Leaves of Brown

To think of it as anything more…would be absurd.

Justified gifts bestowed upon the earth.

Pungent, musky, society, woven into the fabric of our lives.

Tantalizing temples of shades and hues.

A touch of the silky skin.

Wintered petals.

Disgraced leaves.

Simple mid-season delicacies…Nothing more… than it needs to be.

Alone by Maya Angelou

Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don’t believe I’m wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

There are some millionaires
With money they can’t use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They’ve got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Now if you listen closely
I’ll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
‘Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Nothing More to Miss

There are moments I cannot touch…out of fear from being.

Dark, gloved hands, reaching out in leather and lace, pulling me from the sanguine times.

Floors that drop without provocation.

Shifting forest that call loud and severe.

And, yet I find, there is no voice.

Puppets and clowns amassed in bad intent.

This are the times that love and loss have lent.

I miss you when there is nothing more to miss.

I fall in love with you, each illness, each sorrow, again and again.

In the seconds that backtrack from past to present and present to future.

You are what love to be.

You are my friend.

Someone’s Someone

You were someone’s-someone, once.
Such as, those many wanting more than just enough.
A young wife given to the vow of love.
Had you not been tangled up in someone else’s blues?
Would I have known you,
the way in which I have imagined you?

Never Straight

I understand my darkness may never go away.

I carry it as a shadow…everyday.

Little is the fluctuation between the fair hair and the red skin.

Yet, there is no difference between the thin.

The thin line between love and hate.

My road is forever rocky…never straight.

My Tomorrow Place

Perhaps, I should count myself lucky to have a tenure riddled with…

‘the wisdom to know the difference.’
My battles were mine to own.
In each and every instance.
I removed my tomorrow place.
And, the everyday…of its own importance.

There were fewer paths to strife…
But still, the walks, holding its hands, are still nearby.
Dear prudence has taught…not all journeys are fair.

The gift of pain is benign.
In these massive woods of recovery,
It is a simple route to getting lost.
A struggle and stumble each day to embellish with forgetfulness.
So often times, an err to my judgment.

No matter, I must still go my own way…If only for today

Lone White Horse

I rap my knuckles upon a closed door.

I hear a voice that seems like broken glass upon barefoot.

I drive pass a white horse with no rider.

I ask…

‘Does it ever end?’ my one and long time friend.

She speaks in a whisper…

‘I am beginning to wonder that myself.’

Skin raw and filled with excess debris.

Fingers bent and calloused.

As one, I ask, ‘do you see me?’

So this is where we lay.

Open to the chaos of black new days.

I could grow older but then maybe not.

I asked, my long time friend…

‘does this ever end?’

Had I Known

Had I known this would have been our last embrace.
Would I have given more than I take.
I summon up that specter steeple.
As well as, that rare smile that graced your face.
Even now,
I ask the hereafter, with quiet reservation,
who does not falter?

Ominous choices of two forks in the road.
‘No, you did all you could.
How were you to know.
She always likened herself to beauty being bold.’

Those were the days of romantic sobriety.
Young love in tarnished hands.
A reckoning of waters,
so still they moved.
I moved.
You moved.

I am perpetually swayed back to that secular summer place…
with the worshipers in the sun’s face.
The only thing I knew to do was offer a way to leave.
Proposing a week’s reprieve.

Seven days.
It moved me.
It moved you.
And,
at the time,

that was the best that we could do.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline 1-800-273-TALK (8255)

A New Favorite! Lebanon!

Oh, Lebanon, life is brief
Don’t sit alone in your constant fear
Open up, I shan’t be like Canada
Oh, Lebanon
Oh, Lebanon, life is brief
Don’t sit alone
In your constant fear

Lebanon…J.S. Ondara

Aching Limbs

Clover still grows during this…the first hard frost.

I have always envied this walk…to clear the air.

Drudgery and all its beauty strewn about in wild fanfare.

The perpetual futility of earth’s aching limbs.

A healthy canvas for the unknowing eye, is all one will see.

Progress and perfection…languishing in antiquity.

Criminal Heart

There are these moments where I cease to exist.

Moments I dare not wish away.

Such like, a slight vulnerability we dare not display.

