Saturday, September 17, 2011


I long to return
I am starting to return
I am returning
I am here.

Thursday, September 15, 2011

See, It's Difficult...

I was going to put the title of "See, It's Hard," but I was afraid of some snarkmeister saying, "That's what she said..."
It is much more difficult writing humor than non-fiction or the serious observations about my life. But for a taste of something really humorous (humourous if you're reading in Canada), please visit Donna Louise.She's incredibly snarky and on target with her observations.
She's like a splash of good iced tea with lemon. No sweetener needed.
I especially liked this post written on the anniversary of September 11th. Thanks to Donna Louise, I might just get a bumper sticker for my car this election season...One that won't ire up my neighbors.

Sunday, September 11, 2011


says much of what I feel...if I've read it correctly. A good poem to read today.

Ten Years After: E longer one

Today is almost as pretty a day as it was back then. It's warmer, more humid and the sky blue instead of being azure or deep turquoise, the way it was that crisp September morning.
What is the correct thing to do today? I awakened from disturbing and energetic dreams this morning at 7:43 AM Central time.

I got up and made coffee. Fed the cat and thought about it. The elephant in the room. The elephant in the country.
Maybe that's it. Blame Republicans.
Here's the link to Google's blog about it.

This is the link to my last post about it: E Pluribus Unum.

The nation is more divided than ever. Last night, I even dreamed about the media can't ever say anything positive about President Obama and how the Tea Party and the ultra-conservatives and fringe groups seem to part us from our sensible middle way.

Tuesday, September 06, 2011

The Cruelest

I'm still working on this one:

The Cruelest

It turns on you
slaps your face with
rough cut diamonds
your blood is sweet
as it flows in ribbons
toward a heaving, gray
filled with flotsam
and jetsam

you will wash up on shore
crusted over with wounds
your heart, scored with gutters

the first person you see
you have to ask:
Where am I?
How do I get there?
When she points to the map of scars
over your skin,
you have no choice,
and there’s a ragged, “oh no,
not again” on your lips.

you find the tool
where you left it, soldered to your hand
wired to the soft part of your brain
so you can begin the
whole damn thing
over again.