Shall I tell of stars hidden by the queen?

lying underneath 

psychedelic sky

iridescent blue

sun spots in my eye

penning out my verse

he sleeps in the rays

each one celebrates 

in our preferred ways 

Shall I tell of stars

hidden by the queen

mute in the daylight

till night makes them seen

pondering nature

which glyphs to choose

lake days in the sun

my favorite muse

with hyperbole

in woods we do roam

shelter of the trees

is our little  home 

the bigger thought gets

a line of its own 

onomatopoeia

in glissade of foam 

alliterative 

litter festooned wave

words drip like driftwood

carved by the lake's lathe 

old lumber dock bones

like cypress kneed bogs 

watching memories 

and time float like logs

trash ornated surf

flecks of green and blue

silver metal can

a child's soggy shoe

assonance that makes 

an ass of me and you

oops that's assumption

that I sometimes do

twinkling in the sun

mirrored sand beach

pass the Swiss cheese please

just beyond my reach

gritty on my teeth

from palm full of sand

universe of verse

trickling through my hand

I could write always

by eloquent sea

what better way to

spend eternity?

got water and pen

who could want for more

my man at my side

on Michigan's shore

If wishes were drinks we drunks would partake

peach bellini moon 

purple crow flies by 

pink Cosmo sunset  

in blue curacao sky

if wishes were drinks

we drunks would partake

of rainbow cocktails

and Sazerac cakes

but day is all done

color drained away 

like bathtub sloe gin

sunsets turned grey

but no one told them

arise and go home

are they asleep or

perhaps turned to stone?

sunbathing bodies

strewn along the beach 

shrouded in moonlight

their marble arms reach 

in homage to a god

with empty hole eyes

gems all removed for 

the lady who buys

back to the motherland

with her stolen hoard

on a tramp steamer 

and ghost crew on board 

and the ship goes down

taking all to their graves

the gal with the money

drowns beneath the waves

so goes paradox 

she who had has none

the thief is stolen 

by the stolen from one

such contradiction

in poetic irony 

what goes comes around

and washes out to sea 

cold as equator

wet as Sahara

dry as ocean deep

hot as the taiga

uniform contrasts 

mixed hyperbole 

same differences 

fluid simile

lyric without song

sensibly insane

musically tone deaf

Logically inane 

I shall never see 

verse so madding bad

I think that I shall

surely go quite mad

if mad is a place 

say that's where I'll be

but I shan't be long 

I'll be back for tea 

hopped a streetcar

just my cat and me

at the corner of 

Desire and Cemetery 

singing for sixpence 

on my ukulele 

puss strums the bass in

land of Honah Lee 

puff with the dragon

huff to the wolf moon

supping with devils

I'll use the long spoon 

riding the contrail 

to the end of the line

pull up a cloud 

right here next to mine

ask where I'm off to 

it's a ramblin song 

don't know myself yet

you can sing along 

start psychedelic

Sam, Bangs and, Moonshine

let her write herself 

this lil rhyme of mine

 

a pocketful of pocket

to pass the time of night

white noise machine 

to ward off my blight

so no point to my

silly pantomime

just felt like conversin'

if you've got the time

The Good Ship Marguerite L. and the Freighter D. Jack

My grandparents, Marguerite Louise (Kik) Kinney and D. Jack Kinney, were laid to rest many moon ago. Here's a little ditty I wrote in honor of their 70 years together. It's about two ships--the imperiled freighter D.Jack and a once fancy schmancy old ghost yacht the Marguerite L. The ships are named because my grandpa was a workaholic, like the mighty lake Michigan freighters.  And my grandma loved expensive things. And could have posed as a figurehead! 

It is ironic that in the poem, she saves him. Everyone always called Grampa the romantic Galahad, the rescuer, the savior all of which he was. Grandma appeared the frail lightweight but was in fact tough as a battle axe and 10x more incisive.

It is set in Lake Michigan, where my Grandpa and I swam and walked many miles over many years (while Grandma stayed home and read Architectural Digest). This poem is for my father D. Jack Kinney II, who knew all there was to know about the ships of Lake Michigan and who liked a good story.

The Good Ship Marguerite L.

stranglehold cold wind

mutes dull foghorn moan

banshee storm-ghoul's shriek

deafens warning groan

weakened lighthouse beam

struggling to sustain

snuffed in fog-clogged night

and vision-dimming rain

Embattled Freighter D. Jack

seeks safe, havening moor 

refuge from the storm

heads blindly toward shore

solid blank stare fog

lightless night darks drear

no moon marking rocks

sailors think all's clear

no fog gong foretells

dimmed lighthouse mocks

no death- knell warning

sailors off the rocks

beamless empty sky

deadly barrier ahead

ships smashed to bits

tale ends with all dead

blame the deafening blind fog 

curse the storm that rent the night 

sing of D. Jack's end and gloom 

blame the waning of the light

but tale's end is not yet writ

fate not sealed in lake tomb

sad's the song that ends too soon

ill's the wind that blows but doom

there is another verse to

this sorrowful rhyme

in the wings a heroine

is waiting for her line

within rock walls is calm

without tempest's brewin

bony schooner, Marguerite L.

sleeps moored in brooding ruin

by good fairy or bad sprite

Neptune's guide or Hades' shade

sends storm ripples into port 

rouses ghost ship to their aid

sleeping beauty wakes again

hears the S.O.S across the wave

though old, frail, falling apart

there are sailors she must save

with bump-booms, banging clangs

plays hornpipe on rusted chains

grind-jangle, rattle and clank

screams louder than the rains

by happy stroke of luck

or black magic rune

D. Jack harks danger

in her warning tune 

The rocks are avoided

The freighter finds a way

round the hidden breakers

ghost yacht has saved the day.

what genius loci possessed

Marguerite L. that night?

to rise up from death bed 

and take up the good fight?

sailor is a brother,

to seamen in all clime

Do some come back to warn 

just in the nick of time?

How to write mystery stories and whodunnits: detective story starters and mystery writing prompts

March is National Reading Month. Mystery readers, are you tired of cracker-bland mysteries you put down in sheer boredom? Mystery writers, are you sick of writing dull-as-plain-toast plots that readers barely nibble at? Here are mystery story starters for tales readers will gulp down whole and beg for more before the first even digests. Use these writing prompts and mystery story starters to write can't-put-down stories. This article covers detective stories and mystery story starters for crime fiction, affectionately called the whodunit. 

Basics of mystery story starters. Every mystery story needs an introduction, characters, plot, climax, denouement and conclusion. Detective stories are all about detail and sequence. But crime fiction doesn't necessarily need resolution and closure--a very effective literary device is to leave mystery unsolved. Charles Dickens was known for writing several endings and letting the readers choose (!) Ending on a cliff-hanger has the advantage of paving the way for sequels and more sequels. 

Plot development for detective stories. There are different school of thought on whether mystery fiction writing prompts should start with character or setting creation. Settings seem the best as they give a framework to place other elements in. Regardless, always write what you know. If you grew up in Michigan in the 1940's or Mozambique in the 1990's, write to that specific knowledge. Use your cultural or religious background or family history. Don't try to write about what you don't know unless you plan to do a barge-load of research. 

