16:23:22.784-04:00

Pompeiian reverb

Form with no Function

Void reclining in

sleepless dormition

uncomfortably cramped

attitude of repose

I don't envy the model

this miserable pose

inverted geode doll

crystals inside out

vacancy within

leaving all in doubt

where is the lady

in the gown of blue?

gone or just popped

out to use the loo?

who could blame the gal

who left her shell behind

lit out to find an

open state of mind?

cold bespoke casket

Rigid cloying mold

corseted to keep

cellulite on hold

escaped confines of

Spanxed conformity

now wears old blue jeans

when she goes out to tea?

perfection's a bitch

reach exceeds our grasp

Venus de Milo curves

bite us in the asp

beauty's sepulcher

Snow White in her tomb

fair sex pilloried since

we were in the womb

pardon my cliches but

they're very real to me

man-made cages, jails, cells

dank familiarity

expiring before

we even begin

buried alive in

purpose built coffin

death eating father

brought the doom on me

honeyed hemlock of

morbid litany

why the hell so smitten

with dames who are dead?

Pre-Raphaelite OCD

I'll bet she's a redhead

This maiden who left

empty dress echoing

glass still resonates

long after her going

I rejoice to see

that this bird has flown

hollow lies the dress

of bondage glass blown

dragged herself out

of bedragoned moat

our Lady of Shallot

good you ditched the boat

we'll hold space till you

Find functionality

And if you don't well

keep on going, baby!

Don't need ruby slippers

nor tight frocks of glass

to bust see-thru roofs

you wrote your own pass

Oz only gave Dorothy

what she already owned

Emerald city exit

a balloon ride home

Cinderella didn't

need shoes to break chains

didn't even need a Prince

just her head full of brains

I'll take a leaf from

departed sisters' book

to find my true north

in the mirror look.

Here's to our gone girls

Egalite! Sorority!

let's grab the brass rings,

ring that bell of liberty!

This ekphrastic poem is based on Nocturne Reclining 3, by Karen LaMonte, shown above and on view at the Muskegon Museum of Art. Please visit and support local art museums!

Tarmac Where My Wintergreen Berries Lived

2026-03-25T23:14:00.011-04:00

I went back to the woods where I played

with grampa in the dunes near the lake

My mother goddess Lake Michigan

or the big lake gitchegumme to locals

this land was made for you and me

Houses sit and tarmac covers

where my wintergreen berries lived

drywall shacks that grew not from seed but

chewed up, used up, spat out natural resources

post-industrial waste of too much muchness

too many structures holding too few people

flimsy construction from destruction of

the Great Spirit Gluskabe's stately dunes

irreplicable, irreplaceable, unshakable

until the diesel breathing monster machines came

gorging themselves on magnetite, hematite and quartz

of prehistory older-than-ice-age sands

more non-renewable comrades fallen

Avē Imperātor, moritūrī tē salūtant

Extinct is forever and gone is for good

it made sense of a sort when there were jobs,

railroad, factories, newspapers, telephones

neighbors and communities. America WAS Great

now it's just glutinous and grasping

We build boxes to house bric-a-brac and junk

we buy too much of and don't need and

can't pay for and go bankrupt to have

and don't use and throw in landfills

already the size of small cities

useless crap to feed corporate and consumer greed

for things they will only destroy in a very short time

Woodsy used to say "give a hoot, don't pollute"

And we held hands and sang

if that poor owl could but see us now

ironic yard signs reading "no over development"

in over developed sub divisions with landscaped

marram grass where it once grew wild

ripped out to replant in its native habitat

Why?

signs preaching "keep off the dunes"

in the yards built on trashed dunes

and "dune preserve" preserved where?!

an asphalted over melted glacier Lake?

a concreted old growth back dune forest

of pine, fir, Eastern hemlock, spruce, trillium

lady slippers, wintergreen, protective mosses

oak, juniper, trilobite, petrified wood, fossils

ground to wood chips to decorate lawns

that smothered animal habitats that grew

where leaves and needles once blanketed

nothing remains except spent, sparse

scraps of tree cremains left where they are

till their spot is needed to build

some family an even bigger house

And the Lorax laments on...

they aren't going to use it because

the divorce will be final before

she moves in, alone with her cat

kitchen larger than diners of childhood

sharing a cup they call loneliness

homes as large as tenement halls

contrast the shotgun singles of my youth

with a family of seven crammed

to the gills under one roof, comfortably

homes that house families of families

two bedroom homes, not houses

where people ate dinner at 5:30

around a Formica table in the kitchen

somehow they all miraculously fit

chewing their knees with their rolls

now the huge kitchens are decorated

with cookbooks and spices no one uses

and mass produced signs telling us to "Gather"

in empty rooms with no one to comply

Seeger, Baez, Dylan, Peter, Paul and Mary warned us

There's an enormous dining room with

table big enough to seat the Love Boat crew

it's covered with packed boxes

Each eats DoorDash in his room with 64" TV

Strangely Estranged, strangers called family

all that's in the commercial grade fridge

which could hold food for a battalion

is vodka, half a lime and a takeaway

her Prozac prescription and a tin for the cat

paradise was razed for that

working to pay off overpriced boxes

they were never satisfied with anyway

and soon they will move out and the

house will become another industrial sediment layer

crumbling my beloved dunes out from under

and they will gut someone else's childhood

to build their empty little boxes on

the hillside made of ticky-tacky

to house their knicky-knacky crap-y

and they all look just the same.

I want my berries back.