Though a lover may profess their love on any given day.

My crimes of the heart…

Dark and blistery.

And, lonely the roads I have chosen.

Chosen to stay within the refrain of the sane.

Triumphantly, no matter the luster…

Rear-view glances to all hereafters.

Are mine to define.

No fault moments…

Placed in the attic of my mind.

Deliver Unto the Forest

I do not know where to go to stay strong.

I understood where I always needed to believe.

To the ravished forest, brutal and gentle, dark and light.

Can I ever release this flight?

Quail twinkling upon slightly frozen blades of grass.

Milk weed disposing of fluff, hard and fast.

I do not know where to go to stay steady.

I understood, however, the dug earth, the rampant maple leaf, the need to see and see…

Would deliver me.

Thank You, Jane

Fighting for social justice maybe more important than ever. With children at our borders…in crisis. With Veterans roaming the streets (homeless) of the land they fought to protect. With something as simple as, healthcare for all…a silly debate…

With all this, and socialism shouted from the rooftops of aging, life time politicians, where do we turn?

So many quotes on history and how it repeats. How the United States does not learn from her mistakes. Hatred in every corner of every town…red or blue. Again, it is important to look back to see where we need to grow.

It is well to remind ourselves, from time to time, that “Ethics” is but another word for “righteousness,” that for which many men and women of every generation have hungered and thirsted, and without which life becomes meaningless. Jane Addams

So a little history is what I present!

Addams developed three “ethical principles” for social settlements: “to teach by example, to practice cooperation, and to practice social democracy, that is, egalitarian, or democratic, social relations across class lines.”[46] Thus Hull House offered a comprehensive program of civic, cultural, recreational, and educational activities and attracted admiring visitors from all over the world, including William Lyon Mackenzie King, a graduate student from Harvard University who later became prime minister of Canada. In the 1890s Julia Lathrop, Florence Kelley, and other residents of the house made it a world center of social reform activity. Hull House used the latest methodology (pioneering in statistical mapping) to study overcrowding, truancy, typhoid fever, cocaine, children’s reading, newsboys, infant mortality, and midwifery. Starting with efforts to improve the immediate neighborhood, the Hull House group became involved in city- and statewide campaigns for better housing, improvements in public welfare, stricter child-labor laws, and protection of working women. Addams brought in prominent visitors from around the world, and had close links with leading Chicago intellectuals and philanthropists. In 1912, she helped start the new Progressive Party and supported the presidential campaign of Theodore Roosevelt.

Jane spoke, fought for social injustice. She started with conversations on poverty. And, discussed the bias’d idea that the poor simply did not work hard enough (as many were led to believe.) The poor and down trodden were also victims of the state. The state in which they live; genetics, environment, illness, threat.

Why do we view social reform with such disdain? Why is it such a far fetched idea that…all citizens should be treated equally?

I listened to the (below) listed podcast with baited breath. Wondering why had I not known more about Jane Addams and/or her ‘Boston marriage’ to Mary Rozet Smith?

**The fact of relatively formalized romantic friendships or life partnerships between women predates the term Boston marriage and there is a long record of it in England and other European countries.[1] The term Boston marriage became associated with Henry James‘s The Bostonians (1886), a novel involving a long-term co-habiting relationship between two unmarried women, “new women,” although James himself never used the term. James’ sister Alice lived in such a relationship with Katherine Loring and was among his sources for the novel.[2]

There are many examples of women in “Boston marriage” relationships. In the late 1700s, for example, Anglo-Irish upper-class women Eleanor Butler and Sarah Ponsonby were identified as a couple and nicknamed the Ladies of Llangollen. Elizabeth Mavor suggests that the institution of romantic friendships between women reached a zenith in eighteenth-century England.[1] In the U.S., a prominent example is that of novelist Sarah Orne Jewett and her companion Annie Adams Fields, widow of the editor of The Atlantic Monthly, during the late 1800s.[3]

Why, why, why is not in the best interest of society (centuries ago and/or today) to treat those we live with, eat with, walk amongst, with dignity and respect?

A Truthful North

Winter is clattering at the back door.

Long worrisome hours of night falling on the skin.

Yet,

hold still.