Choose a known time period and locale. You can set your story in any time period or place, as long as you know enough about it to make your mystery story credible. If your idea of medieval life is Game of Thrones, probs best to avoid the middle ages. This author once tried to write a 1930s English country house murder mystery like her hero Ngaio Marsh. Without having lived then and lacking enough research, the result was a schmaltzy pastiche. Mystery story starters require a specific setting. Where did the whodunit take place? 

Write mystery stories outside the hackneyed setting. So having said know the terroir, don't use overused places. Thinking of Scooby-Doo here--an abandoned mental hospital, a disused school, onboard a ship, country mansion are common (dead common) places. Try to get away from stereotypical mystery settings if possible. Tie it to your own locale so you can envision the details better (the disused factory on Third St that you drive by every day, the historic St. Adalbert's Catholic Church you attend, for example). Be precise but not trite in description--setting drives mystery stories more than any other genre. 

To detect or not, your choice. Mystery fiction stories may or may not include a detective character. Agatha Christie's best-loved mystery story "And Then There Were None" is crime fiction with no solver of the crime. Whodunit detective stories obviously require a detective-type main character. But it may or may not be a police officer or private eye. Start thinking characters, beginning with the investigator if there is one.. Match an appropriate person to setting. Your detective can be of any age, strata of society, occupation or nationality as long as you can write with some authority. 

Mystery Writing prompts for detective stories main character. How will your detective interact with official authorities? Is he a policeman or a PI? Is she an amateur crime-solver like Miss Marple? Does she solve mysteries as a hobby, but assist with investigations? Maybe he hasn't always been on the side of justice., such as Father Brown's friend Flambeau once the greatest jewel thief in Europe, turned detective. Perhaps your detective operates separately from public investigators or is too young to work professionally (like the Three Investigators, Nancy Drew or the Hardy Boys). Your detective may have a different occupation altogether: librarian, cleric, rabbi, pharmacist, garbage man (trash collectors see lots of dirty secrets). Lillian Jackson Braun's series "The Cat Who..."features a cat detective! 

Plot writing prompts for detective mystery stories: Frame the crime. It may involve a celebrated murder, international heist or art theft or it may be a local incident that affects only certain people. Maybe it's just an odd occurrence that unravels a larger problem. It could be a victimless crime fiction but victims make it more interesting. Details about what happened should come out little by little. The detective should be lead on a few wild goose chases by "red herrings" finding out whodunit. 

Outline and sequence the problem. Create a timetable for personal reference and draw a map of the crime scene and environs. These become the plot, but you can also add your map to the book. This mystery reader loves it when authors provide maps. Even if it's just a map of the study showing doors, furniture etc. I have trouble visualizing from verbal directions so this really helps me "see" the scenario. 

Detective story characters writing prompts: People the story. Who are the dramatis personae? Flesh out characters. Determines criminals, witnesses, suspects, accessories and assistants. Perhaps it's passengers and airplane crew, or members of a club or secret society in which the whodunit occurs. That narrows the field. Again, describe with accuracy and details but avoid stereotypes and tropes: beautiful, curvy blonde, hard-bitten detective, frail old man. Also keep the cast of suspects down to about 8-10 max. It's too difficult to keep plot lines clear otherwise. 

Detail writing prompts. Scatter some clues. Toss in subtle details that a witness may notice and mention to the detective, but not understand. Don't have the detective pick up on it right away. Readers love to catch things the detective originally misses but don't make it obvious. General clues are okay but try to spice them up. Tire marks could be from certain vehicle. Character clues--unique buttons from uniforms, grandfather's cuff links, Mrs. Highbrow's jewelry, a girl's personal perfume--could lead in one direction but be left by someone else. A smell of curry might have been planted to frame the Indian gentleman. These are called a red herrings and are useful if not too obvious. Also, don't make clues so complicated that only an expert would understand them. Don't dumb down or get too rarefied. 

Identify the MMO: Every crime is based motive, method and opportunity. The motive is the reason a character might have for committing a crime (money, jealousy). The method is how the crime committed (think Clue here--in the garage with a tire iron). The opportunity means who was available to have committed the crime. 

Identify the alibis (or lack thereof) for characters. According to the timetable, decide who was where and when at the time the problem occurred or crime was committed. The detective may remove someone from the suspects list and then re-add them as she finds new information. It really does work to make the criminal the least likely person, perhaps someone hovering in the background or someone who isn't who she claims to be. 

Write a climax. Generally, something intense happens which brings all the events together. It's usually an event of some drama, seemingly unrelated, with some element of surprise. You might include death, danger or disaster. It is this event that ultimately explains the mystery. There should be an explanation for why she did it, but it doesn't have to make sense. Grudges, scores settled, paybacks usually have deep roots. As the saying goes "old sins cast long shadows." 

Allude to solution, earlier on. Once you have your conclusion, be sure you hinted at it previously, but in a not obvious way, such as by something a character said or let slip. It's not fair to the reader, who is trying to solve the puzzle themselves, to have something completely unforeseen resolve the issue. It's cheating. My favorite plot devices are when children or previously discounted people (visually impaired teen, "senile" elderly person,, developmentally disabled man, "hysterical" woman) have said something that the detective overlooks (Miss Marple wouldn't) which come back to be helpful. 

Write your denouement: This is the resolution of the mystery. This is when secrets come out and loose ends are wrapped up. Some details will reveal themselves in the plot and your detective can articulate the rest: the what, who, when, where, how and why. Or, as was discussed before, you can leave some loose ends hanging, some questions unanswered. If the crime is wrapped up, summarize with a short conclusion on the outcome. As readers part company with the detective, you might even give a few hints about her next adventures, Be sure to read a few detective stories for inspiration

They put a black rose on my door

I don't talk about this much but today just seemed right to share my motherache. We lost both our 5th and 6th child, the last of our children, both girls, to separate in utero trauma. I have pictures of them but they are too vulnerable to share. The skin had not fully formed yet, and it makes me feel I need to protect them all the more. 

But they had little wrinkles on their knuckles. Seeing that was like a grapefruit spoon to the heart, or whatever part it is that hurts so bad when you see a tiny helpless being, your being, who you would give the world for and whom you can do nothing to save. A person who should grow up to annoy and worry you, but won't. 

Both little ladies were ironically the same gestational age when they passed away. But their causes of death were different. And we never found out what exactly happened with either. Here's more on that and a poem I wrote for Mary Therese. 

I got an infection, I think Strep B, no one ever said, with my Mary Therese. My water broke. She was alive and kicking right up to the end as my fluid leaked out and there wasn't a thing I could do to stop it. The doctor didn't catch it in time and it was mostly gone when he did. 

I felt when the fever broke and Mary Therese kissed me goodbye. I almost voluntarily checked myself out of life that day. I had a loving husband and darling children. But the pain burned so bad I thought it would devour me. Then Our Lady sent St. Teresa of Avila to talk sense into me. 

