I don't want to spread any gossip, because I'm not that kind of person, but once someone on HP ghosted me, but I'll never ever tell anyone who it was, and you must never tell anybody that I told you that. Pinky-promise me.
                 ljm

Living in a city where the trees have names
And blank walls and bus stop benches
Have a language of their own,
I wonder who I am
And wonder who will read the lines I pen
And if I'm writing in an unknown tongue.

Wandering among the spray paint
                           proclamations
That declare existence
And 'my gang can beat up your gang'
I try to fathom the kind of emptiness
That only tagging can implete,
But I was never, at my worst, so hollow

Tuesday morning at Four A.M.
Gramma Smith turns over in bed,
Awake too early once again.
Her replaced hip complains
And a cramp hides behind her knee
And must be stretched and sent away

Fifteen minutes of not finding comfort
Informs her that it’s time to get up.
Legs hanging over the edge of the bed,
She searches the darkness for strength,
Knowing the minute she stands upright
Her back will seize and shriek with pain.

It only lasts a little while
Then settles into a bearable ache
As she shambles to the Loo
Before she can embarrass herself
With leakage she cannot control
The way she could when young.

Dry and on her feet again
She finds the way to her desk,
Blinking in the sudden light
From two lamps that fight each other
To chase away the shadows
That would make it hard to see.

Picking up her favorite pen
She starts to write a verse.
It grows quickly as she settles in
The chair that knows her shape so well,
And ink flows at a satisfying pace
To catch the words that tumble out.

But what she writes is this:

     Where are all the butterflies
     And Humming Birds of my youth.
     Where are the lacy Sweet Peas
     And the taste of lemonade.

     Where has all the music gone
     And groups of words that soar.
     Where are all the Chickadees
     And fleecy clouds at dawn.

She lays her pen aside and sighs.
The glamour that was living, pales
And leaves a morose gray behind.
Her words are serviceable at best,
And all the new ideas are old.
So she gets up and limps away

To where the kitchen still respects her touch,
And french toast is a panacea for her soul.
She searches for the words that would not come
And sips hot cocoa in vain hope
That there will be a reason to go on
And so the gun stays safely in the drawer.
                         ljm

When everything is monetized
And only tears are free
I think it’s time we realized
That’s not how life should be.

When you post your life on line
In hopes of earning cash
It should become a flashing sign
That it will one day crash.

Important things will fade away
In the rush to make a buck
Your only purpose every day,
To have financial luck

You’ll conjure up click-worthy memes
And pay no mind that they’re not real
That nothing’s really as it seems
As long as it’s part of the deal.

The boom will fall, that’s how it goes
And you’ll be left out in the rain
To learn what everybody knows
The lust for loot just causes pain.
                 ljm

Hello to **** America
Goodbye to the gentle folk of Ukraine
Goodbye to all hope for a Palestine
Hello to hatefulness and thuggery
Hello to self service and ego
Goodbye to seven Commandments
Goodbye to honor and trust
Hello to the end of the American Dream.
ljm

Small on the skyline,
This beautiful ship I’ve launched-
Testing the waters and her seaworthiness.
I stand on shore and strain to see
The sun glint off her sails as they unfurl,
It won’t be long before the horizon
Reaches out and takes her from my sight.

And yet she circles back again,
To the safety of this harbor
Where the ocean gathers calm and still.
But I know the tide is freshening
And the wind is for adventure.
I long to let her glide away but
It hurts too much to open up my fingers,
So I heave and pull on the mooring rope
Striving to keep her next to the pier-
Proud of the way she rides the swells-
Thrilled with the cut of her mainmast-
Excited with visions of where she can go-
Still I’m reluctant to bid her bon voyage.

For I have no ticket - this isn’t my trip,
I’ll have to be happy with postcards
From places mundane and wildly exotic-
Hoping she’s not out at sea too long and
That killer squalls don’t find her.

I’ve built her well - she’s sound and good.
There’s great common sense on the rudder.
The maps are laid out in orderly rows
And her spirit holds steady the sextant.