Love is not lost.

Up on geriatric pallets.

Made of used nails and scraps of tin.

The world we know,

inhabited with dark necessities.

A truthful love.

A truthful north.

Knows no pity.

to Hang with a Dog

by-design-3

Nothing but fictional logos.

A place to put things…

when there is nothing but comfort between you and me.

Storage sheds made of un-evolved wood.

Denizens that have come and gone.

Potted, elemental, melting pots…wary of humans on the sly.

Mixed with pedigree

and,

breeds of shelter goods.

All in tow…lulled to the question, why.

mistress-1

As I watch,

my venerable hound,

purposely toil her way up the passage,

decidedly being syrup slow.

The thoroughfare is muted.

Not a cloud dresses the sky.

Not a gesture of intolerance crosses her mind.

the Way of the Cow

Daydreaming is…the effervescent development of true desires.

“There are certain half-dreaming moods of mind in which we naturally steal away from noise and glare, and seek some quiet haunt where we may indulge our reveries and build our air castles undisturbed.”

– Washington Irving

Looking Back: LGBTQ

“Beware of false knowledge; it is more dangerous than ignorance.” – George Bernard Shaw.

I know that look…I have and had seen it many times before. When I returned home from receiving that “Look” my partner knew of which I spoke. She had seen that ‘Look’ before too!

Let me describe for you the ‘Look’ and perhaps, some of you will know what I’m talking about, as well.

Description of the ‘Look’

The facial expression is never any different whether it is on a woman or a man! It is a scowl coupled with a hatred born from ages of tyranny. The disdain and repulsiveness is not from the scowl but from the eyes! Again, it is never any different whether it is from a man or a woman. The eyes, be them blue, green, hazel or brown, become black slits. Almost invisible to those of us without twenty twenty vision. Yet, none of ‘Us’ really need to look these people in the eye because we can sense the ‘Presence’.

The ‘Presence’ is remarkable in that it only carries one tone; vanity mixed with ignorance lacking charity.

What happens when you turn your back on the ‘Look’ that denotes a ‘Presence’ of popular majority? I can only describe the ‘Feeling’ which is aroused!

The ‘Feeling’ retreats way back into the archives of my younger years. A sense of sadness. A notion of not being good enough, ridiculed, scared and more importantly, alone!

The ‘Question’ is always what follows the memories of ‘Feeling’ a ‘Presence’ of a ‘Look’ that I’ve known for so many years:

Why was I born this way? Why don’t people like me? How come I feel so different? And, for those of us older than Rainbow flags and Pride Parades, who can I talk to?

Let’s face it, I’m gay. Many other out there are, as well. We don’t want to walk into a church, a store, a job interview, a business meeting, with our ‘Pride’ on our sleeves. We do want to walk on our city streets, into our town hall meetings, our Earth Day celebrations, without the ‘Look’.

The ‘Look’ that has caused 1 in 3 homosexuals to take their own lives. The ‘Look’ that won’t allow us to openly care for each other. The ‘Look’ that claims we are deviants to society though, most crimes are committed by middle class, heterosexuals white males.

If I were granted just one wish it would be simple:

To never feel reduced, hated, sad, misplaced and unwanted by the ‘Look’ ever again!

https://www.lgbtqnation.com/2019/10/inconvenient-truths-potholes-along-yellow-brick-road-lgbtq-history

Errors in published histories, misreading, selective perception, willful historical fiction on the big screen, little screen, and web; alternative facts simply made up to suit various agendas; and the desire to believe what some wish to be true have created a constantly reverberating echo chamber of false knowledge which George Bernard Shaw warned “is more dangerous than ignorance.”

Leaves Before the Wind

We have walked, looked at the actual trees:
The chestnut leaves wide-open like a hand,
The beech leaves bronzing under every breeze,
We have felt flowing through our knees
As if we were the wind.

We have sat silent when two horses came,
Jangling their harness, to mow the long grass.
We have sat long and never found a name
For this suspension in the heart of flame
That does not pass.

We have said nothing; we have parted often,
Not looking back, as if departure took
An absolute of will–once not again
(But this is each day’s feat, as when
The heart first shook).