I know, it sounds insane. But I saw them both, plain as day. Maybe it was the delirium of the fever. Or the pain. It wasn't the drugs because I couldn't keep anything down. They would have let me have it because she was going to die anyway, they said. That could have been more tactfully said but I was past caring. 

And she did pass, but only after patiently keeping her mama company all that long, horrible night. The whole family was there, all night to say goodbye to baby sister. Big Sister Molly stayed awake the entire time and only fell asleep when Mary Therese left us to go to heaven. 

Maybe I just want to believe that heaven cares, that this is not the end, that I will hold my children again. You're darn right I do. Not much point in anything otherwise. 

They put a black rose on my door, in the maternity ward. To say, no baby here, nothing to see, just move along. 

Here's a poem I originally wrote for Associated Content for my little Mar. I wasn't ever going to name a baby after me, but somehow that name just seemed to fit her. Daddy wanted her to take part of Mama to heaven. Mary Therese's birthday and death day were January 5, 2001.

Waterlily Rose Maid

her eyes, green-gray, still waters, do not cry

not mirror nor window of soul-dark spaces

guardians hold prisoner, secrets shy

in soft tranquil deep and twilight traces

her skin, like dogwood blossoms translucent 

rose petal fair and water-lily pale 

heaven-bound as nimbus, storm-cloud spent 

fresh as a lamb, nested quiet in vale

no tears descend this tender, pallid cheek 

no sorrow escapes this unworldly maid 

no companion shares nor solace does seek 

perfect in slumber, unmoving and staid

Silent in her grave, somber and death-cold 

Never to feel pain, nor warmth of mother's arms enfold.

I wrote this a few years ago, in a darker place. Now I know that you will feel our arms, baby. I think in some way you already do. 

Love always, mama. 

Quirky verse of write and wrong

(This is Mord. Mord judges. He also forgets to wind in his tongue. We like Mord, judgmental dweeb that he is.)

wrong or right 

good or bad

down or up

happy or sad

upside right

wrong side out

topsy turvy 

smile or pout

why'm I asking

what's it about?

seeking answers

or confirming doubt?

maybe answers 

aren't wrong nor right

perhaps the questions 

aren't black or white?

lets flip queries

so answers come round

or we may find no 

answers to be found

what say we mix 

contrasts a bit

reframing them not

as polar opposite 

the snarky zebra

in a poem by Shel

parsed the dilemma

I thought quite well

on color of stripe

was he white on black

or black against white

he retorted back

are you good with bad 

or mostly the latter?

Happy with sad times

and does it matter

I'm a bit of both

in my wide open mind

and all of the above

plus some undefined

rage with spendour

sun alongside rain

round with sharp edges

going against the grain

angst and sangfroid

going slowly fast 

arrive to depart

first things come last

then the puzzle of

lexicology 

rewording rightly

to order priority

not right or wrong 

but help or harm 

within or withheld

left cold or kept warm

of conjunctions 

carefully choose 

and, but, or matter

which one you use

safe and secure

cherished and dear

mother and child

no room for "or" here

to bring it all round

let's end with fun

in silly contrasts 

here's the first one

pond scum green, do not drink

child's tights in sky blue pink

plaid jumper with odd socks

day-glo night of diamond ink

so much for my write and wrong

here ends sermon and the song

I'd more to say but I forgot

next time won't you sing along

The ceremonial supper summoning dance

All is calm in the house

save keyboard klackety-kiss

no creature was stirring 

ah sweet peaceful bliss

then thump-whump tippy tap

pitter kitty -pat-pats

meorowy serenade 

of two hungry little cats

Their litany opens with 

ritual dinner dance

summoning food gods with

tandem ceremonial prance 

paw two three four swish

up two three four bump

minor fall,  major lift

the arabesque counter jump

gratuitous reminder nips

and clawing of the knees

less of the Grand Guignol

dear brutes if you please

snapping "it's only half past"

you cant' be hungry yet

if I feed you early 

that is all that you get

oh, very well, have at it

in life three things abide 

death, taxes and needy cats

from them you cannot hide

slipper shuffle scuffle 

opening tins with curses 

slop slup-glupped into dishes

shuffle back again to verses  

nom-nom noise of tucking in

to their stinky fish feasts

post-prandial bathing of

two silky furred beasts 

last roundy-round with knead

as they tenderize their beds

twin VW engines snoring 

as they rest weary heads 

Eulogy to today

sun flares in great Amen

as to netherworld she goes

cosmic beach ball on lake

leaving all a flaming rose 

sunset sky afterglow 

puce and vermillion red

solar consolation gifts 

signaling time for bed

Crown Royal purple night

blankets lake back dune

spring peepers greeting 

felt caterpillar cocoon

on mouse pillow willow

from snake eyelash depends

defying laws of gravity

as in mid-air it suspends

in forest fire swamp

gilt embroidered log

diamond crusted snails trail

glimmers in gemstone fog 

molasses deep groans

from velvet butter bells

bidding us good rest 

as the Last Post knells

day neatly folds herself

in envelope of night

never to be seen again

new one dawns with light

So I shall dedicate

this poem to today 

a wholly gestalt self 

thank you for your brief stay

Nightmare Carnival Macabre

don't need no tickets

for these carnival rides 

nor the circus big top

with the heaving insides

three rings of thrills

my own funfair midway

endless freakshow parade 

greets my end of day 

organ grinder monkey

on his hurdy-gurdy 

croons nightmare lullaby 

to the clown's calliope  

show starts the moment

I close my eyes and brain

sleep finds me caged

on circus animal train

swirling tilt-a-whirl 

Hurky, jerking, twerking

wits spun out of order 

by the octopus lurking 

wish it took money

for Ferris wheel seat

So I can get off

and find my own feet

the rides that begin

must come to an end

my mind loop-de-loop

just rounds another bend 

foot stuck on the track

and here comes the train

following the leader

round the carousel again

tartan skirt stuck fast

in spinning bar stool

gladiator winding me

up to play the fool

maybe it's the zipper 

a bolt's snapped at last 

never knowing where I am

or just what has me fast 

trapped by my bad arm

dragged along the ground

oh God here we go

on the Mary-go-round

see the little dolly dance 

and vomit on the floor

has she had enough, folks 

or shall we cry for more?

shout out Himalaya!

if you wanna go fast 

faces melt like cheese toast

in the mob whizzing past

stop the Gatling guns

of the shooting gallery

I want to get out now

no more firing on me

Now playing at cranes 

losing and never won

fed them all my coin

till I have not a one

who said this was fun 

why am in this place?

mirrors only leading to

more images of my face

tiny dancer twirls

for the girl who owns

revolves upon toes

crumbling her bones

ballerina coffined 

in the jewelry box 

entombed by the child

with keys to the locks

clown in the torn skirt

and the Mr. Punch mask

contorting balloon dogs

is his happy task

with this Pied Piper

marionette frog march

down tunnel of love

to hell's marble arch

beckoning with candy floss

so sweetly he does urge

behind Spartacus smile

we don't see his scrouge 

nightmares so violent

they threaten sanity

if I told they'd lock me

up and throw away the key

This started as a nature poem, sigh. 