The tugs on the rope are outdoing my fingers
And I’ve had to begin to let go.
I must save some strength to lift hands in farewell
And keep vision clear through the teardrops.
        ljm

I’ll never be a track star
Because I cannot run
That doesn’t really matter
Because I have a gun.

I’ll never win a medal
For something I’ve achieved
But I’ll be long remembered
By everyone I’ve grieved.

I’m always sad and angry
My life has not been fun.
But I know how to fix it
With my brand-new shiny gun.

A bully said my *****
Appears to be too small
It’s bigger than the trigger
That will blow away them all

I’m longing to be famous
But my triumphs total none
I’ll aim for bigger numbers
When I unleash my gun

An AK forty-seven
Is the answer to my needs
And I’ll become a headline
Because of my next deeds.

I’m heading for the school now
Where I’m gonna awe and stun
Gonna mow down all the children
With my brand new shiny gun.
ljm

The too-long constipated pen
Strains for movement
And it hiccups out a line
That joins the rest in
Mediocrity and dross.
          ljm

(4)
Warm Vanilla scent
Drifts from Christmas kitchen
Bringing back my youth

(5)
Seven and two fives
Parsed and added carefully
Just make seventeen

(6)
Rainy winter sky
Dripping down the windowpane
Paints a broken heart

(7)
Sleeping daffodils
Cozy in their buried bulbs
Wait for springtime sun

You spilled my half full glass of living.
You clumsied it onto it's side
And everything poured out.
Now how am I supposed to play
The game that says it's half way full
Not half way empty?

Any fool can plainly see
This glass has nothing in it,
Even if I Pollyanna up a smile
And spell out all it used to hold,
It's absolutely empty now
And nothing I can say will fill it.
                    ljm

Half of a family growing up
Hand-me-down clothing to wear
Second hand cars and violins
Slightly used new sofas
Balcony where the cheap seats are
Bargain basement purchases
Lay-away plan for bigger things
Picking up coins from the sidewalk
Doing stoop labor for school clothes
Glasses that are only half full

Homemade cake at a card table
Three kids instead of a crowd
Only one fat Birthday candle
The kind used when lights go out

This is the menu they chose from
While ordering up my childhood life
Why should I expect more now
ljm

Sometimes I like to take a word and see how many short
phrases I can come up with that use it.  I chose HAND
this time.  I won’t list words that have hand as part of it -
like  ‘handsome’, but I will use the plural and past tenses.
I tried to avoid nouns. How  many more can you think of?

     Hand of God      Hand me down
     Hand over fist              Hand delivered
     Hand made      *******
     Hand in glove              Hand in hand
     Hand to mouth      Hand it to you
     Hands off              Hand to hand
     Hand stand      Hands of time
     Hand in   *    Hand over    *   Hand off
     Hands down  *   Hands up    *    Hands off

     At hand      Unhand me
     Glad Hand      Even Handed
     Back handed      Under handed
     One handed      Cack handed*
     Lend a hand      Second hand
     Steady hand      Force your hand
     Hold hands      Lay hands on
     On every hand              On the other hand
     Out of hand      Show your hand
     Take in hand      Try your hand
     Throw up your hands         Wash your hands of
     With a heavy hand        High Handed
     On hand  *  Off hand  *  In hand  *  Out of hand
                                                            ­        LJM
Additionl words from BLT:     Hand over my heart
Hand to God       Sleight of Hand   Grabby Hands
Slick Hands,    

T S Poetry added  :  Gotta hand it to you    Overhand
One in the hand is worth two in the bush (birds)  

Melancholy of Innocence added:  Holding hands

Amanda Kay Burke added:   Shorthand    First hand   Handout

I’m slowly being driven to drink
In a shiny brand new Uber car
That I can’t afford to pay for.
The driver wants to sing Karaoke
And ask me trivia questions for cash.
Is this my lucky day or what.
ljm

Happy Thanksgiving
    
Hollow words
thrown out like confetti
to land where they will
on the well manicured lawns
of the houses of plenty
and the cardboard beds
of the hopeless homeless

Happy Thanksgiving

Words as flint to
Spark the tinder
that flares into flame
that warms some and
chills others who are
celebrating things
that no one
woud be thankful for

Happy Thanksgiving

To those with little
to be thankful for
except the lack of dyeing
and a list of shiny promises
most already broken
with the pieces
scattered on the floor

Happy Thanksgiving

Greedy merchants
rub their hands
And hide the day
in bargain hunts
For things that
don’t bring joy
but just more need

Happy Thanksgiving

Living in a little corner
of the furor that is life
a tiny candle in the shadows
holding out the hand of hope
of kindness, even love
sharing what has been
stored up for use
this day and every day
to live the meaning
of the  word Thanksgiving.

ljm

Harlan never ever died.  
His words still burn like ******,
Scalding minds that revel in their rut.