Where fervor opens every instant so,
There is no instant that is not a curve,
And we are always coming as we go;
We lean toward the meeting that will show
Love’s very nerve.

And so exposed (O leaves before the wind!)
We bear this flowing fire, forever free,
And learn through devious paths to find
The whole, the center, and perhaps unbind
The mystery

Where there are no roots, only fervent leaves,
Nourished on meditations and the air,
Where all that comes is also all that leaves,
And every hope compassionately lives
Close to despair.

May Sarton

Night Listener

Devastation at night…never enough to rouse me from my sleep.

Oddly enough, the embattled winds usher away the voices that I keep.

Chanted choices abated by bouts of rain on broken cobblestone.

Reflections in clown-house mirrors…shuttered by a wild life in the storm outside.

Outside of my pride.

In the nighttime bluster of moats…

I am as calm as cotton on a dry float.

Poets of SMITTEN Speak: Melissa Fadul

I had lost a female friend (catholic.) She had been assumed to be in a lesbian relationship. She drove to Conneticut and never returned. Her partner, appeared, distraught. Disturbed with how she had been presented by the church. Odd,
in the folk group we all sang in…to see Dawn dismissed as though, she had been a stick figure on a chalkboard. ‘How could Dawn leave without any real reason for leaving? Persecution for her beliefs? My young heart never understood or knew for sure.
Dawn remains a missing person. The police called it…a mental health issue. The church dismissed it all. As if Dawn never occurred. Her lover moved on full knowing that…lesbians do not have an account. That women who love women are just something to be disregarded.  @randomwordbyruth

TheFeatheredSleep

Melissa Fadul lives in New York with her wife, dog and two rabbits. She teaches English Literature and Advanced Placement Psychology.  She loves animals, poetry, and film and photography and baseball and screenwriting. Melissa is currently writing her second poetry manuscript and a screenplay.  Melissa hopes that someday she can work with her favorite actresses: Naomi Watts, Rachel Weisz, Cate Blanchett and Mariska Hargitay.

Is the Die Really Cast?

I was a sophomore and part of GLU (the gay and lesbian union as it was called then) getting my undergraduate degree in New York and two years younger than twenty-one-year-old Matthew Shepard, when barbed wire pierced his wrists as he was pinned to a fence on a chilly October evening. After his assailants, Aaron McKinney and Russell Henderson thumped his skull, dented it, they stole his shoes and wallet before running him over in a pick-up truck— leaving him for…

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at the Edge of America

There is a voice in the trees

i can hear it from the asylum window

the priest is at odds with himself

about my condition

there is a voice in the trees

it hovers just beyond the river’s bend over there.

the world is at odds with itself

about situation like this

there is a lady in a room of no windows

there is a lady in a room purged of love

i am at odds with priests and worlds

there is a humming lady,

in a room,

in the trees,

where the river bends,

over there. – T C Cannon

Cannon, who died when he was just 31, made enduring and vibrant works melding Native American and more mainstream artistic and pop culture imagery.
Cannon, who died when he was just 31, made enduring and vibrant works melding Native American and more mainstream artistic and pop culture imagery.

Tracing the Formica

Boscawen NH

The Formica traced a trail of ruddy tears…to an unnamed room.

Deep inside the tomb…

my oblique glasses held visions of dull switch blades.

Daggers dancing through the corners of my soul like,

bloody sugar canes sent to alleviate my decay.

Sliding between the ceramic maze…

a hell to be razed.

Alas, the vow,

little do your tiny demons know,

it was written long ago,

upon a wall made of cork…

‘straight jackets cannot subdue the heart.’

80’s Gay

I could have marched for peace

I could have prayed for community of love

I could have

I could have

I stood out of the closet…that had been the most difficult prize for me

I could have been ‘turned’ around…or so men thought.

Turned in thorny ways…in bed…but not all can be bought.

No matter where I lay, to rest is always challenged.

I lay my politics aside by the nighttime table

I lay my words near my lover’s adornments

Sex is far removed from my inner drive

The field of change…yellow, blue, red, and rainbow…keeps what I offer far and above, alive, alive

the Good Mother

Marion Post Wolcott

There had been placid times when the good mother gave me trust.

