Posts Tagged Friends

Lightly, Not Trespassing

This is my late submission for PAD Day 3. My dog ate the first one and that is why this is so late. The prompt for this day was to write a poem on something tentative.

Lightly, Not Trespassing

Her ego, too large, but perhaps not,
might it be a sensitive soul,
needing defense, causing compassion,
and I’ve fallen in, or have I?

She talks of her fans. They love
her, cause her to be reticent in shar-
ing, about how close they get to her,
and I want to be one, a fan, close to her.

More of her takes me into deep, warm
areas, and I must hold back, not tell
her any truth about my desires, so I
watch her, shiver, downed by longing.


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My Day in Six Words – XIV

Fears jilted.

Let go.

Hang on.


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Why the Stairs?

Other places don’t have the stairs, so how do they, the stairs, become so powerful for us?

The first time, I used the front stair case. It was dusty and I wondered if I happened into an abandoned property, but when I opened the door, there were a great many people in the two rooms that I could see. It was casual, peaceful, non-confrontational, and people were smiling oddly. Honestly, it looked like a group of people who would never voluntarily gather together, quietly sitting in their Saturday rags.  Later I learned that the rags disguise gentle and hopeful wisdom.

I learned no one uses the front staircase except people there for their first time and some old folks who might prefer parking on the small town street with gentle sidewalks but no grass.

I go there a lot, and one of our powerful sayings is, “I might not make it up those stairs again.” I hear this washing, repetitive rhetoric, and I hear us trying to install a phony gratitude being that today, indeed, we did make it up those stairs. But that’s not what they mean by “might not make it up those stairs again.”

The back stairs are treacherous in the winter.  They are either slick with ice or so overwhelmed with salt pellets, they act as pans filled with uncontrollable marbles.

The stairs are powerful, and I wonder what the others do without stairs. “I might not make it in that door again”  does not inspire as well.

Each time up the stairs, I grip a certain brilliance that floats on the outside of my life, knocking hard, wanting to barge in. I let parts of it in, and when I walk down the stairs, the freedom strikes me like a lightning bolt filled with streaking blue roses.

I study anyone who is climbing the back stairs. They’re exposed to the back lot. You might not put any credence in this, but I know it’s true: Almost every time a person climbs the stairs, a protective halo gathers around the person, not really an angel’s halo, but certainly a halo of  powerful and beautiful love, and this regardless of how beautiful you might think the person is on the outside. These are non-discriminatory halos, perhaps only denying those who climb the stairs carrying evil motives.

Underneath all that I am conscious of during my entire day, on each day, I am sure there is this rummaging, perfectly rational fear of not making it back up the stairs. If I couldn’t make it up the stairs again, I’d hang myself from a sturdy oak tree.

The first time up the stairs, even though it was the front stairs, that was the beginning of my life, so as you might imagine, I love those freakin’ ugly, dangerous stairs.

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Endless Burned Toast

I say she burned the hell out of her toast and then added sickening apricot marmalade to the disaster. Close up the employee kitchen.

That’s a joke, you say. You have no power.

Quit and live under a bridge.

You can’t, you say. You quit drinking.

Nothing I dream about can happen, and if I don’t dream, I run into more burned toast.

Go ride your bike, go take a picture, write a poem, and paint on a surface.

I say thank God for giving me my escape hatches, and you are one of them. Sometimes, without you, I forget I’m okay.

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Lucky Man, Quiet Man

You see him spill crushed parts
in shiny, slick gutters.
You pick them up and place them
gently on his chimney.
You light the fires with old, dark maples
warming his soul tenderly.
You call forth the blue angel within
to fling capes to protect his heart.
You send pillows of fluffy gold good
to cushion all of his falls.
and the only reason you do
is because you are a good human being.

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Versatile Blogger Award – People who Keep Me Going


Thank you to Seabell for the award nomination, cheering me into spring!


7 Random Facts About Me:

  1. I dreamed of being a successful composer years ago and obtained my degree in music composition. I was diverted by the need for money (and lack of talent), but I love to create anything, whatever the medium.
  2. I really do try to write poems on happy topics. Sometimes.
  3. I have five dogs at home and would have more if it were not for the restraint of my wife. My wife and I also own a dog daycare and boarding business, which is a lot of fun but not a get-rich-quick scheme, so I still work my day job in banking compliance.
  4. I LOVE racing on two wheels and four wheels, with or without motors, but I should say I love WATCHING racing. I’m not a gear head, but I love contests that involve humans, machines, nature (yes, rain, dirt, ice, snow, and TREES!), and that have far more than two teams. I like human drama. I also love watching hockey and I love playing racquetball.
  5. I’m thinking of a dramatic career change and I am way too old to do that.
  6. This is my second blog. My first one, which was terminated in 2004 sometime, explored politics, racing and music, mostly politics. Politics wore me down, beat me up, discouraged me, and made me realize that there are far better ways to do life. I want this to be a place where I can write about trying to live life whether through poetry, fiction, essays, painting or photography. NO POLITICS for me but I can’t say the same for racing and music.
  7. My general impression is that I am quite undeserving of these types of awards, but I fight that impression because I want to be part of a community.