He saw behind the curtain long before
The Tin Man or the scarecrow did
And he shouted out the travesties
That everyone refused to see.

His acid pen made pages boil
And much of it splashed over him
Creating scars that in my gentle fingers
I could never heal.

He created mountains where none were
And scaled them to the accolades
He made it known that he deserved.

I rode the wind with him for just a while
Though he offered me forever
It seemed too shiny for my eyes
And I blinked and turned aside
To stand and watch his comet soar.

He one day met a flameproof soul
And lept into the multiverse
With sound and fury as his steed
And her his tether to civility.

I  loved to share his meteor
As it began it’s wild ascent
I thrilled to watch it blaze the years
And see him tear the strictures down.
And even as his comet died
It took a bit of me along
To the place World-beaters go
When it is time to take a rest.
                               LJM

H  ow is it possible to have so much hate
A  midst all of those that I’m ordered to love.
T  orn by the need to stay here and fight-
R  eeling from weakness I thought I’d outlived,
E  dging towards a fall I must stop, I’m
D  odging the arrows, to keep keeping on.

F  rightened that I’m not as young or as smart,
O  lder than I ought to be at my age, I’m
R  emembering when I wielded weapons of youth.

M  y  armies of wit were were invincible then,
Y  et now only shadows of warriors past.

E  nemies bumping the sore spots they caused me, with
N  ever a thought or respect for my toil, I
E  nvy their callous neglect of my pain and
M  emorize odes to the loathing I feel.
I   light bonfires of hatred and hope not to get burned
E  scaping through tunnels of madness and fear into
S  afer environs where I can breathe free.
                                  ljm

The whole world sings Happy Birthday Oprah
But I don’t see any cards or gifts.
I baked a little chocolate cake.
They won’t let me deliver it.

An Icon of so many things -
Once everybody got a car,
And now we know the books to read
And all the ways to diet.

It seems a shame that this award
Should fall across her shoulders.
When every virus has a name
And this one gets called Oprah
ljm

He offered me a
golden future.
It came postage due.
           ljm

I’ve always had this fantasy
That if you die and go to Heaven
You’re not aware of earthly things
But if somebody left below
Should think of you, a bell rings.

A bell that only you can hear
With such lovely tinkling sound
A bell that tells you someone cared
That someone’s thinking of your smile,
Remembering the times you’ve shared.

Other Angels all around
Are doing what the angels do
Then one will stop and tilt her head
And you know that she’s hearing things
And smiling with the joy it brings.
ljm

H aven for those who’s words are never read
E ven though they pour their souls and very
L ives and spirit through their pens or
L et their fingers nurture beautiful tomorrows
O n the keyboards of their creativity.

P oetry is the blood that pumps
O ut wondrous magic from those fertile minds that
E nds up on a glowing screen or printed page, in hopes
T hat it can give birth to a long awaited
R ennaissance in the thinking of the world, and create a
Y earning for a better way to live and love.
ljm

Dancing in the midst of children
I writhe and dip and try in vain
To sidestep the unease that haunts me
And somehow spin away my pain.

This is the feast I was excused from
Long before I’d had my fill
Now I only watch the diners
Fresh come from my trough of swill.

I seek for caverns of forgiveness
Turning, gliding, bending  low
Reaching out in all directions
Stepping fast while the music’s slow.

Somewhere in the beat, nepenthe
Hidden in the mournful sound
Some small solace that might heal me
Help me back to solid ground.

Floating in the hazy twilight
Reeling from tobacco’s sting
I hide behind a veil of midnight
And listen to the words they sing.