Faith held together with duct tape and the watered down glue of stability.

The stroke of my cheek while facing the end of times were infrequent and often malignant.

I often wonder had the sterile touch of veiled angels been too much.

Too much to transfix my childish mind to what was kind.

Had I ever truly had a mother.

A mother to curl into with my twisted body and troubled mind.

With purity dug in deep into blood and tears,had she wanted, needed, another.

Temples of the Dog

The temples of the dog…

feed the restless, the lonely, the down and out.

In the massive fields of daisy and blues, always intense…the wanting to move.

The temples of the dog…are indulged in only you.

Latent beauty of kinship rollicking through and through.

Above and below the strictness of un-tethered land, a mystery for both woman and man.

Doubtless, am I, as to nostalgic past, I relish the tussled mane, the hackles…brittle and crass.

Temples of the dog…

‘I watch in awe that such simplicity and speed. Can encompass such great desire to please.’

Dark Room

misconduct-5

He had an eye for these things.

But I had the soul.

The art of the moment, wasted with lies.

With all the chatter of aperture and metered light.

Exposures in a dark room.

You, looking for that idyllic covered bridge.

Me, searching for meaning to the words, ‘just live.’

As your dark room comes into contrast with my life.

The question still remains,

‘what of the devil you tried to tame?’

With a generation, come and gone,

I will right your wrong.

Teacher,

with all your attempts to school me…

All your photographed Rockwell ideology…

The shuttering speed of Americana.

All this and more, such great expectations.

Not a single tutored self-portrait.

Yet,

a guild full of

artistic misconduct.

Pacing the Cage

Sunset is an angel weeping
Holding out a bloody sword
No matter how I squint I cannot
Make out what it’s pointing toward
Sometimes you feel like you’ve lived too long
Days drip slowly on the page
You catch yourself
Pacing the cage

I’ve proven who I am so many times
The magnetic strip’s worn thin
And each time I was someone else
And every one was taken in
Hours chatter in high places
Stir up eddies in the dust of rage
Set me to pacing the cage

I never knew what you all wanted
So I gave you everything
All that I could pillage
All the spells that I could sing
It’s as if the thing were written
In the constitution of the age
Sooner or later you’ll wind up
Pacing the cage

Sometimes the best map will not guide you
You can’t see what’s round the bend
Sometimes the road leads through dark places
Sometimes the darkness is your friend
Today these eyes scan bleached-out land
For the coming of the outbound stage
Pacing the cage
B. Cockburn

Antsy for Change

Shade eloping fast

I try to toss it away but it keeps coming back

I sit, transfixed, too antsy for change

For still life is a spell I am not equipped to cast

Succulent brown crab apple curls the hem of my fears

Shade eloping fast

I try to toss it away but it keeps coming back

Of God’s Creatures

“Of all God’s creatures, there is only one that cannot be made slave of the leash. That one is the cat. If man could be crossed with the cat it would improve the man, but it would deteriorate the cat.”
– Mark Twain

Sleeping with Valor’s Retreat

There are lines to this scarcity.

Hidden obstacles filled with joyless doubt.

Now that I am in…the dead air is coming out!

A covert world we all must go thru…

and, the question remains…

‘Will I have the courage to go without you?’

The grass beaded with dew and the…aromatic earth…

does not quench my soul as it used to.

Lying and dying have become art forms.

A certain style giving unto…laughing…crying.

Courage in the blinding light of day can whisk the unthinkable webs away.

Nonetheless, the night…with its sporadic fits of sleep…

Still begs for valor’s retreat.

imageedit_38_9628577381

Mum

Hurt has turned ghosts to gold

Newborns into antiquated entities

I come and go from the waters, time and time again

Yet, I cannot walk on

Questions to my state of mind

Part and particle of the disease…not the cure

Let the Mystery Be

Everybody’s wonderin’ what and where they all came from
Everybody’s worryin’ ’bout where they’re gonna go
When the whole thing’s done
But no one knows for certain
And so it’s all the same to me
I think I’ll just let the mystery be

Some say once you’re gone you’re gone forever
And some say you’re gonna come back
Some say you rest in the arms of the Savior
If in sinful ways you lack