 

On stopping by a diner with kids

Long road trip overtired crabby kids in need of sustenance, stopping by a diner on a snowy night in the middle of nowhere. A proper greasy spoon,  open 24 hours where the waitress is insulted if you call her a server and wears a proper waitress uniform with the orthopedic shoes. 

She's been serving people since before they put the new highway in, when the place was just called Truck Stop. She  doesn't hover asking how everything is tasting every 6 seconds but keeps your coffee fresh, filled and hot and remembers each order without writing it down. She calls you "Honey" and brings extra napkins and not just one but a dish of lemon wedges for the snooty oldest teen daughter's lemon water. 

Where truckers belly up to the lunch counter, perched on red vinyl covered stools you loved to spin on as a kid.  Chatting with the waitress behind the counter with the bubbler dispensers of of temptingly colored Hawaiian Punch and Orange Hi-C.  And the dessert case with individual pieces of Saran-wrapped cakes and pies. Men apologizing for accidentally making crude references. But no one really minds and when the mouthy behavior police 9 y/o asks why he said that, you say because people just do sometimes. Mind your business, don't stare it's rude and eat your supper. 

Tired men who drive across the country and are just glad they got there in time for a slice of the rhubarb pie, special of the house. Smiling at the kids, offering them quarters for the gumball machine which you would rather they did not take and gum they need like a hole in the head. But you feel obliged to say yes, because no one wants to hurt the feelings of someone with such bonhomie. And golly he reminds you of your kooky uncle Dave, may he rest in peace. 

Most of the kids eating eff all of the canned green beans you insisted they have with their meal. And snooty teen eating NOTHING BUT broccoli to spite you because she's mad you didn't stop where she wanted to. Or some such thing. It's so hard to keep track of what they are mad at you for at that age. 

And the rest filling up on French fries and pancakes drenched and syrup then eating the jelly out of the little plastic cartons that the waitress set out for the breakfast crowd. And kids playing with salt and accidentally spilling it . And copying their father putting creamers in his eyes and saying "take me to your leader!" Worse than the children! Kids begging for ice cream with half their pancakes uneaten. The little one eating French fries off the floor. And snooty one glaring at everyone. 

Mom and dad unwinding over their coffee and hot turkey sandwiches, relaxed by food and warmed by the cozy, grilled onion ambiance. Just kind of letting the kids' chaos happen a little. No one seems to mind. Leaving the waitress an astonishingly big tip to thank her for putting up with you all. And then she comes and tells you you have the best behaved kids she's ever seen and brings them free ice cream anyway. And the kids smirking at you over their chocolate mustaches. 

Hang on to these times. Savor the memories like syrup drenched pancakes. They're gone before you even realized they were there. 

In memory of a diner called Truck Stop along U.S. 2 in Michigan's  U.P. And a waitress named Barb who charged us whole pie price rather than individual pieces which would have cost twice as much. And bringing out a massive commercial size whipped topping thingy, to boot.  And Molly, serves you right your broccoli was overcooked and you went hungry. You should have had the chicken like we said. 

Poetry metacognition

I've been asked a lot where 

I get ideas for my poems and 

I don't know how to answer without

sounding fatuous or enigmatic 

or precious and tiresome 

To say I don't know is truth and lie

Can you know and not know

Or maybe you don't recognize

till you do and then you knew

you knew it all along? 

So I just start writing and see where it goes

Usually I end up more scribe than author

for there is an impetus I can't name 

that drives my thoughts and my pen

like spirit writing advertised at seances

What I've learned is that poems 

don't come from the atmosphere 

they don't grow on a tree like

ripe peaches waiting to be picked

if anything, poems pick you 

Mine come from muscle memory

and kneejerk responses and too long

silenced grief and frustration and 

feelings forced into tiny envelopes 

that can't hold them and split 

like a rug you stumble over because

too much junk has been swept under it

then you pick yourself up, dust yourself off

purge the clutter and walk smoother

more confident in your picture frame

and joy too big and bold and bombastic

earth splitting, ear shattering love 

what is and what could have been

what was and is, now and then and never

tiny nonpareils of peace sprinkled 

on fairy cakes at a child's tea party

where the grownups are drunk 

and raging and chaotic 

still we sip our tea and smile

Poems source from my mind tree's trunk 

and course through me like sap in heartwood

They're don't come from or through, they are me.  

They advocate for me 

they are my ambassadors 

Some verse bursts like a lanced boil

others leak out in weeping you can't hide

some bubble up like a well tapped

others sit and stew, marinating till

the time comes for them to speak out 

One thing I know for sure is you 

have to write when it's time. Don't push down

go big and deep and loud. Say stuff that 

might sound silly. Don't just say it, 

spray it like a huge graffiti mural

Don't let the hakken-kraks hush you 

don't second-guess or back down

it's poetry and there are no wrong ones

save those you don't give voice

that would be the real tragedy 

To rhyme is sublime and to not is fine

gonna try to break the rhyming

and the syllable counting habit 

so I can get my thoughts to coalesce

like turmeric and coriander bloomed in oil

more robust and diffuse and less restricted

rhyming can be a girdle worn

to compress or shrink ideas into 

tight boxes, but like Mexican  jumping beans

it may not flow in stricture of parsing 

in sound byte and measured stanzas

Rhyme isn't critical to  poetry

I mean look Williams' famous ditty

"this is just to say" about the plums

it was a note left on a fridge 

like an accidental scrap 

I didn't use to verse found it too tedious

but once begun my mind can't stop 

(Even now I'm seeking rhyme for tedious)

it's like you forget your mother tongue

by learning another language 

and having said that, rhyme is good discipline

it makes me struggle to find partners words 

and counting syllables gives a nice rhythm

poetry worth writing should come with 

some wrestling and head scratching and a few curses

It does however mean that I must forgo

words I'd really like to use because 

they don't fit, like a can that holds the door

open because it is proud of the shelf

But (there are lots of buts) that

too, stretches me to find that 

chef's kiss word to nail the dish

like the spice you didn't know was missing till you did

I test drive countless words to 

hit the flavor I'm seeking 

it might take Edison's 3,000 tries 

but when you get it right, you know

and the whole thing  lifts and takes off

and your heart sings

Steaming down from Birmingham one cold December day

in the shrine of the pine

in murky backdune gloam

last call for this train

as it steams us home

we're going deep tonight 

on lonesome railroad ride

 find your seat, ticket please

let's don't miss the other side

listen to her rumble as 

she croons to hobo's squall 

earth mother locomotive 

sharing herself with us all 

Serdeczna Matko dear

so beloved it hurts to sing

I don't know much about you

perhaps we've met in passing?

load-bearing ferry-woman 

carries her children safely home

Gaia, our goddess mama 

will never leave us alone 

many images of mother

mashed like praties for me 

I'll have to go rogue 

to get me any clarity 

choo-choo train and deity 

my Immaculata lady 

can anyone find my mama 

or a mama to love me?

