My Favorite Hours

The construct of time is everything and nothing.

There are a few small hours in certain days that pass more rapidly than I want.

If I am careful the hours stretch like dough silky smooth willing to give as much as needed.  And I knead but am not needed.  I have not solved the puzzle of why me and not someone else… there are plenty of others there always are, never fool yourself, never lie. I tell myself little stories of plausibilities and stop my capitualting with sadly simple truths.  Actions tell a different story than words ever will.

There is a tender place inside of every living thing, it drives us toward irrational thinking.  I pretend I have clad this space in armor and thorns.  But in these hours the eyes it does not have peer through the tangle wondering if someone has come to break it free only to be reminded as it presses toward escape by a sharp jab which sends it crashing backward away from the light.

Perhaps I am wrong to cage such a wild beast.  I let it run amuck once I cannot say I regret it but I can say that I learned much as a participant observer. So that now when my neurons fire and my pulse dances in my veins I check myself looking for chinks in the chainmail or holes in the thorny hedgerow.

The problem I fear is not so much that there is a beast, but rather it is being tamed.  For there is warmth that builds in these hours and it radiates through a frozen core making me want to shed the caging and trim the thorny growth.


Wondering You

The sky is painted darkest blue with silver clouds and moon. My brain has slowed and my heart beat too as I wait for my lashes to fall. I’m thinking now in monotone rhythm a slow and steady tattoo. You’re wondering what path my thoughts are taking? They are taking a path to you.   


The sharp sting of cold air on warm nostrils reminds me I am alive.  Twilight blue brings dimension to the world around me sharpening my vision and fine tuning my hearing.

I miss you.

I cannot tell you I miss you, for that would be weakness and betrayal.  Mostly in my private conversations between the left and right lobes the determination is that you simply choose to not care ergo I must not care.  And yet, I do.

As I lie here in the gloaming the odd rev of an engine on the highway and my breathing are the only sounds that interrupt my transcendental meditation.  I reminisce about events that never happened.  Earth shattering moments that define love, a gentle caress of fingertips across a forearm, the warmth that fills your soul at a smile from across a room, and the awkward glances and trying not to stare and draw attention because what if they do not feel the same way sorts of moments, moments that never happened.

And the blue changes into a golden glow pushing away the shadows and fantasies.  Light beckons me from my reverie and sends my neurons firing in purposeful fashion upon the solid ground that is reality.  And that reality is that my emotional yearnings are simply a trite happening for a woman of a certain age and social standing because really I should know better than to believe that love can conquer all.



The stars are blazing across the blue

Falling, falling into the ocean too

They are wishes

They are hopes

They are dreams

Lullaby’s careening at break neck pace

These shooting stars

Stars of Wonder

Stars of Might

They are diamonds, and dust that once were men.

I see them still all silvery white flashing across sceens

In the dead of the night

Their magnificence lives for awhile at least

Amongst the unfiltered, unfamous fragments of beasts

And then we smaller particles will pass into the vacuum

Of a black hole


Then reborn

Seen through the magnification of a fuzzy lens

Potential greatness that brings joy


(For those we lost January, 2016)


500 Miles

I am not so certain what the future holds.  I never thought I would return to the place I am now, and yet here I sit.

The most ironic part of my leaving and retuning is that I continue to harbor the idea that love will prevail within my life.  Experience has shown me time and again that this is not true.  I do not recall being handed rose-colored glasses but somewhere along the line I must have been.

I have a lot of imaginary conversations in my head with people most of whom I will never meet, and even if I were afforded the opportunity to travel I doubt that they would have the balls to meet me.  As I said experience has shown me disappointment time and again.

I grow weary of working for pennies and being told it is what I deserve.  Objectively speaking money is a strange and meaningless way in which we humans interact, numbers on strips of colored paper that quantify and value people.  I know I need money to survive but I cannot seem to earn enough to support my small family.  This saddens me.

