Bombazine becomes Electra

we interrupt this program

to answer macabre knell

Got myself bitten by

gothic mourning bell 

(not my fault! don't judge, keep reading)

of mourning and morning

and many hues of grey 

doves in morning suit 

Brewery's iron dray

( don't even get me started on why it's "grey" as in "earl" and gray as in Eeyore.. 

death on little cat feet

or is that fog at play?

it becomes Electra to go

round roulette wheel today 

got up in bombazine

counts jet rosary beads

corseted in her hated

a thneed's what she needs

place your bet, milady

as the croupier tells his tale

watch now will the die turn

a snake-eyes shade of pale?

tough luck you lose, you

drank fizzy lifting drink

cocktail called "bitterness"

one part gin, one printer's ink 

black lipstick stained tumbler 

tumbles down to the floor 

You called for another yet

couldn't even find the door

well that's what you get 

for dicing with the dead

the wound-too-tight has-been

who's about to lose her  head

the doom's come upon you

in your spiked Flavor Aid

you got slipped  a Mickey 

now watch your color fade

(and here's another of my famous sexy kazoo key changes) 

Rise up sister and dance

puppeteer loosed your strings

Time to can-can like you can-can

shake loose grudge-holding wings

let the pigeon drive the bus

crack the mirror side to side

flip Rorschach psychedelic 

Play the acid punk B-side

Here we go, gonna get loud now...

So before you ask, what the actual just happened, I'll tell you. I don't know. I was clacking along down my reluctant gothic poem trail, when all of a sudden, Mother of Tarquin! Cue the sound the cartoon makes when it backs up and starts over. It's like a Polish dzu sound. With the z, j plus sh sound. Like bezsh-oop, plus the double take doy-yoy-yoy-yoing. Hey, don't laugh. You try spelling out what a cartoon sound sounds like)

Anyway, that is what has happened to my poem. It has done a double take with about face. And as so often happens, the poor poet never saw it coming. Here was I just trying to write my psychedelic verse, for once, without tying it up in any sensible ending. I wanna do one of those urinal or paint drip works of art thingys that gets understood. When it's just a blasted bed pan!!  And if like Man Ray or Jackson Pollock it makes millions, well, all in a day's work. 

So I wasn't even on board to go down the bloody gothic route. I mean, look at the picture AI made me. It's so Helen Mirren, Winchester--esque. ( I hate anything -esque.) The "Rorschach" in the dew of the window. Bangs head hard on desk, requests refill on the gin and ink drink. Even that sounds Seuss-esque!! 

But did I quibble when the muse-whatever called, nooo, Not I!! Needs must, I soldiered on. And we turned left, Again!! It's that damned pigeon's fault.

Hello, it's me the clay

Hello, it's me the clay

on the potter's wheel

waiting for the girl who

My form's fate will seal

mind turns endlessly

thoughts begin to reel

hands that shape my base

have a strangling feel 

cold, wet, smooth and hard

grip me so very tight

forcing me to shapes where 

I cannot see the light 

squeezing me into what 

I do not want to see  

I don't even know just 

what it is I want to be 

maybe potter knows best

I should just let her mold 

go along to get along

release from life my hold

cast myself upon the

whim of the almighty 

let my self go down 

the drain of infinity

(this is a rather melodramatic piece of clay!)

If I knew for sure 

what for me she'd choose

would it make it easier 

my autonomy to lose? 

It would look rather odd

if clay began to shout

"take your hands off me

quit all this pushing about!"

How would I even start 

to articulate my choice

what could I ever say

do I even have a voice?

well here she goes now 

she is about to add glaze

I have fully emerged

seems I'm a flower vase

Guess it could be worse

my neighbor next door

his potter got upset and

smashed him on the floor (!)

I can live with a vase. 

My lady of the lake

well they say all good poems 

begin with a stiff drink

I've had two so far so

slainte ma, I'm ready I think

I've written to them all

my baby grands have one

yet tremble I to air 

firstborn's poem to the sun

why am I who blathers 

on transient views 

felled, like timber by a

wee girl in teddy shoes?

that's how I remember her 

my universe true deity 

with pompadour ponytail

"high and to the side, mommy"

it's not for her growing

that my heart does grieve

it's how she grew and flew

before I ever saw her leave

to ode-ify milady 

blanc page in quill noir 

even dreamings can't sound

all to me that you are

as a sojourner 

Setting out upon quest 

no foreseeable destination

just the road traveled less

I could tell of beepees

her softie nighttime friends

I wake keening when

my memory dream ends 

you only hold your babes

when they're on your breast

you spend your life asking when's

the last time you laid them to rest

is it regret I'm feeling 

that's a familiar pain 

I've often penned on that

repeated sad refrain

for my little girl not lost

just lost to me it seems

Kahlil says I can't go to

her world even in dreams

I hear self-indulgence

as words drip from my pen 

a railroad whistle stop I'd 

rather not halt at again

but if I can't even sit 

for a spell with my rain

even in my verses 

Can I not try to explain?