Unknown to all by my design
I fight chameleon’s blending urges
And struggle to remain aloof
While searching for my futile purges.

Stretching muscles that complain
I swivel joints that protest loudly
Pushed by demons I can’t name
I hope that I can go down proudly.
    
As the thudding beat surrounds me
Pummeling my burdened brain
I wish that it could pound to flatness
Both my body and my pain.

Is there in this darkling cosmos
Any shelter for my broken soul
Or am I chasing moths on quicksand
Doomed to hold an empty bowl.
                                ljm

Lost on the rutted road to nowhere-
Bumper to bumper in traffic
That creeps along at a pace
Guaranteeing poor mileage
And overheated engines.

What difference does it make-
I don’t know where I’m going
Or care if I ever arrive.
There’s  nothing for me at the turnoff
But another unmarked  highway.

I had a road map once,
All marked with good directions
But I left it in a restroom
When I washed my hands
And saw a stranger in the glass

And listened to his tales of shortcuts
Promising to bring me home
To hearth fires burning
Warm with dinner in the oven
And two arms stretching out to me.

Silly, foolish, stupid me-
Hungering for meals not offered-
Rushing places I’m not wanted-
Giving things nobody takes
And getting empty boxes in return .
             ljm

Like an endless arrow aimed at the heart of nowhere
The road ahead smashes itself against the distant mountains.

Now the road lasers toward a far horizon and falls off
The edge of the world into cloudy skies.

Cows, like freckles on a distant green field, pay no attention,
And by what miracle is there grass in this barren landscape.

Orange posts on thick black bases march along the roadway edges
Like determined Boy Scouts on an endless hike.

Miles and hours roll away in equal measure and nothing changes
But somehow nothing manages to ever stay the same.

No cactus and no tumbleweed, no sand dunes or gullies.
Only gravel plains that go forever without the smallest signs of  life.

A hundred miles and not a village, not a human or a gas pump
Nothing but the fear of breaking down with no phone signal.

All those places on the map a crazy quilt of boarded up abandoned.
Where others’ dreams have come to die and wither in the sun.

Coasting in on final fumes, the the station is a savior and a clown
Finding humor in the city folk who didn’t know the landscape.

Who didn’t know you fill your tank in every town you pass
And never let it get below the half way marker on the gauge.

A final push and finally the Fallon signs appear
Relief is like a cooling breeze that makes the last miles fly.

And there is Fallon, little town where everybody wears a gun
In leather pouches on their belt, and rebel flags are seen.

Where good ole boys and relatives have welcome mats
And handshakes that morph into hugs that sometimes last too long.

Where mosquitos rule the skies and snakes may keep you company
But everyone you come across will soon become your friend.

The paradoxes build a wall that can’t be gotten over
And the only way to go is back to where we started from.

Highway 95 has brought us to a wholly different world
And sadly, we don’t speak the language or understand the rules.

Nothing but to turn around and make that endless drive again.
No one on the road but us, as lonely as it was before.

The trip was made with hopes held high for a new beginning
But the future offered us came with too much baggage.

So highway 95 goes on...and on... and ever on
For some a super highway, for some a mere dead end.

ljm

The way was steep and rocky
A cliff on one side and a drop on the other.
I had not worn my hiking boots,
They were too old and broken down
And I could not afford new ones.  
My flimsy little tennis shoes
Felt every stone and crevice.

The wind was colder than I thought
Against my light-weight summer jacket.
I had no mittens for my hands
So I kept them in my pockets.

The sun was out when I began
The air was warm and the wind was calm.
The path was smooth and leveled out
With lovely vistas to be had.
I strolled along among a crowd
Of friendly, cheerful people
Until the path began to rise
More steeply than the posters showed,
And folks began to drop out one-by-one,
Not willing to surmount the rocks
That cropped up in the winding way.

I had a need to see the top
So I kept taking one more step
And one more breath of mountain air.
Cheerfulness grew difficult
As bigger boulders blocked the path.
But there was always a way around,
Although the footing was unsure.