 

I saw three ships come sailing

Father, son and Mother Mary 

steaming down from Birmingham

with shoulder rides for little me  

Mixing references like drinks

upon this night-night train

is the only way to make sense

of my mashed potato brain 

too cold to take off my coat

clacking away at my rhyme

cold that gets in your soul

and doesn't warm with wine

feet like ice blocks carved 

from lake Michigan whole 

when they used ice tongs

which grampa found and stole 

(from the abandoned Swett place in the dunes

long-forgotten. If they wanted 'em they should have taken them and they didn't so no harm done)

on highway made of steel

endless faceless porter men

no points, none keeping score  

Will we ever see their kind again?

the railway's done and gone 

but a few ghosts I sill see 

of old men and their daughters 

rolling out of Kankakee. 

I'm the dad and  daughter

my old man and the sea

Granddad and the porters on

the train they call Memory  

For my da and granda and my husband and his da and his granda and my boys and girls. And me. 

A silly little rondo of song

trinkle tinkle ring says 

the wind in the chime 

singing through the trees

in the chapel of the pine

to the belfry tower

hear bells grumble rumble

chanting out their prayers

in baritone choir mumble 

to the white steeple tall 

one ringer all alone 

on church in the vale

pulls his funeral tone 

to glockenspiel in park

mazurka herky jerk

xylophone frilly trill 

for dancers of clockwork

to the lady with harp

on a promenade pier 

gently caressing strings

for little kids to hear 

to children's kitchen band 

on kazoo and oatmeal drum

and kleenex box fiddles 

do loudly pluck and strum

to the bird in the tree 

in our yard in her nest 

tweets last post and chorus 

as we all head in to rest 

back round the music plays

full circle to the chime 

it all begins and ends again

in our chapel of the pine

(picture is a gate-crasher at our nightly orchestral hijinks. But welcome none-the-less). 

Thank you for reading

Thank you to all who read

my funny blog of rhyme

I don't know who you are

nor if with them you chime 

perhaps you stumbled here

by inadvertent mistake  

then found you some comfort

and thought a rest to take

the reason for the reading

is not for me to tell 

just know you're most welcome 

to stop and bide a spell 

Pardon our dust, scattered

ideas like crumbs everywhere

Fragments of markings strewn 

hang on, I'll clear a chair

so what shall we talk about

tho if you've questions, I fear

I'm better clacking keyboard 

then verbalizing thoughts clear

I don't explain my poems

and I will never defend 

read or leave as written 

on that I will not bend

They are surely imperfect 

I do not disagree 

but I stand by them because

they've always stood by me

So if you're here to browse

if you seek no fault to find

then sit down and grab a pen

and jot down what's on your mind. 

 

The printing press in the workshop in the basement

certain phrases have their say

in my poems frequently 

more than mere lexicon 

they're my spirit vocabulary 

black as printer's ink 

a simile I often use

meaning more than it says

exposing more than I'd choose

ink's only black in print and

black ink isn't black you see

it's a rainbow-hued spectrum 

revealed by chromatography

I only discuss the science

to distract from the memory 

of basement press and printer

making little name cards for me

letterpress cabinet drawer 

with names like copperplate bold

tiny metal characters neatly stored

such wondrous order to behold. 

Upon the composing stick 

he'd arrange moveable type

tempting trays forbidden me

about that I did often gripe 

typesetting print to read

was technology back then

the typewriter's clacking keys 

replacing human hand and pen 

now we push buttonless buttons

a mystery I can't comprehend

touch screens are now touchless

instead of mailing we say "send." 

now we don't write we "text"

instead of talking we "interface"

we talk to boxes not friends

connected in cyberspace

computers are nice compared 

to messy loud  printing press

or typewriter's many headaches

digit-less digital is less stress

we've got to look forward and

Grampa would be first to agree

looking only backward you miss 

all the cool new things to see 

But (there's always one) we still 

found something gestalt in the press

though always covered in ink

it' was a "type" of mood therapy I guess 

I often mind walk in the workshop  

down in Crestwood Memory Lane 

to sort, if allowed, his letterbox

I will never see the like again

Pictures from Wikipedia user https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/User:Trimalchio and Willi Heidelbach. 

Sitting shiva by our lake

crickle camp fire crackles

from trickly drip mist bog

sip vintage spruce sap wine 

atop birchwood swamp log

wet wood smoky choky 

impromptu bonfire night 

midsummer daze-y haze

from bejeweled flame light

translucent and transcending

tongues untied by the wine

primeval wisdom descending 

helped by fire, water and vine

t'was ever thus, this ritual

immemorial riddles break

eternity's secrets told round 

primordial old growth lake

woods-wise elders saging

universe mysteries meditating

dune conclave arbitrating

hemlock scented mediating 

I was young by the lake

in paradise I called mine

I walked among giants once

in faraway long ago time

with an elder wise as a god 

nattering on freely we did 

never shushing  nor shaming 

keep mum was all he forbid 

demanding I ask my questions

treating them with gravitas

no matter how trite or common

foolish were only the unasked. 

unschooled yet wise past time

this trodder of untrodden ways 

the acolyte pays her homage

to my dearest ancient of days

he was more than Irish charm 

he'd charisma, gin and IT

with a twist of lime and pine

blarney with no bullshit

transparent where he could

opaque on his own pain

translucent when needs must

blurring bad with twilight rain

I've tried hard not to stray 

to printer's black ink rhyme

all it gets is hurt by my

endless jitterbug with time. 

he passed so quietly it hurts

no footprints left by our sea

thus this elegiac wander 

to my grandfather from me

and so I pick up his torch  

of peripatetic homily

continuing Opi's opus

to kinderen entrusted to me

I shall be the elder now

sitting shiva by our lake 

keening out the lessons

in a perfectly Granda wake

I love you Grampa-Opi Kinney. Moy Dorogoy. Mo chridhe 

Rest in peace. 

No second line on this funeral train

"just a closer walk with thee

grant it Jesus is my plea"

so many hymns I sung to God

yet love heaven withheld from me

we're told we've friend in Jesus

our sins and griefs  he'll bear. 

all my griefs and parents' sins I bore

never felt Jesus nor anyone there

I didn't see that till, well now

and that helps unravel a mystery

filling pews in all the churches

I sat pretty much alone and lonely

where were they when this 

church hopping they did

or maybe the question is 

where was I, their little kid?