Some say that they’re comin’ back in a garden
Bunch of carrots and little sweet peas
I think I’ll just let the mystery be

Everybody’s wonderin’ what and where they they all came from
Everybody’s worryin’ ’bout where they’re gonna go
When the whole thing’s done
But no one knows for certain
And so it’s all the same to me
I think I’ll just let the mystery be

Some say they’re goin’ to a place called Glory
And I ain’t saying it ain’t a fact
But I’ve heard that I’m on the road to purgatory
And I don’t like the sound of that
I believe in love and I live my life accordingly
But I choose to let the mystery be

Everybody is wondering what and where they they all came from
Everybody is worryin’ ’bout where they’re gonna go
When the whole thing’s done
But no one knows for certain
And so it’s all the same to me…I think I’ll just let the mystery be
I think I’ll just let the mystery be @IrisDement

Tell Her Today

Tell her today

before

the mist fades into the fading enchanted forest.

Before

fauna has turned to fallen rust.

Tell her today

while

the slight brush of her hand on yours feels thin and threadbare.

Today holds her…as though no other moment will.

Tell her today

about all events that made you stand still.

a Fevered Mind

Petals in the pines…I have come here…once again

with your loving colors for the fevered mind

And, the circling of blackbirds to speak to me of the shape I am in

A little girl’s dream of…

lime and lemon hue

Spinning in the dance under the moon’s harvest

and

the autumn of sun’s riches

I Drink You In

I drink you in, as though, there be no end.

I ache your ailing spirit, as though, it were mine.

If I were set upon a lost ocean…

Whatever you found to be amiss…I would find.

Lover, it hurts so, when your world…

Resigns to the being of…unkind.

us-2

Tomorrow will come and take us away.

Import us to the blues.

Retrieving each soul, as though we were never one.

In the deepest of my smallest conviction…

With all of infinity…

I will understand…

We have only just begun!

Why Warren…New Hampshire?

If you are ever in New Hampshire. Either on tour of the 17 mile seacoast. Looking at the Old Man in the Mountain…who is no longer there. Or, imbibing at the world’s largest arcade…Funspot. An absolutely must? Warren, New Hampshire and the not so famous, Redstone Rocket!

Warren, New Hampshire: Only Town with a Real Redstone Rocket

The same kind of rocket that hurled New Hampshire native Alan Shepard into space. Brought here in 1971.

Redstone Missile

The sleepy little burg of Warren has its own Redstone Missile. A remnant of the Cold War, it is nestled in a little park with a “Missile Information” kiosk that gives you the scoop. There are a couple of picnic tables, and the Warren Historical Museum is just steps away. Worth a look if you are out in the boondocks of NH for some reason. We drive over to Warren to get haircuts at Mary’s Shear Connection. So get a haircut from the lovely Mary and get your missile on! Peace. https://www.roadsideamerica.com/tip/863

So, Mary gives good…haircuts, all the mailboxes are a patented, look alike, forest green, a big missile protrudes from the sky. If a town could actually scream, ‘give me more lithium’ it would be Warren, New Hampshire!

New Leaf

The mountains are turning a…summer setting gold.

A time for

letting my hair down

to bask in what the forest beholds.

There can be no denial from

the frosty aches

the chill from bent knee.

I take comfort from primitive slopes under

wildflowers and giant shrubberies.

Turning over maple leaf…brittle is the recovery.

Say, What

Things I know I could have said…when high:

You Can’t Let Dick Control Your Life

Thank you for evoking memories, particularly of days gone by. *BBC

You can’t just let nature run wild. *Walter Hickel, former governor of Alaska

I have opinions of my own-strong opinions-but I don’t always agree with them. *President George Bush

Even though there may be some misguided critics of what we’re trying to do, I think we’re on the wrong path. *Ronald Reagan

We don’t have to worry about endangered species-why, we can’t even get rid of the cockroach. *James Watt, former secretary of the interior

I didn’t intend for this to take on a political tone. I’m just here for the drugs. *Nancy Reagan on Just Say No!