I once looked over the drop on my left
And was gripped by paralyzing fear;
But I feared more to end my quest

My feet were sore, my hands were cold;
My nose was red and running.
But I could see the banner at the top
And my name was written on it.
Suddenly I was not alone
And I was not a failure.
I did what others could not do
And did it on a shoestring.
I had no fancy gear or help.
I climbed that mountain on my own;
So don’t tell me what I can’t do.
ljm

HIS DREAMS
At least the ones that he recalls and tells me
Nearly always have a story based on ***.
A group of women capture him
For Show and Tell and more -
For naughty games with other names,
A **** movie A to Z.

MY DREAMS
Vignettes with no song to sing
Pieces from a jigsaw puzzle
Scattered all across the floor
The pieces come from different boxes
And they never make a picture
And there’s never any ***.
       ljm

Raised mid fire and brimstone
Religion every day.
It wasn’t oh-so-very long
Before I walked away.

With my back turned so completely
I soon had lost my way.
I squandered all my treasures
My foundation turned to clay.

It seemed like fun for many years
But there were dues to pay.
Too many lovers came and went
While I forgot to pray.

I had a chance to make things right
And wicked dragons slay.
I only managed for a while
Then things began to fray.

I traded for a different one
Who wanted just to play
And lived the last years of my life
In many shades of gray.

I could have chosen uphill roads
I picked the easy way.
I worked so hard to hurt myself
And every trust betray.

I find myself in sunset years
Beneath the sun’s last Rays.
My life did not fulfill my dreams
And I must face that fact today.
                                              ljm

Are the Supremes gonna sing his song?
The one it took him four long years to write.
The one he and his choir auditioned in half
The states in what’s left of a Country.

Is the Nonet going to sing his melody
Or will they split into several quartets
Or perhaps a trio and two duets
With someone else taking the solo.

Are the Supremes gonna dance to his tune?
The rest of his orchestra turned him away
And the score calls for complicated steps
But he paid for their lessons in dishonest cash.

He provided new choir robes, with no lace collars
Does one size fit all, or are some too tight.
They insisted on black and refused MAGA red
In an effort to counterfeit decorum.

And still the question hangs in the air
Will the Supremes nonet sing his song.
Is the end of the world an impossible thought
Not if the Supremes agree to sing his song.
                          ljm

Alone together
in another
    place,
       it doesn’t feel
like
   Christmas.
The tree
is
              differently shaped
and
       somehow foreign
looking.
The garland hangs
  on
      the usual things
     but now
               doesn’t seem
     as green.
The carols
     sound familiar
     but
           the voices
                      have been
                           changed.
I think
           the calendar
                       is wrong
               and I am
                  where
                I don’t belong.
     ljm

BIRTH OF JESUS
WHAT HE GAVE US -
GREATER GIFTS
THAN WALMART EVER DREAMED.

ljm

33 bounces of the Merriam-Webster ball
33 Words I already knew
33 sentences using those words
Some bounced high on the like and love tally
Some fell as flat as leftover beer
Some rolled into corners and got themselves lost

The game was fun and then called a half-time
Without entertainment, but I hung around
Determined to witness the very last ball.

This is my homage to all 33 of them
Rolled Into M-Webster ball 34.

I dropped it with no little thought for the game
Surprised at not being surprised, I observed
This ball didn’t bounce-not even just once.
The fun is the game and not the reward.
                                          ljm

The mileage added up to just a grand
Not a lot for 20 days,
No crossing of a dateline
Or a continent’s divide.

But still that world seemed somewhat foreign
and I saw streams of amazing things,
That were echoes of my teenage self,
As different now as I was then.

A hazy forest, dark and damp
Where the mist turned into fairy snow
And we walked on in muddy shoes
To learn the mysteries of falling water.

A midas treasure of wave-borne findings
Spilling from a cavernous hall
Pieces of so many lives found
Floating on the morning tide.

Stories of a Nippon sailor’s life
From things that got thrown overboard
Images of fishing boats
In round glass ***** and floats of cork.

Carve the circle with a line
That led to a reunion of
The ones that I grew up beside
But never quite was welcomed in.

A rounding up of recollections
Shared at tables set for eight
Where those left out still don’t fit in
And bonhomie was the music played.