All memories are of me alone

for the life of me I can't recall

shouldering too heavy burdens 

laid upon me by them all

I was scapegoat and servant

surrogate parent and spouse to all

I carried their privy cans of shit

and took for everyone a routine fall

a friend asked yesterday how

child me felt treated so odd

parents owning me like property

making me think they all were god

couldn't say, never thought about 

needs, wants, self verboten for me

existing in shadow like baby ghost 

stumbling clumsily along periphery 

dragged along begrudgingly 

bounced between his or her home

to their next big Ponzi scheme

never having a home of my own

Each obsessed with themselves 

and the new people they found 

expected to parent and char for all

used to them never being around

growing up by accident despite

their harm not because of their aid

dancing for scraps like a dog

being very and always afraid

fear of pissing them off 

I always made them so mad

fear of failing and being in their way 

those called stepparents, mom and dad

what pictures remain, so few do 

show my anxious pinched face 

trying hard to smile and perhaps 

oh frabjuous day, find my place

I've read, didn't know back then

that keeping mum, small and hid

wearing pain scars like death mask

are tell-tale signs of an abused kid 

now an adult or what passes for that

I still try to take up no space at all 

I pretzel and crumple myself up

like used Kleenex rolled in a ball

I'm sore everywhere, everything aches 

from bowing and bending myself so low

I've broken and torn myself  to shreds 

I don't know how much lower I can go

about the songs I sang in church

all this harm parents did only to me

dislocated, cold, shattered to bits

Friend Jesus was not anywhere to see

He may have been, we're told it's so

but surrounded by anger, hurt and pain

God seems blind, deaf, dumb and shut

you can't see the Son through storm and rain

they were so selfish and off 

whatever shit they wanted I gave

Provided for them at my own cost

still hear his shame from the grave

bitch of it is  I get relief

from parent cruelty I can't separate

no rest for the weary even in sleep

can't leave pain at the cemetery gate

voices yammering in my brain

dying only makes louder and worse 

songs choked by toxic fumes from

gaslighting powered funeral hearse

no hope for peace from this death train

forbidden the jubilant second line 

their jazz funeral express non-stop

 "closer walk" dirge march through time

The girl with the sandburr in her side

now that I'm out it's out

the dirty little secrets we kept

shackled by their heavy burdens

it's about damn time I wept

now that weeping's begun

hang on it's gonna get loud

ugly crying, threats and curses

to spit it out I'm not too proud

I'm stooping to their level?

you say but you don't know

there's no rock bottom to 

which my parents would not go 

You call my truth vindictive

two wrongs don't make right

you curse my darkness yet 

you offer me no light 

but pointing wrong way round

your wagging digit of blame 

excusing parent perpetrators

while scolding my spoken shame 

 

but just remember and beware

the lecturing you so often do 

when that finger you point at me

four more point back at you

it's not for her dirty secrets

that the kid is taking the rap

it's shit they did to her 

so shut your flapping trap 

open up mind and stop your

tone-deaf prat so crass

hear my inner child out

don't make yourself the ass

what you call disloyal is me 

calling out dad's vowed suicide 

premeditated death weaponized 

to make me cower and hide

and what about your mom

she's victim too you say 

funny now you mention it

that's exactly what she would say

"what about Nancy?" is the

burden of her theme 

her utter narcissism has

become a classic meme 

when dad dumped on me

mother turned her face away

concerned only about herself 

abandoning me each and every way  

when I asked for help 

she shrugged and tossed her head

callous to death and pain

let's focus on her instead

caring not that her little girl 

was drifting out to sea

in fact mommy cut the rope 

and glibly gaslit my reality 

since then and to this day

no one's ever thrown a bone 

being pre-emptively pall bearer 

was a fear I carried alone 

we didn't know nor spoke of

such things back in the day

well I lived then too and alonee

with no one to guide my way

and scuze me, did I just hear 

you defend adults who did not 

help to carry a child's load 

left her to shoulder the lot? 

Standing on your ignorance

I'm sorry that just won't do 

what you're ignoring is conscience

I'll hear no sermons from you

And spare me your fake pity

if sorrow you have for me 

I can't hear your caring

over your ignoring complicity

even if you confessed guilt

it's many days and dollars to late

Keep your  sorrys to yourself

They're well past their sell-by date

and funny how mea culpaes 

until eleventh hour wait upon

fire insurance apologies aren't 

worth the paper they're printed on

sorry they say but don't mean

you'll get no sad contrition

they're only sorry they got caught 

you'll be lucky to get admission

dressed in DARVO and excuse 

if admission you ever get 

then it's begrudgingly only

when trapped in their own net

but be careful, don't trust 

for there will surely be a snare 

that comes back to snag you 

when their sins they must declare

gaslighting was their legacy 

it's what silenced my voice 

groomed to bear their guilt 

having no aid, solace nor choice

help arrived late or not at all

it took me 60 years to see

all the scars and bruises they

continually inflicted upon me 

to rescue little me I 

write out my pain in rhyme

big me owes small her a 

life ring thrown back in time 

my grasp must exceed reach

If I'm us both to save 

arms stretched far and deep 

lest we sink under the wave

expect more dark verses

as I go down the well 

there's lots of us trapped there

and a lot more pain to tell

This ain't over, Jack (or) we've only just begun to die

Hello it's me again 

the death-eater dad's spawn

the brain-cursed kid on whom

the doom is starting to dawn

back for round two in the

memory goo-stew to romp 

got some personal hell to sort

and evil juju to curb stomp

parting gift from my pater's

dark flirtation with the grave

You haven't heard the last of  this, Jack

I've got an inner child to save

my old man who knew I 

hated him self-applying that name

when I tearfully told him so

LOLed and did it just the same

And speaking of dumping junk 

in your kid's mind to blight

it wasn't the only or worst 

for me he'd a special gelignite 

To call it by name is verboten

you can't even use the word 

it starts with sui and ends in cide

but fine for this kid to have heard

so I can't pen about the pain 

that my father inflicted on me

internet protocol forbids that I

spell out his threatened heresy 

and beyond threats, promising

he'd bring himself to an end

I'd cry and beg him not to 

he'd smirk and leave me to fend

( I was five). 

I see now he was bluffing 

my eyes washed clear by tears

the self-harm song he sung

just to trip-wire my worst fears

terrified that he'd upsticks and go

as he and mom had often done 

I'd walk through fire to shield him 

from the Ku-Klux-Klan of his gun

I see now it wasn't for me

that I body blocked my dad

it was for him that I feared 

it hurt like hell to see him sad

but now I ask myself was he

sad or were S-word threats a tool

to get me to do what he wanted 

to see me dance like a motley fool?

who sends a kid to fight the

demon horde in his stead 

combat fatigue like no other

it sent me out of my head

But a wary word to the wise

too little too late for young me

you can't fight the dark with only

dad's gaslighting by which to see

I'm so exhausted by grief 

and this poem has no close 

this ain't over by a long chalk

I've much more hurt to expose

there's no such thing as closure 

I'm bleeding from so many sores 

unlocking one door just leads to 

many more crazy confusing doors. 

But this ain't over Jack. Not even if the fat lady sings. 

(photo is me at age 6 or 7 around when he started his death threats)

Black Rhyme Time

I love to pen the poems 

of dunes and lake and rain

there are times for those but

also for my sonnets of pain

Shakespeare, or his ghost writ

bled out his heart in rhyme

I find dank verse comforting 

their harsh jarring notes sublime

I've a black parade of memories

but I won't sing a morbid tune

I'd a death-eater dad for that

it's to the falling but trying I croon 

ever notice how "help" can hurt? 

on essential cruelty BS we're fed

healing by inflicting suffering 

to bloodletting nonsense we're wed

 

Sure there's stuff I don't know

but I really don't get why 

if help helps and hurts hurts 

will it actually help if I die?

Cuz it really hurts like hell

That's how "therapy" can feel

by gutting, debriding and dicing are

they cutting off more than they heal?