Always go to other people’s funerals, otherwise they won’t come to yours. *Yogi Berra

If gays are granted rights, next we’ll have to give rights to prostitutes and to people who sleep with St. Bernard’s and to nail-biters. *Anita Bryant

I was under medication when I made the decision not to burn the tapes. *Richard Nixon

I feel my best when I’m happy! *Winona Ryder

Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked Cat

I was walking down the street when out of the corner of my eye…I saw a pretty little Calico cat approaching me.

She said, ” I never seen a Crazy Cat Lady, who looks so all alone. Could you use a little Bitchy company?

If you can pay with the right Seafood Sensation(dry mix)your evening will be nice. But if you can’t stick ‘meow’ up your ass and send me on my way!”

As the Lesbian Crazy Cat Lady, I said, “You’re such a sweet young kitten. Why do you become so unpleasant in your vainglory?”

She looked at me and this is what she said,

“Oh, there ain’t no rest for the wicked! Frisky’s Delight doesn’t grow on trees. I got my groomer to pay for. I got several litters to feed. There ain’t no Calico love in this world for free!”
Not even fifteen minutes later after walking down, Abandoned Alley: I saw the shadow of Tom Cat, creep out of sight. And, then he swept up from behind. He put a mark(a lifting of the leg and a strange smell) on me.

He made it clear he wasn’t looking for a ‘cat fight.’

Tom said, “Give me all your female felines. I want their love not your life. But if you try to make a move…I spray again, twice.”
I told him, “You can have my spayed female, she’s had a hysterectomy. And, she is a well known bitch.”

I gotta ask, “What made you want to live this kind of life?”
Tom said, “Oh, there ain’t no rest for the wicked. Getting laid is money that doesn’t grow on trees. I got birds to haunt. I got several Baby Momma’s with mouths to feed.”
Well now a couple hours past and I was sitting on my couch. The day was winding down and coming to an end. And so, I turned on the TV. And, I flipped it over to the news… what I saw I almost couldn’t comprehend.

I saw a pedigree’d Maine Coon, in cuffs, she’d taken too much of the nip. She’d staggered over her rhinestone collar and had just one quote to the cops:

“I got the Cougar down the street. I got Big Bill to pay. We are all the same…there ain’t nothing in this world for free!”

Memories of Sutton

A hundred year oak…now with faded auburn leaves.

Centuries of stone fences with homes long since gone.

The dogs unencumbered, free to explore a land unknown.

But still a muddied swimming hole is where they decided to roam.

We dodge dropping acorns from dismayed animals up above.

Deep in a forest untraveled,

I am reminded of that strawberry blonde child, sunfish and September early morning, in the plump sun.

Ghost House by Robert Frost

I dwell in a lonely house I know
That vanished many a summer ago,
And left no trace but the cellar walls,
And a cellar in which the daylight falls
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.

O’er ruined fences the grape-vines shield
The woods come back to the mowing field;
The orchard tree has grown one copse
Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
The footpath down to the well is healed.

I dwell with a strangely aching heart
In that vanished abode there far apart
On that disused and forgotten road
That has no dust-bath now for the toad.
Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;

The whippoorwill is coming to shout
And hush and cluck and flutter about:
I hear him begin far enough away
Full many a time to say his say
Before he arrives to say it out.

It is under the small, dim, summer star.
I know not who these mute folk are
Who share the unlit place with me—
Those stones out under the low-limbed tree
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.

They are tireless folk, but slow and sad—
Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,—
With none among them that ever sings,
And yet, in view of how many things,
As sweet companions as might be had.

Minding Mushrooms

The fight remains in the hand tossed rubble and rubbish.

Hope…in the ache that wakes.

Not paradise up close and focus tight.

But by innate tapestry under the sun’s light.

No treading a path beyond fine.

The superfluous for the mind.

Signs of the Father

My Father used to say, peace be with you…

But it never was.

Holding a stark bare cross above the bedroom door…

I had been taught ‘this is love.’

Father would shake my hand until life caught hold

Eventually, in obsession, he became less bold.

My Father had sent me to deviant schools.

I had been taught of prejudice, good books, how to look for fools.

Nothing More…Nothing Less

Nothing more whimsical than wild turkey’s in the evergreens

A dog’s stubby knees

Frisky felines pretending to be sweet

Heifer’s that refuse to take a seat