To the ocean of my childhood days
Waves that tell me who I am
And fill up all the empty spaces
City life drained out of me.

A shining tower with ninety steps
That wound around like pizza slices
And tripped me up to ******* blood
As balsa airplanes spiraled to the ground.

No time for wounding on the schedule
Shedding blood but never tears
The leader of the band played on
Admiring a Tsunami boat

Come all the way from far Japan
With cargo of the local fish
Still swimming in the unspilled sea.
A miracle born from true disaster.

Another beach, not like my own
A warmer, calmer span of sand
With jutting rocks in shallow surf
That dare you out to climb them.

Drawn once more to city lights
And the grassy ***** where mother lies
There were other gardens to enjoy and
And contrivances with just two wheels.

How quickly we grew shuttered in-
Just two days in big city life,
The restaurants and funny shows
Still told us it was time to go.

Longing for the beauty of the Gorge
We were met by smoke and blackened stumps
And exits blocked to waterfalls, ravaged
By the fires of hell, and ugly now for 50 years.

A teenage boy with fireworks and no sense
Destroyed the loveliest drive on earth
And bragged to all his awestruck friends
That all the news stories were about him.

With fingers crossed at Mount Rainier,
The sunny weather turned to slush and
Fell two inches in an hour.  I ate fresh snow
Off branches as we hiked, and froze my tongue.

We wore the heavy coats we almost didn’t bring
And cheered when sunshine took the snow away
And we could walk in forests once again
On trails we never knew were there.

A wonderland of cast off parts and metal bits
Became giraffes, seahorses and other marvels
In the hands of a roadside welding artist
Who sold a giant piece to my home town.

A visit with a sister who shared my youth but not my soul
Who grew one way and I another
Leaving not a thing in common for us
Except the love that comes from blood.

No way to avoid the final city
Hellish place of one way streets
Endless detours and construction
Pay all you own to park two hours.

Yet there was the comedy and
Segways once again to ride.
A troll under a hulking bridge and
Poor Rapunzel in the tower.

Passing up the tourist musts,
Visited in journeys past, we saw
The small and quirky things
That make a foreign city yours.

Twenty days, almost no rain
Unheard of in that rainy clime
A lot of sun, some cloudy skies
A bit of snow to frost the cake.

Twenty days to drive a circle
On the map of who I am
And where I came from
To bring it all back here with me.

To this place so vastly different
I wonder how I found a way
To fit inside this giant tumbler
And plant a seed that actually grew

A would-artist long ago
I wonder how I mixed the paint
To make a life so changed, in colors
Blended from Seattle’s soils.

Painted on a Portland canvas
With a brush of Longview bristles
Wetted with Pacific water
To present my image to the world.
                       ljm

Sitting at my little desk
cluttered up with nothing real
so it looks like I have work
a little heater on my feet
epitome of luxury - warm feet
how time drags away today
so much behind to do at home
alone inside this little room
where photos line the wall
with other people’s happy day
would it be sacrilege
to ever put a sad pose
in the frame that
held such shining joy
≈≈≈
another wall is cabinets
with everything that
I might need for anything
but where is the band-aid
for today and the
cure-all for tomorrow
as I sit and wish that I was gone
to any place but here
≈≈≈
narcolepsy goose-steps in
battalions of its troops-
a war I must not lose
I cannot leave and
beat retreat
I must stand firm and fight
until the razor
hands of time
cut through the bars
that keep me here
unwilling but required
≈≈≈
for I support the camping trip
that we call daily life and there
are hungry mouths to feed
with names like heat and light and
shelter from the winter
they bring their cousins
food and clothes and
go juice for the car
to stand in line
on my front porch
with hands outstretched
demanding
≈≈≈
sometimes I muse
on what would happen
if i just turned out the lights
and locked the door
against intruders
and tap danced away
would there be a net
to catch me
if i jump too high
or dance along
the precipice
without my contact lenses
≈≈≈
now I recall
the words my mother said
when I would dream out loud
“wish in one hand
spit in the other
and see which one
gets full first”
good ole hillbilly philosophy
≈≈≈
so here I stay with a frozen clock
an antique desk
with a vase of crimson
bougainvillea I snipped
off the hedge
across the parking lot
I must have flowers
on my desk and
in my home
my very soul demands it
but never if I buy them
it requires the vaunted
ingenuity my mother
preached to me  
to keep the vases full
≈≈≈
what ceramic vase
 would I fit in
I’m neither rose
nor orchid
would I be
a whole bouquet
or just a single daisy
silliness to ponder
fourteen kinds of nonsense
≈≈≈
still the pen
stays wedded
to my finger
not yet done
with nonsense rambling
though I’ve said
most everything
I need to say
≈≈≈
I’m over half the
way to freedom
looking for a coin
to buy away
the final hundred minutes
will it be the radio
a game of solitaire
or just more
claptrap from this pen
≈≈≈
the usual fall back
crossword puzzle
points up my aphasia
and I’m in no mood
to face humiliation
once again
≈≈≈
how slowly can I nibble on
the sandwich
left from lunch and still the time
procrastinates
my mind at last is blank
And now is the acceptance
I can’t scribble on forever
it’s time to
put away the pen
and hide this diatribe
out of the public eye
And head at last for home.
                ljm

