Rest in Peace – Mary Oliver

When a poet dies….Another poet gets their wings!

The Family by Mary Oliver

The dark things of the wood
Are coming from their caves,
Flexing muscle.

They browse the orchard,
Nibble the sea of grasses
Around our yellow rooms,

Scarcely looking in
To see what we are doing
And if they still know us.

We hear them, or think we do:
The muzzle lapping moonlight,
The tooth in the apple.

Put another log on the fire;
Mozart, again, on the turntable,
Still there is a sorrow

With us in the room.
We remember the cave.
In our dreams we go back

Or they come to visit.
They also like music.
We eat leaves together.

They are our brothers.
They are the family
We have run away from.

R.I.P. – Mary Oliver/2019

Living as a Junkyard Car

So horrible at communication.

This I know.

Yet, I found it the safest way to go.

The trappings of loving another…

Nothing but a graying destiny for a languishing mind.

My state of hibernation…

A junkyard car.

Scrap metal missing banner days.

Scratched, dented and out of gas.

Living in the accident of someone last gaspimageedit_86_2660408772.

My only sense of security…

A junkyard dog ambivalent to my past.

On flat tires I take no prisoners.

Propped up on cinder-blocks.

There are no chance for encounters.

Big Brown Dog, and a Roadside Poet

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Everyone deserves to be a poet…for one day.

A knock off…laureate on display.

Fortunate, daughter, it is your day.

I found the river not lost but…wandering.

The water so clamorous,

that pockets of everyday living…can flow, in and around you.

Decisions that can be left for another day.

Battles, won or lost, whether you go or stay.

Coarse, they are, these headstones or markers, along the way.

The big brown dog always aware of impending calamity.

Roots boulder deep…

So much so, they could arise the dead from their sleep.

“It must be not enough to be the voice of someone else’s reason.

It must be enough to be our own reason.”

But these are dreams we dream…when we have no other dreams left.

Blue collar workers of rhyme, denizens of word theft.

Course, there are dried, deadlock, beds…

and, one wonders who else has come before to steal time?

But I have just got my broken feet back on the ground.

And, am not prepared to settle down.

The big brown dog…she does not care.

Taking it as it comes.

Life…that is.

More or less, as long as, there is a roadside rest.

And, the occasional, foot bridge requiring an athlete’s best.

So, it is myself, and the big brown dog…with big brown eyes…

Myself, mostly upright.

She, in a habitat of brown leaves.

Down by a random stream.

Dreaming a roadside poet’s dream.


Drag Queen Rapper

Drag Queen Rapper

drag queen rapper 3

I keep writing what should I do?

What should I do?

After all you’re not the only fool.

After all, you are the only you.

This is how it has always been done.

No more laughing, no more fun.

I’ll tell you what discouraged me the most.

This gene pool party…

being thrown without a host.

No stand up stand in at the picnic tables.

No Father Christmas to say,

just pack up your fruitcake and your labels.

This could have been my play…on words.

An an aging broad with a scrapbook.

Set at a home where the fairy tales are obscured.

Spinning like a warped LP

bedtime storiesdrag queen rapper 2


Irish drinking songs skinned and blurred.

What isn’t there to complain about?

Life like the Walton’s on acid.

Grandma’s homemade Kahlua diet…

buxom, bloated and filled with stout.

Flash forward Act One

Tomboy gone astray

Prodigal daughter’s mudslinging

Lost sons felony days

Act Two

eldest sibling, halter tops, blow-jobs

the swallowing of words gone wrong.

There is something to be said for

free firewall protection.

A family of viruses

connected by duct tape and super glue.

How do you manage all of it?drag queen rapper 1

Drag Queen rapper and white girl poet.

NH Bad Poet’s Society

'what a tangled web we weave...'
‘what a tangled web we weave…’

i like to write poems…

 never told you that…
 cuz theyre shitty…

i miss my bedtime story 😦

but if I get my bedtime story it means I don’t get to talk to you anymore..

Skype has saved me from loosing.  The distance yet again, the un-chaining myself of clothing and the nakedness while you watched..

I could be brave for a moment with little fear of judgement from down below.  My touch was yours..

Are you with me now?

Not Sincerely,

Ambien Grace and Beckett Couvillion the third, dog wonder