When I am alone I think, a lot.  One of the thoughts that I ponder is karma.  Of all the universal ideologies out there karma seems to prove itself time and again.  Selfish people incur karmic events more so than others and they have woe as me events to paint their happenings in a different light.  I have witnessed how karma has come into play when people try to prevent another person from gaining righteous happiness.  This has particularly long term consequences that I have seen play out in the lives of people I know.  I am not certain how these people can free themselves from this entrapment aside from serious soul searching and self forgiveness.  Even then, the trespass against the other is what needs to be healed only it cannot be because the moment has passed and can never be recovered.

Just once, I’d like to know what it’s like to be wanted, to be cherished, to have someone let me know they’d walk 500 miles just to be by my side.10968518_10205098773221737_696645857616256746_n

Snap Out of It!!

Love never hurts.  Love is all that is good.  Love is a gentle emotion that soothes, comforts and heals.  Love brings out the best in us as people.  Things that hurt are rejection, misunderstanding, being punched in the face…  a “broken” heart derived from miscommunication and personal expectations is not a failure of Love it is a part of a growing process.   A person either learns how to Love through introspection and examination of self and the responses one makes or they are doomed to a foolish and repetitive pattern of self flagellation wrongly identified and attributed to the wrong emotion.  As Shakespeare wrote all those years ago, expectation is the root of all heartache.  If you are carrying sadness about expecting the first rush of flirtation to fix you perhaps you need to unpack your own baggage and look at each item you carry with you and realize how these experiences, memories or emotions impact all that you do and how you perceive others.

the ides of October


Today was so full of cobwebs and ghosts that I need to hire a cleaning crew and an exorcist.

I hit snooze time and again my first alarm going off at five in the morning and the last a quarter of seven.  Just past sunrise the sky was full of clouds, like those in an Old Master’s painting it was as if Rembrandt, from his heavenly repose, had taken his turn painting the sky for the pleasure of us few mortals who bother to look up.


My mind meanders as I drive and today was no different.  The ghosts arrived as I crested the Kent Narrows bridge and I was thinking back to a weekend visit in which my dear friend Rae had stopped by with her three children.  Her son Atticus bears a striking resemblance to his late father, my friend, George.  I was showing Atticus some Chinese exercise balls and my eyes rested for a moment on his hands, and for that moment they were no longer his hands but those of his father.  I remarked upon it and let it pass only to have that memory hit me in the gut.  It was followed by the memory of George laughing as he would at my maudlin female upset.

The radio mocked me and save for a gun and two bullets it is still there in my car.

I arrived at work in less than timely fashion, although no more than a few minutes late.  The ritual of preparing to work was hurried along by customers requiring help and in forcing me to say the date aloud, reminding me of the loss of my mother’s father.  A man whom I believed to have been named Owl.  I was 19 when I realized that a misheard moment when I was five years old stretched a lifetime.  My Nana in her New York accent said “Oh Al, don’t be silly.” and my ears Heard it as “Oh Owl.”  It made me choke up.  I could not breathe and the tear sprang unbidden to my eyes.  He was a good man.  I miss him.

I shall not trouble you with the drama at work but this too colored my day.

Again, the ride home was miles to review not just my day but portions of my life with the possible expectation of overcoming mistakes and maybe living life in better fashion.  So many mistakes.  I can tell you it is dangerous and difficult to drive with eyes full of tears.

I guess the whole of it is I miss my Owl, my friend, and my unspoiled youth.  I cannot resurrect the dead nor can I mend the past and I am not very certain how to sort out my future so that makes me one helluva mess.

365 Pages

A year is gone

The next one started

For those you left behind

Impromptu moments

Jack in the box thoughts

Pepper mental meanderings

The pictures of you

Driving through snow

Rachel by your side

Phaedra nestled on your lap

Flashes of countless meals

At nameless diners

And that damn Army Green coat

The songs on the radio

I imagine they tell me you are close

You became our Big Chill moment

I kind of hate you for that

Your quick smile is gone

And so is your laugh

The verve and the melancholy

Lay down with your sarcasm, and wit

So many quips silenced by a shot

The odd pinch in my chest

And breath caught in my throat

Salt my thoughts of a fast fading past

I choose to remember, I choose to hold on

Your ashes are scattered

Your belongings all gone

No footsteps remain

Only the pictures

My eyes captured

They grow fuzzy each day

You are ephemeral now

I envy you that