life unlives itself

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little red suitcase


new poem “Little Red Suitcase” published in oddball – this very cool magazine
I hope you’ll check it out. I kept a little red suitcase in my childhood bedroom closet for many years-
I was always ready to run away…

butterfly lenses

butterfly lenses, in the The Paragon Journal – a thoughtful, artful, and lovely publication
this poem is based on a true childhood experience.
the first time I ever saw live crabs boiled I was with a friend’s family down the shore.
I was shocked when the crabs we were fishin’ out of the ocean were not bright red
this was the first and only time in my life I ever became homesick
“my mom and dad would never boil live creatures,” is what was running through my eleven-year-old mind
(cover and image belongs to Paragon Journal – I added cover blurb for WP image)
thank you

missing my sis

This is a photo of my lovely sister, Dolores. If it weren’t for her beautiful blue eyes watching over me growing up, I would’ve gotten into loads more trouble. I was quite the wiseass all the way into my 20’s. We had a lot of laughs together. I miss her dearly and wished she lived closer. 😘

a flat world where things sometimes roll off

sitting at my kitchen table–
a flat world where things sometimes roll off
‘thoughts’ cram my vapid head
never to disappoint, there she is my gooey, ‘Annie Oakley’
the incessant ‘creative’ cowgirl who rides my bulging brain every morning
trying her ‘Wild West’ best to lasso bucking words
working up quite a sweat she is, as I so often do trying to be ‘clever’
I’ve no chance of corralling these wild beasts
wax fences are nonexistent in my vacant mind
the most ‘insightful’ prose gallop directly out my right ear
wax that should be in my empty head is on the kitchen table–
a flat world where things sometimes roll off
here a tiny flame–cruelly trapped in a jar–flickers
–
like my tongue used to so many years ago
watching the singular flame burn, I imagine it raging
but the cold fireplace is empty like my head
outside the kitchen sliders, a tiny tufted .6 ounce titmouse
enjoys the seed I loaded in the feeder
others will be along
oh yes, here they come
the heavy snow is cascading down and these frail birds are stronger
than my slumbering two hundred and fifty-five pound son at the moment
when I was little
my mom and dad served as bookends at our rectangular kitchen table
their six children, incomplete chapters
now my parents have a round table too, with obligatory leaves for visitors
no more sharp corners for any of us
oh, a beautiful red-headed woodpecker has joined the snow-ladened feast
luckily for him his long chiseled beak is as sharp as it is
otherwise, he couldn’t reach the seed
life doesn’t have to dull everything down
it is glorious to have a point sometimes
isn’t it?
wildfire

brown

my eyes are brown, did you know
mud-weary at this point and still brown
brown like the polyester pants I wore as a child
brown like the earth
honest and foot-affirming
when my large brown eyes were bigger than my little face
I learned to aim high for the heavens and shoot purposefully for the stars
sky-colored eyes and sunshine hair made perfect sense 
perfect sense
every time I gazed in the mirror I wondered
do they know I’m aiming and shooting for things beyond my reach
with brown eyes and brown hair and brown polyester
I am not Rapunzel or Sleeping Beauty or Cinderella
damn these wrong colors
blue eyes I do not possess
plastic eyes in ocean colors, sold by the gross, shipped on palettes
will be fitted into gorgeous dolls with sunshine hair
it doesn’t matter to a brown-eyed face that ocean eyeballs are synthetic
in her little mind, these things are more real than her own tiny heartbeat
and so the brown-eyed child grows up
dreaming
for all of us to be loved for
“the content of our character”
and the pure color of our caring

Glodian/oil

Glodian/oil

MLK’s actual quote, “…by the content of their character.” (not our) – thank you

As a brown-eyed child growing up, I often felt this way