Not trying to didact 

ain't no preachers on this train

just a limberlost momma 

trying to sort out her brain

I think recall hurts 

and makes it hard to say

all the stupid things I did

in all my yesterday

things I know now but

I didn't see clear then

I wish I had it, my love

to do over again

I'll pony up and admit

I got so much wrong 

even that sounds indulgent

I should play another song

so here's the B-side of 

my melancholy memory

I'll make it all about you

instead of my misery

because I'm not (miserable)

I'm most delighted to see

the wonderful you are, honey

that kinda came through me

k, here's what I never got

but I surely do now see

I was but a footnote in

your amazeballs history

You'd never deprecate me

you'd always make me shine

that's my baby, mister

I'm hers and she's mine!

she deserves more, milady

you'll understand some day

my baby star-god deity

will always have her say.

selah. 

Elysian fields forever

 

here I go again making

it all about me and yet

there's a heuristic logic

that the young have yet to get

this one picks up where

my other poem left us

wrangling with specters of

my memory prospectus 

and why I get buy in

on my kids grown and flown

they came from me dammit

they're all that I've known

they get it, I guess 

I don't ask for more

probably better than most

 still they close my door

I'm tempted to compare 

my parents' shut tight

locking me in and out

alone in the cold light

that's a place I won't go

sadly never to rescue me

only to protect now folk

who'd never be able to see

the rub is ironic

can't show me now nor then

that damn chafing blister 

hurts like it did back when 

we who'd nothing then

still have nothing today

all our now are gone

up and went far away

time was I was all to them

they're still here technically

but it sure as hell feels like 

they're sure as hell gone from me

it's about me, damn time

that's what this verse explores

it ain't about mine now growing 

but mine then closing the doors

--sexy guitar riff--

Damn them. What do they know??

Why am I writing this poem?

Why each night do I keep 

mending the "unbroken circle?" 

(and we're back to the lament of the lonesome child and the outgrown parent)

it's about us because 

it's all that we have left

what was ours is gone

we're inexplicably bereft

graveyard friendly ghosts

we see but are unseen

haunting living footsteps

eager to help, we keen

should I stay or should I go

is there a place for me

with my little loved ones

is where I want to be

yet I can't drag them back

to elysian fields we knew

they've flown to places 

when past me they grew

mute ache of them going

for lose them you sure do

can't sugarcoat it, my dears

someday it will happen to you

the unbroken circle comes

round and round once more 

wish I could, my darlings

close for you that door. 

wish we could all stay 

in my Elysian field mind

there's room for everyone here

and everyone is so kind 

Transmogrified Friday Feasts

Jesus on the mount

begot loaves and fishes

I'm blest to be fed

on pescatarian dishes

species so beloved

yellow perch and brook trout

once graced our tables

now all but fished out

floating fish factory

forced austerity

sad contradiction to

our "land of plenty"

more than mere food these

beasties provided we 

round grandma's table 

haute gastronomy

Friday night dinners

white box with string ties 

from local fish joint

with coleslaw and fries 

chatting as we ate

in her cozy kitchen

no TV interrupted 

weighty discussion 

such as what kings held

I said sepulcher

that's a grave, gram gravely said

he carries a scepter 

(Grampa didn't weigh in because he probably didn't know himself.) 

she was right of course 

but wouldn't admit mistake

said I was 9 at 10! 

now that took the cake! 

Sometimes grampa grilled

rainbow trout outside 

grama didn't want it

stinking up inside 

Alaskan sockeye salmon

reigned with halibut 

hooligan in it's own oil

don't knock till you try it

Louisiana catfish

fried in lemon butter

or as court bouillon

too yummy to utter

No matter what we ate

I always loved best 

fish picnic suppers 

like those the Lord blessed 

sad to think our kids

seldom fish do see

what teemed the lakes

swam into history

So I pen a verse
of thanks to these beasts
for sharing themselves as
transmogrified feasts

