I’ve been working on this off and on (mostly off) for about a year… lol this is revision 9000ish and I still feel like it needs more polishing. What’s that saying again…? Poetry is never complete, only abandoned…? Something like that :)


His smile is reflecting in my mirror.

He told me nothing is wasted, nothing ever.

He, my Granddaddy, child of the Great Depression,

diver of dumpsters.


One day, he forgot me. And he asked,

except I couldn’t explain my love for him

Like I couldn’t explain red to someone who’d never seen

But at the last time we met, he knew me just

for a moment.


I didn’t believe he was gone until I saw him

In a freshly pressed suit, fingers clean and manicured.

Because in my memory,

he nurses plants in ice cream pail pots  

Watered by the rain he saves while dusting off apples

Fresh from the rubbish bin because

They were just bruised but perfectly edible.


Over there, the roses sway.

I imagine them, ladies in rainbow dresses

Wanting to dance with the handsome soldier

I’d seen in gray, faded pictures.

And he caters to their whims

With big rusty scissors, cutting banana peels because

The ladies need potassium like

Little girls need lollipops with bubble-gum centers.


I can see his eyes, his story in dark blue irises

A contrast to negro skin.

Some days, his white hair haloes in the wind, shifting like

The clean sheets he hangs on the line

Right in front of grandma’s lemon trees dangling

Heavy with fruit. Tomato vines he’d planted last year,

By spontaneously burying whole cherry tomatoes,

lean like a riotous crowd of co-conspirators

around the back house porch my great grandfather built,


and there we share our bounty, hiding ice cream coated smiles

from Grandma because her cookie stash is too well-hidden today.


Then as he waters, I sit at his feet, where even the concrete is green and

The city of angels can’t interrupt us here where he stoops

With the lines of his palms rooted in soil.



In loving memory of William Cook (1922-2010)


Me or not?

I am not me. Not

a flawed June Cleaver, not

Mommy dearest neurotically raging

about a sink full of dishes and children clothed in

birthday suits and lunch menu items.


I am not me. I am a meta-human hero or

a neko cutie wielding Excalibur

Battling the gods among us for the right to choose our fate.

For a while, I am not me but

I am more me than I have ever been.

Until reality intrudes and I put the controller down.


Today, I am grateful for video games. Could you tell? :)



Perplexed Music: Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Today, I’m grateful for music. I’ve always loved music and singing especially. And thankfully, I have a pleasant enough voice that when I sing people listen instead of running from the room screaming. My husband says my singing (and my backside) are what convinced him to ask me out. I’m not sure how to feel about that lol. Flattered works, I think.

Music makes everything I do seem more exciting. I have theme songs for everything. My “walking around anywhere” theme song is Ebla by E.S Posthumus. If you haven’t heard it, I highly recommend listening to it and then either imagine going for a walk or actually do it. Epic.

The poem I am trying -and failing- to write now is also about music. So I decided to share a poem I enjoyed by Elizabeth Barrett Browning for today.  Because we need more poetry around here! And it isn’t Friday, but I’m going to tag this under favorite fridays anyway.

PERPLEXED MUSIC by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

EXPERIENCE, like a pale musician, holds
A dulcimer of patience in his hand,
Whence harmonies, we cannot understand,
Of God; will in his worlds, the strain unfolds
In sad-perplexed minors: deathly colds
Fall on us while we hear, and countermand
Our sanguine heart back from the fancyland
With nightingales in visionary wolds.
We murmur ‘ Where is any certain tune
Or measured music in such notes as these ? ‘
But angels, leaning from the golden seat,
Are not so minded their fine ear hath won
The issue of completed cadences,
And, smiling down the stars, they whisper–