Now, here are some bloggers I’d love to honor with the award even if it’s not their kind of thing and even if they’ve received it 19 times already, which I’ve learned is the nature of these kinds of things. These people keep me challenged, keep me encouraged, keep me going, and I’d say keep me alive but you’d think me a drama queen:



Thanks again to Seabell for the nice award!


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Broken and Picked Up

Evelyn at Filling a Hole led us in another duel today. (Check out the last duel if you wish.) Her version is up!

It is difficult to keep up with her talent. We alternated lines and then this time, we were allowed to use any lines and any parts of lines including using parts more than once. The gamblers would say hers will make more sense, be shorter, more succinct and more artistic, but I tried. The original version is below in italics.

Been on shelves, Sails empty.
Broken and picked up, my chains affix me.
With floorboard leaks and roses with violent flu,
Where will you put me?

Burns good, a touch black, read bad.
Relocation nation, my chains affix me.
I traverse billowing hills, new land, no flight.
Where will you put me?

Firestarter resting gracefully,
willing to piss out any flare ups, my chains affix me.
Many thousands of parrots, they sweet talk freedom.
Where will you put me?

Fire my boat through a purple tornado.
Truck and luggage stuffed in my mouth, my chains affix me.
I’ll never be whole again, broken and picked up.
Where will you put me?

Trucks, parrot cages, tricycles, water sign sits.
Rich, rich realtors are along for the ride, my chains affix me
A night is still night, silence still captivating.
Broken and picked up, my chains affix me.

I released them to fend for themselves.
Rivers cut lovely channels, can’t use Yellow Submarine,
And I shall ride in a boat with my luggage and tomorrows.
Where will you put me?

Broken and picked up, where will you put me?
I’ve been on shelves, have held trophies
But now I wish for relocation nation
trucks, parrot cages, tricycles and rich, rich realtors
Are along for the ride, new land, no flight
Rivers cut lovely channels but I traverse billowing hills
And I shall ride in a boat with my luggage and tomorrows.
Sails empty, my boat is powered with my wrecked soul.
Burns good, a touch black, read bad
with floorboard leaks and roses with violent flu
A night is still night, silence still captivating.
Firestarter resting gracefully in an oddly-organic spare.
Water sign sits in the corner, willing to piss out any flare ups.
Many thousands of parrots fire my boat through a purple tornado
I released them to fend for themselves; they sweet talk freedom.
my chains affix me to my truck and luggage stuffed in my mouth.
I’ll never be whole again.

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Friends Slide Away

Friends will love you and care for you until they determine your sickness might alter or interfere with your benefit to them.

At that time, they are empowered with confidences to slash, rip, and tear, and some of them do that.

It is a rare friend who is willing to stick with you.

The ones who stick with you are the ones who truly love and truly care.  We are fortunate if we find one.

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Friends in Colors Now

They are slow, smile big

Browns of the most warmth

Dark, thick browns hold the soul

Dance, dance, shift, dance, pop

Heads bounce in circles, smile big

Presents are here they love

Big fluffy white tangles softly

Backside like their prey

Tricky games and presents

Blacks, whites, browns mix softly

Dance with big, huge smiles

Fuse orange, round happiness

They glue broken brain cells

Agile paws loving human hands

Make the instant with velvet light

Huge, good day that boings big

Lick and love and worship

Life turns tolerable, bright green

Rid us of  the past, erase the bad

Exterminate our scary future

They love right now, always there

My dogs help me live big and good


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They All Died

Where are all of my friends?

They all died.


I have no chair on which to sit.

The walls slither like butter.

I try to walk on the floor of water.

My table cannot hold my book.


My friends went to make money.

They supervise armies stocked with bears.

They run fast limos through the dark.

They dance in pretty bedspreads of gold.


No pen to grab and fingers are straw.

Porridge and chili  spill from my mouth.

My world is brown with roaches.

My mind softens until my skull is empty.


My friends know of my disease.

They don’t run; they toss me away.

They are beautiful and they are loved.

They are good enough to avoid the evil.


My friends are in the beautiful world.

It is I who is dead, fully melted to evil.

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