Riffing in ombre on a blue Coltrane

riffing in ombre 

London foggy rain

strolling in Memphis 

in the blue Coltrane

psychedelic raga

once wept from sitar 

Carnaby street lad

now props up the bar

his Nehru jacket

in velvet brocade

for a proper pint

he'd now gladly trade 

those were the days we

thought would never end

now hurdy gurdy man

can't even find a friend

fancy Afghan coat 

once posh and natty 

can't turn his collar 

the fur's so ratty 

so go striations

a bedrock timeline

in Jurassic coast

can you spare a dime?

it is not kismet

it's no fault of his

nor karmic justice

just is what it is

youth calls to aged

folks who crossed the bar

a dear old lady 

who reached out a spar

my ancient mariner

by the name of Mary

her bar-crossed Russel

old lady of the sea

riffing begets memory

as down deep I go

wind at my window

holy wendigo 

I' ne'er cease ceasing

to call and call more

shall I bid the gods

enter through my door?

Disco requiem at the rink

riffing in ombre

liquor layered drink

drain rainbow cocktails

round the roller rink

long before deejays

played your favorite song

a man on the dais 

piped us all along 

playing grand march on

Wurlitzer organ

gaily funereal 

round we go again

mirror globe twinkles

gypsy crystal ball

many tinsel diamonds

reveals us to us all

did it show me sad?

when my dad said no

only up the block

but I couldn't go

there was a time when

nothing stopped we two

back before they came

and he'd other things to do

(hmm conspiracy theory there. Stepmother needed me there to babysit.)

he'd bought me white skates

with pom-poms of pink

but I wasn't keen to 

wear them at the rink

time for pom-poms past

while he bypast me

I had moved on too 

I'd other life to see

skating rink changed too

no more organ dances

now the records spun 

on to other chances 

or to letdowns when

the one I loved so

after saying he'd come

he didn't even show 

(hmm sounds like SOMEBODY's DAD! oy vey, men. I ask you...)

so oddly it seems

I see so clearly 

me in the mirror

that boy I don't see

don't know who he was

yet I do not blame

this two-faced lothario

whatever was his name

got no time for grudges

on this memory train

does he recall me 

my half recalled swain? 

what I see are colors

FD&C Red No. 4

kidney killing yellow 

candy floss blue floor

Fanta red pop and Hi-C

tried some recently 

nearly gagged myself 

just for posterity

tawdry and garish

artificially bright 

the best place to be

on Saturday night 

ubiquitous shag

carpet lines the walls

fluorescent remnant

to buffer the falls 

booby-trap bathroom

with sink hole floor drain

mind how you go now

or you'll fall again

skater hangover

not from too much drink

Sunday morning bruises 

from punchup with the rink 

hadn't thought for decades 

of all my rink rash 

those damned waxed floors and

falling on my ass--hhh

signature scented 

mildew, carpet and sweat

stale popcorn machine

I can call it up yet

garish colored walls

all go rushing past

so merry were we

how quickly they passed

hollows echoing

lilting organ call 

we'll never hear again

plays to no one at all

rinks evaporated

no more disco requiem

now bougie sweet shop

still I see and hear 'em

dad and stepmom sleep

many moons in the ground

so  quietly gone that 

I barely hear their sound

saw by Facebook photo

that boy has just died

like Kinks at the Pally

for youth's death I cried

Let us keen a dirge

calliope symphony

 the circus death march 

sung in perpetuity

 

Tlingit Memory: the many-eyed shawl

gathered by a river

Chilkat or Klukshu

was so long ago

just recall the view

coming from Klukwan

in a Volkswagen bug

wheezing through passes

with a cranky chug 

mountain skyscrapers

eagles and caribou

air so pure it hurt

skies bombastic blue

Tlingit river mother

splitting out her seams

fattened on spring thaw

where the sockeye teams 

cascades carousing

whipped to violet foam

dancing through mountains

where the grizzlies roam

assembled were we

I've vague memory 

of native celebration

blanketing ceremony

chosen and adopted 

by Chilkat Tlingit 

draped like a queen in

our native blanket 

I had a picture

of smiling little me

with missing front teeth

snuggled cozily 

enveloped within 

a many-eyed shawl

formline spirit beasts

mute but seeing all

adopted name given

from Chief's grandmother

titled Dok-du-Yik

to me and no other

(I know that I have spelled the name wrong. Perhaps said it wrong too. Apologies. It's how young me heard it. And I've never found another). 

