Ramblings


do you ever feel

lost in space

you’ve misplaced

that thing

you know

that thing you forgot

maybe it was your brain

but that is insane

you can’t misplace your brain

can you?

maybe you are just tired

that’s it

you’re not going crazy

you are just a tad sleep deprived

happens to everyone

so. . .

what were you thinking about?

oh yeah

maybe you did misplace your brain

if only it was raining

you would be lulled to sleep

pulled into the land of dreams

that you will not remember the next morning

so what is the point of dreaming?

maybe your brain just gets bored

when it has but the company of your subconcious

the movie of your dream plays

and your brain has no popcorn to go along with it

the syrup in the soda fountain has gone sour

the nachos are stale

and the concession stand is all out

of sour patch kids

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Saying Good-Bye


curled up in a rough blue towel

she is sleeping

soft black fur

cold silk under hand

she is sleeping

unblinking eye gazing at nothing

beautiful whiskers twitching no more

she is sleeping

kiss her un-moving ear

catnip spread across her head

she is sleeping

a few feet underground

where she’ll never be cold again

good night

dear cat

P.S.  Happy belated Veterans Day.  Thank you.

Broken People


What makes you think
You have any right
To enter my lovely realm
Tonight
Go away we already have
A beautiful life
In my dystopian city
With it’s crimes and spiraling poverty
I don’t want you to destroy
My dystopian city
It’s lovely isn’t it
And I don’t need your help to finish it
I’ll start another fire
I can light the match on my own
I’ll slash another tire
But I don’t desire
Your screwdriver
My dystopian city doesn’t need your pity
And neither do I
I don’t need to hold your hand when I cry
Don’t dare to wipe my tears dry
I’m in perfect control of my dystopian city
Stop it with that gaze that tells me you’re trying to be witty
You’re not my friend or my lover
So in front of you my emotions I will smother

As Long As


shut up
you aren’t making sense
speak up
a bit more clearly please
make up your mind
instead of being so on the fence
slow down
we can’t keep up
quicken your pace
or we’ll leave you behind
it’s all situational
circumstantial
you are expendable
replaceable
so easy to get rid of
we don’t care
you’re cool
as long as you’re convenient

Copyright Paranoia


Has anyone ever had an idea come to them – for a poem, in my case – and it’s so easy to write the thing that you worry that you are somehow unknowingly plagiarizing someone else’s work?  That you heard it before and your sub-conscious stored it away. Or that no way could it be original, and another person has already put the exact same words on paper/internet….. and that sooner or later they will come proverbially knocking down your door, righteously screaming that they wrote that poem first….. even if there’s no way you could have known that, or known they existed, or that they were writing poems, or that somehow you both wrote the exact same thing?!  Because writing has a reputation for being hard, editing and revising until you want to tear the thing up, takes days to write even a short poem, or else the writing either sucks or isn’t original………

I’m having all those doubts about the poem I wrote this evening, which will be posted tomorrow.  It was too easy.  It either sucks or  I accidentally stole it from some other author.  And then they will find out and sue or arrest me or something, even though it wasn’t my fault!

Urrgh…. paranoia……

Untitled Poem


he sits and stares
at the rose he took
plucked from

the bush in his
lover’s garden when he
arrived and she

stands at the
griddle her head bent as
she scrambles eggs

he squeezes lemons
for fresh lemonade and
thinks of how she

took the flower
from his hands and smiled
called him a hopeless

romantic she put
it in her best vase
and though she knew

it was from her own
front yard he could tell she was
pleased with it

they eat in content
silence happy to be simply
near each other

then the couple
finishes and stands up
goes over to the

next room and gently
waltzes to the low murmur
of the news on

the radio as
they twirl around the worn
couch his hand warm

on her waist she grips
the plastic of his other
hand and softly smiles