That's where poetry has a place

to our suffering it gives voice

you can opt bearing down and tearing 

but know that you have a choice

we can sing out our bleeding

or in theatre we can bleed out 

is everything salvageable with verse?

that's what this verse is about

It's naive and yet I find 

salve in my bitter refrain  

my soul wounds embracing 

instead of opening up a vein

So let the blackness come 

let sorrowing heart waters flow

let justice roll down like tears 

as to my River Styx I go 

That's where the prussic acid

in my black rhymes originates

damned dammed up flood rivers 

neither pooh-poohs nor placates 

no condescending shush-hushing

Hurt must be screamed out in song 

all the little lost souls grieved for 

this shit won't be quiet for long

so with this ship I'll go down

and on this bloody hill I'll die

let's quit spit-balling platitudes

and take a stand on the why 

why so many broken people?

why do they choose the dark side

call it what you will it's the same

self-harm, or dare we say suicide?

So let's name it and claim it 

with guns and bombs we're sending

so many to what it fucking is

the endless end without ending 

and I don't have rhyme for that. 

Some us went down that path

to their promised uncloudy day

us blind, crippled, lame and insane

sent on our hopeless, helpless way 

And it's because I well recall 

many filthy, grimy bleak days

I don't want any of mine to 

trod in my footprinted dark ways 

ways which were preordained

by my death eating dad of yore

ways which I inherited but still  

I don't want to go down anymore

so now we come to the gist 

to prevent I WILL go down the

fiery slide to Hades and more 

whatever it takes to protect them

I'll open up that unhallowed door

I'm not brave but I owe

to my beloved posterity 

to exorcise demons so we

can I hope live clean and free

but I'll admit that I'm anxious

to face down Satan's horde

may handsome boatman Charon

ferry us both safely back to shore  

with love to my handsome boatman 

Albert by name, psychopomp by trade

(photo is me around 7 already carrying a lot of pain)

I found the moon for us

our dear Jakey A was a 

lovely little man child

though you daren't call him

lil guy lest the boy go wild 

workman was the name

young Jakob best preferred

(loudly demanding) by that 

title he should be referred 

his workman job description

included some duties at night

this industrious third shifter

made sure to do his tasks right

self-appointed watch to keep 

when day began to wane

he'd always find the moon for us

from his bedroom window pane

when moon played hide n seek

and Luna was difficult to find 

Our Magus persisted diligently 

that rascally orb to mind 

nights when moon was new

her face seemed turned away  

Jake would explain she had to

shine on other kids that day

or when on stormy nights 

she couldn't be found at all

he'd cheerfully remind us she

still shone behind cloud pall 

 

his efforts were appreciated

keeping track was too much work 

it's nice to have a moon finder 

who never does his task shirk

adults get busy and we forget

simple pleasure can be ours 

thank God for our workman

displaying his universe of stars 

he was emcee and impresario

at the stellar moonshine show

bidding us come and hurry 

to see friend moon all aglow 

sometimes it takes a small one 

musing upon the heavens above

to draw our attention moonward 

and to help us feel her love

Jake now wears the dad hat 

has his own flock to tend

adulting leaves no moon time 

when there's work without end

but happily for everyone

a successor was begat 

a sweet starry-eyed maiden 

to wear the moon minder hat

All's well that ends well

now we've a star tender again

each night she finds the moon for us

Thank you, dear little Flora Lane 

our Gen 2 skygazer performs her

job, like pa, conscientiously

never a night goes by without

her checking for the moon to see

We're blessed, said the spider

for just a moment in time 

to gaze outside the window and

dance to earth's eternal rhyme

So peek out your peek hole

in whatever nest you call home

moon is smiling down on you 

to say you're never truly alone 

With love to the Magi, then, now and to come

Death-eating father

This ain't one of my 

summer sunshine rhymes

sorry fresh out tonight 

this is for blue black times

I'm not normally one to

let my inner goth out

but there are times when 

she needs to howl and shout

there was a man, a wolf

no, a werewolf was he

he was black Irish charming 

this wolfman father to me

he had a curse on him that 

he alas to me passed on 

or he cursed us both with

his morbid self-harm passion

death by name, death by trade

my pater was fixated upon 

a modern pre-Raphaelite with

unholy suicidal obsession

So very romantic, innit?

Poe, Rosetti and Millais

such fine young gentlemen

must have their peccadillo play 

look at all the little punters 

those dreamy soul-eyed pens

halcyon nights smoking life away

in disease ridden opium dens 

in laudanum induced stupor 

fantasizing about a red head

who by her own hand made 

herself all drowned and dead

isn't it a bitch when your 

superheroes show their grime?

welcome to my world folks 

that's what happened in mine    

he was my Ozymandias

despite having feet of clay 

we all do of course but

his were the muckiest of clay

by clay I mean earth, dust

eaten up by moth and worm

plotted his own decomposing

composing  his funereal requiem 

I get Mozart,  us both co-opted 

to play death disc in reverse 

to sound knell prematurely our 

dear old dads forced on us 

unlike Wolfgang I didn't have to

Pre-emptively eulogize my dad

I don't know if on reflecting

it woulda been any less bad

what the hell is wrong with 

these death-eating fathers of ours

bloody consumed with fussing 

about arranging their canopic jars?

so discussing this is hard and

I'm coming to it roundabout 

with all my highfalutin nods

why can't I just spit it out?

me dah detailed his bucket kicking

urged me to join in suicide pact 

his death wish 'bout destroyed me 

his the plan, but mine the act

on top of his threats, the guilt

made worse by the well-intentioned 

wondering aloud at his motives 

my shame increased when questioned

did he jump or was he pushed?

did it predate him enshrined in tomb?

his constant cakewalk with the grave

might it have begun in the womb?

I'm tempted to cut him slack 

cuz that's what I always do (did)

did he have a secret half life

that he kept from me well hid?

Was there some abiding pain that

made him speak fluent self-harm

did my dear grandparents hurt him

and set off his coffin alarm?

but how and when he did shows

endless talk of ending was ruse

to claim exemption without remorse

was a weapon to punish and abuse

I was threatened with his rope 

when he wanted an exit or excuse

suicide promises have a way 

of shutting down home truths 

funny tho it's never themselves

with whom they plan to do away  

vampirically they suck your self 

till you've no spark to light your day 

But I found my voice recently

and I find I've got a lot to say

to him who terrorized little me

dicing with death to get his way

yet too late now the doom's on me

the mirror's cracked side to side

taunts of his self-death ruined me

the gates of my hell opened wide

It's a curse I'm stuck with 

this tendency toward self-harm 

the loop has come full circle

now it's me sounding the alarm

I hate like hell I'm like this

it's knee-jerk though unwillingly

passing on the devil's contagion 

hurting my beloved posterity 

sins of my dad, brain-staining

Mea culpae for my many wrongs

mea maxima culpae, though two wrongs

don't unwrite the death-eater songs

I can't erase what's past but 

I can ease our today pain  

stop the evil juggernaut and

derail the ceaseless self-hurt train

I have to. I owe it to them. 