I didn't understand 

yet knew was serious

wearing her name robe 

ancient and mysterious 

such a large mantle

for one so small to wear

big responsibility

for a child to bear 

I've long treasured

my Tlingit memory

but given few thoughts

for this much loved lady

Hope I'm good enough

to carry honor's weight

she deserves a worthy 

namesake and soulmate

Girl with toes of poolside blue

lovely little lady

our sweet Emma Grace

with endearing charms

and cookie on her face

many grand ideas

too large for likes of we

only outpaced by 

invincibility 

pizzazz by the pound

with mouthful of sass

ambition by the peck 

and yacht-load of class

motto of our girl

with smile open wide

was can't never did

anything till she tried

simpler to say sorry

than ask mom or dad

was personal creed

our adventuress had  

nicknamed Po after 

Red Teletubby

percolating fun 

and some frights gave she

left for minutes at 4

created famous 9-egg cake

recipe requested when

to potluck we did take

Some Po adventures 

ended less fragrantly

nearly gave Anthrax to

friend invited for tea

via her deceased

pet bunny in repose

exhumed decomposing

to show to Anna Rose

(Hers and Anna Rose's mum had their rest interrupted as well, by stench!)

Her misdeeds now live

in family infamy 

alongside siblings with

their own quirky story 

mini merry soul with

toes of poolside blue

painted by her dad

who'd better things to do

round pinky finger 

she'd him wrapped so

what's more important 

than painting nails of Po?

(change the oil, paint upstairs, replace roof shingles...)

blest was I to hold

for sugar cubes of time

a funny wee sprite

who briefly was mine

glad for memories

so quickly she grew

into firmament 

our baby bird flew

A word when dealing

with such a busy maid

snuggle but don't cling

and hide your garden spade.

Night Shift Change in the Glen

Ma Hen snuggles chicks for rest

Mother Bat wakes hers to play

As workers at evening shift change 

Each begins and ends their day

Father Snake glides home

on his silky self-made train

in crumpled suit and tie

caught in the rush hour rain

Stare-eyed feather alarm clock 

Ms Owl hoots the night awake

Little fox sleepily stretches in

his flat above neighbor snake

 a gal who's both driver and bus

is multitasking Mrs. Opossum

with eight little joeys in tow 

now that's one very busy mum! 

Brother bear nods "g'night, ma'am"

heading home with dozy stumble

munching bedtime snack of berries 

gives him such a silly mumble

let's not forget Raccoon with

his handsome bandit mask

washing lunch in the river

is this critter's endless task

Milady skunk emerges for

the woodland cocktail hour

wrapped in her finest furs

like a queen in her bower

the deer family creeps out

to feast at our bird feeder

satiated on the nuts and seeds

retreats to forest of cedar

in the room in the house

overlooking the forest glen

a freshly bathed and PJ's lad

beds down in his own den

his rest arrested by many

inquiries large and small 

about animals he sees and hears

much wondering about them all

"where do fish sleep and when?"

asks the nodding boy of dad

to prolong the nightly ritual

as pop tucks in his weary lad

"We'll speak on the morrow 

of your perplexities, my son"

yawns the nearly sleeping father

"but for tonight, your papa's done!"

And satisfied with promises

he knows his daddy will keep

like the woodland creatures 

the boy snuggles down to sleep

 Amen and good night to all

For my grandson Moses who asks and answers many, many, many, many questions. And to his mother, Mrs. Opossum. 

 

 

A Lenten Story of the Honest Little Boy

Hello readers! A blessed Good Friday, April 3, 2026 to you all. My how the minutes sometimes crawl while the years fly by. Here's a piece I wrote a decade ago (!) about an experience with our oldest son. And while the decade in between hasn't been idle, and we now have 13 grandchildren, I do probably need to sit with the fact that 10 years is a long time. It's not that I'm disappointed by my family, not in the slightest, they are my everything. I'm disappointed that I seem to have done so little if import. Every Christmas when I hear the John Lennon song "so what have you done?" I think "not a damn thing, and thanks for the cattle prod to the conscience, John!" But anyway. This isn't about me or my maudlin regrets. It's a tribute to a small but gestalt act of kindness by my little son. Here's what I wrote. 

It's the Lenten season, 2016 and with all but one child moved out (and the last one a busy senior) I'm feeling a little reminiscent. After homeschooling our children for years, it seems odd not to be wrapped up Lenten activities the children. Here's a story to warm you, on Lenten virtues about my honest little boy. It's true. 

My husband and I have always lived frugally, by necessity and by choice. We raised four children in a 20-year-old mobile home, on a single income, with one 15-year-old shared car. We practiced minimalism long before there was a word for it or it was cool. So it would have been easy for our children who often did without the luxuries others enjoyed, to grow up selfish, greedy and demanding. They heard the words "we can't afford it" all the time. 

