dragon / dragons [ drag-uhnz]
are cruel; bring good fortune; are the stuff of legend; are born of pre-scientific conjecture; are endangered; protect the gods; hide from man; are heart balms in stuffed lizards; are vicious plastic forms on gaming boards; have multiple heads; are purple singers with green polka dots; eat humans; protect mankind; have wings whether invisible or not; don’t do transactional relationships; are powerful cinematic stars; are shy; are pure of heart; have Sir Sean Connery’s voice; have honor; have the name Draco, Lachrymose or Puff; carry your fire.
Though their remarkable eyes are permanently shut, each vivid bright eye (they have two, they have twenty) follows you through a transparent scale. Your dragon always sees you even when you are alone in the world.
From my dragon to yours,
Merry Holidays to you and your loved ones
Be safe, be well, enjoy some flaming rum punch and never stop embracing your fire…
(image above – Holly Dragon makes an appearance every Christmas)
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…
little red suitcase
Glasses stretch another piece of writing on the basement desk.
A string of words magnified beneath the resting lenses. All other
sentences, words I’ve written and know as well as the magnified
ones, settle back into the smallness of shadows.
A small red suitcase.
Stashed in my closet for when the ideas in my head can’t take the
body impersonating them any longer. A child and her red suitcase.
Bottom of the closet next to my dog Charlie with the chopped off
ears. He’s curly pink. I cut his ears off so he won’t have to hear
what I do in my head.
My typewriter is turquoise. I remember it that way. Near the desk table,
my fifth and sixth parakeets most likely named Budgie One and Two
because that’s what they were. Maybe bright blue and bright green
parakeets don’t like what they see in their little bird mirror. No room
for suitcases in their orange cage so they just die.
No flying away when the windows are shut
and people are supposed to love you.
a week at the ocean is exceptionally inspiring for a hand hugging a pencil
another love poem published on the ever-inspiring FOXGLOVE JOURNAL – please share if you enjoy the read – humble thanks
you’ve gone about halfway
righteous peppers your tongue
your decades of experience
shower unadulterated minds
your determined suggestions
penetrate virginal ears
then the moon flips
your waxing tongue is stifled
nature in her amusing way
has pushed you out
and laughs at your wrinkled brow
she flawlessly accepts
what you won’t admit
children are whirlybirds in the wind
and the only thing you control
is where to sow the little seeds
in your vegetable garden
Photo – delicate daughter (now 17) and big son (now 14) standing in front of mural their mom painted in 2004.
Zebras prisma penciled in 2008
so many struggling
wanting more than ‘millimoments’ of euphoria
wondering where to find this fickle contentment
a promised aftereffect of the human condition
we’re not supposed to be searching
cheerful reflection is too deep in the wishing well
perhaps earth isn’t designed for constant contentment
wouldn’t sunup be iridescent blue
stars illuminate pathways to lovers
tides even-flow with the heavens
happiness is more like the wind
rustling leaves and racing clouds
we took solace in these haphazard thermals
where seeds still take root
winged beasts soar
and cool air displaces sweating flesh
let’s not search for happiness
let’s take comfort in its randomness
knowing we’ll all eventually be found
I’ve published this little gal a few times, she keeps wanting to be seen…
you know what hurts
besides hitting the bold key by accident
he will never love you
too many of ‘those’ women
prancing the inside lane
you’re not even allowed near the thoroughbreds
at best, you’re a mudder –
on a good day
if he enjoyed plowing the fields
and sweating under winter’s sun
he might appreciate your broad shoulders
and footsteps that echo
horses, giraffes – who knows – painted for an exhibit long ago entitled, “Creatured”