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

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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. 😘

madness, you see

I am quite capable of driving myself to madness
I do not require any help, most especially not yours
I do not need your over-involved directions
I can find the place blindfolded
You see, I have my map right here–
Tattooed on my palm with invisible inks
I have chosen the most expeditious travel plan–zigs and jags
I will not listen to your bullshit–straight lines and direct routes
You see, I am desperate to get there
I am sorry if I appear rude, but I cannot stand you anymore
I will not watch your tempting lips mouth what I do not want to hear
My friend, there is no time left for me–
for us

I really must reach madness
You see, it was long ago when I drove Him there
He is the only one who can tell me how to get back–
to the place I felt safest–
before I lost my mind
Trapped

did I mention

did I mention
my son is driving now
I watch him
everyday
from behind
he appears
every inch
a man
his shoulders
only slightly less wide
than the door frame
muscles blowing out
voice sincerely deep
yet
he is not a man
still closer to 15 than adulthood
joining gaggles of generation teXters
spreading their rubber wings
upon an overburdened world saturated with flashing macadam, blinding halogens
and
complicated souls perpetually racing their personal calendars
his young supple mind must remain
singular of purpose
leave all those fresh happenings
curbside
before leaping behind the velveteen wheel
yanking its quadruplet of synchronized tires into the fray
may each and every casual roll
be from point a to point b only
not a flippant roll of the dice
he is not a gambler
neither am I
this is the season
for believers
we are
both the same
singular of purpose
when singing and shining
in this glorious cacophony
of colored bells
and bursting evergreen stars

for those who celebrate this warm day of family and friends gathering (mostly for food;)) and collecting in peace, Happy Thanksgiving
for those who don’t, have a wonderful weekend – thank you
squanto-with-editshonoring all who have gone before

when you are a storm

he will be there when you aren’t
he will know when you don’t
he will want you when you’re broken
he will stand near when you’ve fallen
he will make room for your art
he will stay when you leave
he will be there when you return
he will sing when you’re hoarse
he will befriend your inner foes
he will be calm
when you are a storm

Who

Who


I got your back

he’s broad chested with muscular legs
the earmarks of a pugilist
certainly channels the spirit of one
dark eyes, alert and piercing
we walk together every day
chatting about the weather
guessing what time the mail will arrive
every once in awhile
not far off
we hear a garrulous and bellowing
call of the wild
neither of us are
too wild
(I pray I still am a little)
the deep hoarse sounds are taller than
his six inch to shoulder height
he tosses me up a knowing gaze
he will do what he must to protect
the one who often places him in shadow
on the sunniest of days
gazing down at my little Dachshund
I whisper loudly enough for my words
to enter those flopping velvet ears
“I got your back, Mojo”
I got your back

Dog Kite

Dog Kite

on windy days like today, while walking Mojo, I often imagine him flying up in the air like a little kite – silly graphic created last year

still missing you

This is a post from September of last year. Three weeks after I originally wrote this, Rocky died. The amazing thing for this exceptional animal was that he passed away peacefully in our home right after we all said goodbye that night and the very day before my mother-in-law moved in. His illness would have made a difficult transition for her even more trying. I cannot believe how much he is still missed. The good ones always are.

I think I made you sick after you showed up on my blue canvas. A painting I patted myself on the shoulder for. I’m so very sorry, my dear friend. Did I do that to you? And it is too late now. I can take nothing back. Not one thing. I should have castrated my selfish fingers. You were saying you were sick. I didn’t hear your silent words. I wasn’t listening. For two months, I think it was two months, I can’t remember exactly–I was buried in my meaningful life. You kept hanging around my studio. You hadn’t ever done that before. Well you had, but not to stay. You’d give a gentle hello then return to your usual places, ones of comfort like the sofa by the piano. We called it “your bed,” not our couch. Actually it was a love seat. The couch knew more than I. It knew how to comfort and be there accepting the additional weight of the masses spreading inside you. The casual invaders I’d grown too busy to notice.

And now, I watch your chest breathing up and down. It is your heart saying goodbye. I’m listening now my friend. I am listening now. Please forgive me when I must say my final goodbye to you and mean it from the depth of my selfish soul.

blue boys

blue boys

Rocky the Shepherd and Mojo the Dachshund – painted last year, forever hanging above our mantel