But they are unselfish and generous. In fact, they practiced Lenten generosity to a fault. Here's a Lenten vignette to illustrate just how unselfish and kind my children are. The protagonist is Albert (affectionately named "Albie" the oldest son). He is now almost 26 and was eight when this occurred.  What Albert did wasn't particularly heroic. He didn't save anyone's life or perform a superhuman feat of courage. But what he did is perhaps one of the hardest things for little boy--he was honest at his own expense. 

While at the beach one hot summer day, Grandma and I were cleaning up from the picnic. The children were helping/milling around to give the 15 minute digesting period before heading back into the water. Albie ran up with something in his hand and said "Here Mom, I found this." He casually tossed it on the picnic table and ran off to play. It was a lost wallet. 

Grampa inspected the contents and declared that it only had a few singles in it." Grandma, being made of good Hollander stock, made a more thorough inspection while I nursed the baby. Well, the little boy had found not a "few singles" but $226 in ones, fives and a few tens. The lost wallet was empty of everything but the cash. No identification, papers, nothing. 

I called Albie over to tell him what he had found and so began the family debate over what to do with the loot. His sister and Grandpa were for Albie keeping it. Grandma was for turning it in to the lifeguards (this idea roundly scoffed at by Grampa who declared that they would just pocket it). 

Mom (me), the mystery reader, had decided that the lost wallet was really planted by DEA agents and full of drug money (don't judge, it could have been!). Our hero, honest Albie, had his own ideas. "I'm going to ask Daddy. He'll know what to do." (I get tears in my eyes every time I remember that trusting voice.) (2026 fast forward, yep, still do). 

I said that since Albie had found the money, he could decide what to do with it. Dad, who as at work for the evening, was duly asked when he got home. That wise owl suggested that he and Alb take it to the police department, which they did. The officers in charge were completely delighted with my little boy. They said he was a "great guy" for being so honest and that not many children would turn in $226. (Dad regaled me with stories of how they'd just fawned over him, like in one of those old cop shows from the 40s). 

Albie was issued a claim ticket for the lost wallet and told that in 60 days if no one claimed it, the lost wallet and money were his. Just as the 60 days were nearly up (and sister and little brother busy planning how to spend their sibling's hack) a letter came for Albie in the mail. It was from another boy, the owner of the wallet. He was 10, slightly older had been vacationing in our area and lost his wallet.

He said that it had all his saved up money his paper route, raking leaves and odd jobs. He said his parents said not to bring it all but he did. Because that's what kids do. (Been there, raising my hand, lost that money). The boy said he never expected to see it again and was so grateful that Alb was honest. Albie received a $50 reward. I think Albie has pretty much forgotten that random act of kindness over the years. But I have not. I don't think God has either.

My Giving Big little Boy

I wrote this piece in, I think, 2015, about our first son and I thought it would be appropriate to share for Good Friday. All of our kids, not just the lad in question, are incredibly giving people. And have birthed a baker's dozen more good little humans. Since that writing, he married the girlfriend featured and they have provided us with two wonderful grandkids. I wrote this for a site called Bubblws which seems a lifetime and planetary system away. Anyway, here goes. 

I just called Number One Son (chronological, no favoritism). I had to nag him to confirm if he'll be flying with us to New Orleans to see his sister. He keeps saying he's 99.9 percent sure he can get time off. I said, "Son, 99.9 percent only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, not with mothers booking flights." 

But I digress. I also wanted to know when he would be arriving for Thanksgiving and if he would be bringing his girlfriend. And he broke the news. He's not coming. He's driving to New York to serve Thanksgiving dinner at a homeless shelter/substance abuse center in the South Bronx.  

Naturally, we were pleased and proud. And showed it by yelling at him for not coming home (we're possessive to the point of mania with our kids). And by lecturing him on bed bugs, scabies, body lice and the avoidance of such. When backpacking in NorCal he ignored the advice of his helpful nudist female guide (yeah, there's a story there), didn't use the Technu wipes, got poison oak.  

And seriously, the Bronx? He lives in Detroit smack dab on John R and East Edsel Ford! Could you not find a shelter there to assist at, so you'd have time to zip home to visit? No, you have to go haring off across the country, worry us sick, abandon us, we harangued. Dad pouted-- "Alb doesn't love us. He just wants adventure." To which Alb readily agreed he did. But he wants to give back, not just take this holiday (which of course we understood but were too sulky to admit). 

The mission is St. Anthony's Shelter for Renewal (410 E. 156th). Bronx readers, if you see a handsome green-eyed, redhead with a smile like the morning sun, looking lost, that's him and he probably is (lost). Just direct him to 156th and tell him his mama says be safe and she misses him. And if you had time, could you just follow to make sure he makes it? He's cute but a little air-headed. Thanks.

