Do Not Go Gently

I lay my head down last night.  Feeling a physical ache that not a word can describe.  I wanted to wallow in my pity.  I wanted to dunk way down into the depth of ‘what I can no longer do…’self reflection!  I have Degenerative Disc Disease.  Title or no title, medical term or not.  I often believe myself to have a pain so significant…It is a suffering not a soul born…has witnessed…AS I have.

There are moments in which I give time its due.  Promise the Powers that Be…’You can take me now!’  I am not suicidal.  I am in electrifying misery.   The Devil, Melancholy, can have what is reusable of my…Physical Self.

It seems at wit’s end.  When I envision; No more long walks in the wilderness, no hiking, no photography, no paying homage to the Mother Earth…That through a special blend of compassion, wisdom and self seeking…I find at the end of my rope?  A trinket that has been there all along.  I just did not look deep enough!

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Someone Else’s Wife


You were someone’s-someone, once.

Such as,

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?imageedit_109_7039391946

Practicing with Preacher


I am my father’s daughter.


there is no peace in that disclosure.

The streets of his hometown,

no different than mine.


muddled in illicit history.

Kindred to many a New Hampshire narrative.

Death defiling mysteries.

What child should know of the macabre?

What toddler exchanges tombs for games played in the backyard?


what disciplinarian preaches not of love,

but of living hard?

In the days of,

King of Queens,

not a court,

nor a jester,

investigating behind the scenes.

A small world of brotherhoods.

Of even smaller,


To a degree,

a daily routine.

Of depravity without chastity.

Encouraging socially defying acts.

Performed passively.

Whilst blacking out my own history,


Selfish Hours

she keeps me 2

As I lay awake…brought to by the mask between dark and dawn.

Late night phone calls made up of frightful spite.

I am no longer a dismayed child…hiding in the corner of a cluttered closet.

It is only in the dead of winter do I feel a certain warmth.

In the crevices of wee hours, newly forged friendships.

Years pass, nothing could buy my love.

Nothing could forge my amends.

But those selfish hours…have long since gone away.

Last night, a black and white memory of hiding in that closet.

Obscuring life.

I did not cower from it, as I usually do.

No longer will I play puppet to a dark fool.

the womans room 3