--with sorrow, contrition and love to the family circle

--and prayers to the Heavenly Father to help me to excise this generational cancer of the soul

--picture is me and Wolfman Jack about two years before he started sharing his death wish with me. Don't let the fond pose fool you. This is Instagram foreshadowing performative parenting for the camera. Usually he was nowhere to be found. Or mad at me. 

                     

It's my poem and I'll cry if I want to

You scold my poems because

they've a bitter bit of sting

the acrid sour anthems 

I've finally begun to ring

I'm "too heavy" you say

I should write with levity

think rainbow colored ponies

down chalice of poison Hi-C

Much as I'd love to be

a brighter shade of pale

tempting as prussic is not

mine's a Bleaker street tale

My biography was ever 

tart with lacrimal note

I owe no explanation

I'm not taking a vote

demanding I defend

my verse's tear-salt word

shows you weren't listening 

you never saw nor heard

you turn your back now

as you always did back then 

against deaf-blind-muteness

why bother to defend? 

there are none so deaf 

as those who won't hear

none so obtuse as they who

harden eye, heart and ear 

If you still insist on reasons

don't miss your hand pulling strings

flip the mirror roundside right

you'll see how you messed up things

you called me oversensitive 

such hypocritical arrogance 

YOU told ME to sunny up, you?

the death-eating vampire prince?

May I ask why it's essential 

I sing a Nutra-sweet refrain? 

what's in it for you to 

tart up my memory train?

why the gaslighting dreck?

that fault lies with the hurt one

that reporting is worse than

what and by whom harm was done? 

Eleventh hour awareness shows

you bound and gagged my voice 

now your dirty blame shame game 

exposes your abuse as a choice 

you claim my remembrances mean

because I'm ashamed I'm to blame

what they reveal is you playing 

your sick Twister DARVO game

but I guess I should thank you 

your agenda demonstrates a lot

my shell-shocked brain now sees

that loving parents you were not

your overplayed your hand

the biter bit by her own fang

you're too up yourself to see 

by your own rope you'll hang

so beware your slip is showing  

you effed around and found out

your pink slip has been issued  

you're fired for messing about 

in this sorry song of mine

it's here we turn a corner

do an about face on shame and

be our lost child's chief mourner 

their pride killed small selves 

time the solipsists were leaving

ignore their fanned out voices 

get on with overdue grieving

time to permit myself to

repeat the shit they said

to evict rent-free squatter

flying monkeys from my head 

I didn't think it needed 

to be reiterated again

that tears too long unshed 

just burn in endless pain

it's me that's hurting not you

childhood reduced to ashes

you never had a Kleenex for

tears brimming behind lashes 

It ain't pretty inside me 

it's a grubby rubbish pile

But to heal the yuck within

I must dwell on it awhile

if it's inconvenient to hear

if you cannot sit beside me

think how hard it is to live and

don't mellow my harsh reality

Keep your toxic platitudes 

Save them for your rainy day

when your angst overflows

and everyone's gone away

I don't want your cheery

unicorns sparkly brite 

you scoop their poop but

beware, dem bitches bite

I don't give a fat rat's arse

who does or doesn't like my song

It's my poem, I'll cry if I want

you're free to read or move along

Grama-grampa reminise-storys: a verse in scents

Remembering the grama-grampa

house now has faded with time

but the scents and smells stay strong 

in this jumble sale mind of mine 

den redolent of evergreen

from closet conifer lined

I played without toys 

had a grand old time

also scents of mothballs

from cedar closet of hers

placed to protect grandma's

coveted fox and monkey furs

In den lived countless curios 

inkwell, gramophone, ukulele 

something called a stereoscope

church organ grampa played for me

ornate marble top table

I now have in my bedroom 

it holds her Christmas angels

and old Avon bottle of perfume

this ungodly heavy table 

with fussy carved woodwork

made when quality mattered more

than figures in a ledger book

on it family photos displayed

inscribed with spider-writing names

smelt of masonry and musty dust 

from oft-repaired antique frames

a vintage decanter set 

gave off faint odors of hooch

a riding crop adding horse scent

long-gone dog leash, hints of pooch 

everywhere notes of furniture polish

that iconic lemon Pledge smell

grampa took care to dust and wax

if he didn't she'd give him h-ll (🤣)

writing brought back memory

minds-eye looking out window  

in fragrant warm contentment

watching as it began to snow

attic smelt of wet wool mildew

sniffs of kerosene in the air

of army blanket and mattress ticking

and old toboggan stored up there

basement nosed of cardboard 

and the big Lionel steam train 

board games by the fireplace 

smoke with heated metal refrain

in cellar multi-tiered perfumes

engine oil, printer ink and Ajax

workshop, metallic, wood and glue

and solvents of epoxy and tacks 

a beach-sand-water smell

did a spicy fragrance make 

added to the overall aroma

of the house beside the lake

And best was grama's cooking

the savory, sweet and fine

her tiny kitchen table was

the very best place to dine

It's not just about smells 

they have lessons to tell

about treasuring and preserving

and loving often, much and well

It's old things lovingly saved

curious curios, not really toys

lack of playthings far surpassed 

by those bygone gestalt joys

A pair of tiny great grandma boots 

A gun from American civil war,

A furry ancestor hat and photos

And super 8 home movies galore

Each with tidy foxed labels 

history conscientiously taught to me

better than any book I've read 

their bedtime reminisce-story 

from photo album minty paste to

pine wood shaving and boot black 

home movie heated celluloid

they all take me right back

such an olfactory cacophony

Throughout their home dwelt

so many happy memories live 

in how their house smelt

When just a whiff I get

Scent memories in my brain

I'm transported back to the 

home on Crestwood Lane

The lamp post in the yard

a post light was planted

in the many-treed front yard

at the grama grampa home 

to recall feels sweet hard 

I see him at the lamp post

her window waving bent hand

rain or shine they welcomed 

till they joined the angel band 

lamp and window folk bidding

hello and farewell at night dark

side by side parenthesizing 

enfolding punctuation mark

without was shades of grim

within sequestered sanctuary 

the old post light signaling a

place with room enough for Mary

grama-grampa house was an

enchanted hidey-hole for me

red brick lakeside castle 

on Michigan's dune strewn sea

journeys start with first steps

my personal Narnia fairytale

entering cedar wardrobe, to

emerge on snowy lamplit trail

At Christmas lamp bedazzled

In her festive noel skirt

His holiday offering was

just a wrapping paper insert 

paper faded by the bulb

as it decorated the years 

memories of them waving 

always spills the ancient tears

That's how everything was at 

The grama-grampa home so bright

Like lamp post nothing fancy but

giving so much more than light

yet all the much muchness

those dear old people gave

makes nostalgia bite harder

now that they are in the grave

I must take care not to drown

in hole black as printer's ink

if I should tarry too long at 

the memory fountain to drink

I must only let recalling

fringe-flutter fairy-fly by 

not capture nor cling lest the 

poor thing and I surely die

So I'll let their yard beacon

beckon to the yore day

but too long in back then 

I shan't allow myself to stray. 

Because I have now joy

the delights of my soul

people in the today time

who make my picture whole. 

Love to Gram and Gramp from Marilisa