Dune spells, Cinnamon toasted

cinnamon toasted

cherry jam and ghee

memory's comfort food 

reminisce-story

coffee perfumed homes

warm me to my core

Uncle Bloke and Aunt Ann

with always open door

grama's dining room

only for company

I was not a guest

I was family

'round kitchen table

solved life's mysteries

ate like a king or

better than majesties

at her plenty-scented

refectory dine we

on mushroom pork chops

with onion gravy

je ne sais quoi whiff

with notes of Big Lake

so profoundly real 

little self doth ache

pine spice and hemlock

water with sand sun-bake

takes me right back to

their home on the lake

Sunday was for walks

in woodland with gramp

limber lost we two

in our lake dune tramp 

benevolent flavors 

from my evergreen queen 

peanut butter kisses

berries wintergreen 

found in a dune trough

mystical mist fog

signature oak scents 

of bicycle shaped log

tramping back home with

many a dune tale 

grama on the porch

the dog wags his tail 

braunschweiger toast and

sweet gherkins for tea

coffee for elders

a glass of milk for me

old memories clearer 

than yesterday I see

those two dear people

always wait for  me

In the Bleak Midsummer

in the bleak midsummer

winter still resides

cold descends my soul 

fever chills insides

irony of iron grey

within solar rays

shivering summer

dirty darkened days

sunrise sickens me

sun golden light drains 

to dishwater blonde

muddied by the rains

I ran to the dunes

perchance to find Zen 

but my lake turned away

I am cold again

frigid similes

frozen to the bone

funerary tomb 

in lichen color stone

time scrubbed the name

who in tomb does dwell

has all memory 

been erased as well?

my heart aches for her

it seems such a loss

All that's still living

is grave-crusted moss

I don't part well with

those beloved and passed

eternal rest prayed yet

my heart holds them fast

is that why my lake

calls then denies me 

Am I refusing them 

peaceful eternity? 

I don't mean to keep

them bound up to me

How to release them 

is a mystery

we're told to let go

I think that's fallacy

how can  I release

those with hold on me?

p'raps it goes deeper

this cold in my bone

to dank memory 

of all my alone 

pain like hand smashed

by door slammed on me

peering in a home

with no vacancy 

Theirs the backs turned

by family within 

windows shuttered tight

so I couldn't see in

now I see her smile

lake's arms open wide

but that doesn't melt my

permafrost inside 

is it black all over?

does dark dwell in me?

does this tunnel end?

is there light to see?

I like grey wet days

I do not mind mist

But I'd like to feel

my face by sun-kissed

bleak is for winter

black for a short day

I want the lemon 

yellow sun today

this poem isn't resolved

fresh out of great amen

not sure where it's going

it's just at the end

The guillotine kneeler-- a painfully humorous narrative

This is my noir humorous narrative about my husband and the guillotine kneeler at church. Updated today, to reflect issues heretofore forgotten. 

Note on kneelers: Those of you who are Catholic will know exactly what I mean, having probably had your shins injured on those garage-door heavy fold down kneeling benches on the backs of pews. There are more humane medieval torture implements! And if the lowerer isn't careful (like the main character of this story) they come down with the force of a canal lock gate. You uninitiated should consider yourselves lucky. And wear hockey-grade leg guards and steel-toed boots if you visit. 

So a quick run down on how pew traffic is supposed to work. Individual or Group A enters pew, the kneeler is lowered for pre-mass prayers. The ideal plan of attack is that on a designated leader's count the group en masse lowers the kneeler after first doing a perimeter check for any feet blocking its descent.  This should be accomplished by signals, whispered consultations and consensus. Should be. But often isn't. 

If/when group/individual B, C, D, etc. enters pew, group A (B, C) sits back, raises kneeler and allows them to pass. Then, kneelers come down, and back to obeisances. Why you may wonder, don't ya'll wait till everyone is seated to do your prayers? That's far too sensible, why would you even ask such a thing??

Additionally, you may wonder, why doesn't everyone just move over? Which also makes prefect sense unless you understand another weird thing about Catholics. We guard the outer seats as if they were the Hope Diamond. I have seen people literally hug the upright pew end, while skewing their legs over to one side to make room, in this bizarre snake-like slither.  As if it is a pier and they are afraid they will be swept away.  

Sometimes, in clinging for dear life to the pew end, they forget to coordinate their leg action. One leg slides while the other remains fixed ending up legs lasciviously splayed wide as if in salacious invitation. The result can be pretty alarming to contemplate. I'll just let that mental image stew in your brain.

Then juxtapose being essentially propositioned at church, with the open challenge glare, that just dares you to ask the pew Klingon to scootch over. Trips to the confessional have been required after encounters such as these. And don't even get me started on confessional queue violations. I have had to confess confession line related sins! 

And then there's the awkwardness of praying as it were, down the neck of the person seated in front of you, who has either A) gotten there earlier and said his prayers or B) (tsk tsk) doesn't say his prayers. I realized as I was counting his freckles and judging that he really needed to shave his ears, that this is far too close proximity for two strangers to be. And that I was not comfortable being near enough bite him if I wished. I didn't, just saying. And yes, shame on me being distracted on Easter. But c'mon admit, you've felt the cringe too. 

So you finally get everyone in their seats, prayers said, and mass begins. But the struggle is not over. Not by a long chalk.  Because one thing to remember, these kneelers are not just used before mass. Oh no, that's another thing that would be too simple and too safe. There are several times throughout the service in which those limb-smashers descend on unwary legs. And this is where the blood sports begin. Because there are like four kneelers to a pew and there's not just one Gruppenführer to contend with but several.  

And after last Palm Sunday, I have decided that my husband will not be that Gruppenführer. To start, he's not as careful as our feet and shins could wish. It's more like he pulls out into traffic and THEN look for cars. And hubby dearest was in rare form last Sunday. So mass was all discombobulated anyway, beginning with a procession outside, carrying our palms into the church. Which necessitated the raising and lowering of the kneeler as people were finding their seats again after the procession dispersal. 

Because did my husband wait until all were seated to start praying? No he did not. I think it's a personal challenge for him to see how many times he (we) can raise and lower the kneeler. I burned 200 calories before mass alone. 

Then enter a guy who was clearly as ADHD as my husband. First, he sat on my palm so I could not use it for the blessing. I had to share my husband's and instead of just letting me hold it too, hubs painstakingly separated it in half, slicing his finger in the process. And we haven't even gotten to the entrance antiphon. 

Then, neither pew-mate nor husband were paying attention at that ubiquitous kneeler lowering. Husband just guillotined it down with a whoosh-chop-thunk and I (the only one paying attention) had to kind of surreptitiously kick/push the man's foot out of the way to prevent crushing. This happened five times. The third with MY foot getting clobbered. 

Mass finally ended and my neighbor escaped unscathed no thanks to himself or my husband. But it wasn't over. I was temporarily put off guard by a friend's greeting and husband came in with a blindside bench descent at the Eternal Rest prayers. I don't know what the poor clueless bloke (or any of us!) had done to merit tarsal amputation.  Somehow our would-be hatchet man missed again but he definitely had an axe to grind and feet would roll. 

And most ironic of all, was husband's beatific face in prayer after nearly dismembering us multiple times. 

Pompeiian reverb

Pompeiian reverb

Form with no Function

Void reclining in

sleepless dormition

uncomfortably cramped

attitude of repose

I don't envy the model

this miserable pose

inverted geode doll

crystals inside out

vacancy within 

leaving all in doubt

where is the lady

in the gown of blue?

gone or just popped 

out to use the loo? 

who could blame the gal

who left her shell behind

lit out to find an

open state of mind?

cold bespoke casket

Rigid cloying mold

corseted to keep

cellulite on hold

escaped confines of

Spanxed conformity 

now wears old blue jeans

when she goes out to tea? 

perfection's a bitch 

reach exceeds our grasp

Venus de Milo curves

bite us in the asp

beauty's sepulcher

Snow White in her tomb

fair sex pilloried since

we were in the womb

pardon my cliches but

they're very real to me

man-made cages, jails, cells

dank familiarity 

expiring before 

we even begin

buried alive in

purpose built coffin

death eating father

brought the doom on me

honeyed hemlock of

morbid litany 

why the hell so smitten

with dames who are dead?

Pre-Raphaelite OCD

I'll bet she's a redhead

This maiden who left

empty dress echoing

glass still resonates

long after her going

I rejoice to see 

that this bird has flown

hollow lies the dress

of bondage glass blown

dragged herself out 

of bedragoned moat

our Lady of Shallot

good you ditched the boat

we'll hold space till you

Find functionality 

And if you don't well

keep on going, baby! 

Don't need ruby slippers

nor tight frocks of glass

to bust see-thru roofs 

you wrote your own pass

Oz only gave Dorothy

what she already owned

Emerald city exit

a balloon ride home 

Cinderella didn't

need shoes to break chains

didn't even need a Prince

just her head full of brains

I'll take a leaf from

departed sisters' book

to find my true north

in the mirror look.

Here's to our gone girls

Egalite! Sorority!

let's grab the brass rings,

ring that bell of liberty! 

This ekphrastic poem is based on Nocturne Reclining 3, by Karen LaMonte, shown above and on view at the Muskegon Museum of Art. Please visit and support local art museums! 

Tarmac Where My Wintergreen Berries Lived

I went back to the woods where I played 

with grampa in the dunes near the lake

My mother goddess Lake Michigan

or the big lake gitchegumme to locals 

this land was made for you and me

Houses sit and tarmac covers 

where my wintergreen berries lived 

drywall shacks that grew not from seed but 

chewed up, used up, spat out natural resources

post-industrial waste of too much muchness

too many structures holding too few people 

flimsy construction from destruction of 

the Great Spirit Gluskabe's stately dunes

irreplicable, irreplaceable, unshakable

until the diesel breathing monster machines came

gorging themselves on magnetite, hematite and quartz

of prehistory older-than-ice-age sands 

more non-renewable comrades fallen 

Avē Imperātor, moritūrī tē salūtant

Extinct is forever and gone is for good

it made sense of a sort when there were jobs, 

railroad, factories, newspapers, telephones 

neighbors and communities. America WAS Great

now it's just glutinous and grasping 

We build boxes to house bric-a-brac and junk

we buy too much of and don't need and

can't pay for and go bankrupt to have

and don't use and throw in landfills

already the size of small cities

useless crap to feed corporate and consumer greed

for things they will only destroy in a very short time

Woodsy used to say "give a hoot, don't pollute"

And we held hands and sang

if those poor owl could but see us now

ironic yard signs reading "no over development" 

in over developed sub divisions with landscaped

marram grass where it once grew wild

ripped out to replant in its native habitat

Why?

signs preaching "keep off the dunes"

in the yards built on trashed dunes 

and "dune preserve" preserved where?!

an asphalted over melted glacier Lake?

a concreted old growth back dune forest 

of pine, fir, Eastern hemlock, spruce, trillium

lady slippers, wintergreen, protective mosses 

oak, juniper, trilobite, petrified wood, fossils 

ground to wood chips to decorate lawns

that smothered animal habitats that grew

where leaves and needles once blanketed 

nothing remains except spent, sparse 

scraps of tree cremains left where they are 

till their spot is needed to build 

some family an even bigger house

And the Lorax laments on...

 

that they aren't going to use 

the divorce will be final before 

she moves in,  alone with her cat

kitchen larger than diners of childhood

sharing a cup they call loneliness

homes as large as tenement halls 

contrast the shotgun singles of my youth 

with a family of seven crammed 

to the gills under one roof, comfortably

homes that house families of families

two bedroom homes, not houses 

where people ate dinner at 5:30

around a Formica table in the kitchen

somehow they all miraculously fit 

chewing their knees with their rolls

now the huge kitchens are decorated

with cookbooks and spices no one uses 

and mass produced signs telling us to "Gather" 

in empty rooms with no one to comply

Seeger, Baez, Dylan, Peter, Paul and Mary warned us

There's an enormous dining room with

table big enough to seat the Love Boat crew

it's covered with packed boxes 

Each eats DoorDash in his room with 64" TV

Strangely Estranged, strangers called family

all that's in the commercial grade fridge 

which could hold food for a battalion

is vodka, half a lime and a takeaway

her Prozac prescription and a tin for the cat

paradise was razed for that

working to pay off overpriced boxes

they were never satisfied with anyway 

and soon they will move out and the

house will become another industrial sediment layer

crumbling my beloved dunes out from under

and they will gut someone else's childhood

to build their empty little boxes on 

the hillside made of ticky-tacky

to house their knicky-knacky crap-y

and they all look just the same. 

I want my berries back. 

Shall I tell of stars hidden by the queen?

lying underneath 

psychedelic skies

iridescent blue

sun spots in my eyes

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 by 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 my cheese 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 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

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 fancy schmancy 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 semi-crude references. But no one really minds and when your mouthy "behavior police" 9 y/o asks why he said that, you hiss-whisper "Because people just do sometimes. Mind your business, don't stare, and eat your supper." 

Tired men (it was just men back then, no judgement, just fact) 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 Bill, with his weirdly both cringy and endearing extraness-- 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  Ms. Teen Thang 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 with 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 the grandiose teen 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 for everyone which would have cost twice as much. And bringing out a massive commercial size whipped topping thingy, to boot.  And Molly, (the snooty teen) serves you right your broccoli was overcooked and you went hungry. You should have had the chicken like we said.