In a house that is not my home
On a cookie-cutter street
Battered by the sun, the wind and rain
I wonder how I got here and how I can get out.

All my stuff is scattered everywhere
And hanging on the walls in rooms
That hold no trace of me
Or who I am or want to be.

The neighbor’s floor plan is the same
I could walk in her house blind.
I push my furniture around
But there is still no sign of me.

Everything of who I was
Is boxed and stashed away upstairs.
I’ve never had a house with stairs
And that makes this more foreign.

This house is full of all my things
Shipped across the miles
But I forgot to pack myself
And I am still back there.

In a  home with character
And charm that I created
On a quiet tree lined street
Shared with other kindred souls

The one who wanders through these rooms
Will not admit to being me,
Or breathe life into this address
Nor paint her spirit on the walls.

A guest in my own final home
My name is on the deed
But it belongs to someone else
And I must find a way to live here.
          ljm

A poem, a poem I've got to write.
But nothing seems to come tonight.
I guess I'm just not very bright
When it comes to writing poems.

I crumple paper sheet on sheet.
I think of deadlines I'm to meet.
I haven't time to sleep or eat;
I've GOT to write a poem!

The time ticks on --it's two o'clock
Our light's the last one on the block.
Perhaps if I could take walk
I could better write a poem.

Then suddenly I get a thought--
I put it down to the very last dot…
And then I think, "It's not so hot."
Why CAN'T I write a poem?

But then I say, "'Twil have to do."
The morn is come; the night is through.
I'm tired but proud, I can tell you,
'Cause I just wrote a poem.
                        ^^^

There is an addictive beauty in sadness
It’s easy to get hooked on pain
It’s a one-way street to depression
With no way to get out again.

You feel so good after crying
You sometimes must invent a good reason
There’s some kind of comfort in sighing
It gets you through Holiday Season

The craving for sorrow is endless
It lures like a velvety shroud
That shields from the world’s melancholy
When the ache begins keening out loud.

A funereal smile may be moving
And earn you a pitying hug
But Somehow you must forswear Anguish
And stop yourself craving this drug.
ljm

There are flowers that bloom only in the dark
When the moon is hidden by gray clouds.
They add aroma to the dawning gloom
And live but only for a day.

There are birds that sing when there’s no moon-
When magic is afoot and fairies dance
In complicated patterns of Gavotte
In secret grassland meadows.

There is music in the midnight a
The sound of violin and lute
Wafting on an errant breeze
That brings with it the scent of Jasmine.

There are footprints in the Stygian sands
That lead away from blighted rivers
Past the meadows and the flowers
While a nocturne greets the apricot hued sunrise.
                ljm

An artificial crimson blossom
In the garden of God’s roses
I’m made of silk and wire and glue
On a slender stem of green bamboo.
Artistry makes me look real
And though I turn to face the Son
I can’t create perfume to offer
And I stand out painfully
Among the genuine creations.
Waiting for the Gardener
To notice me and **** me out
To die among the brambles
I tried diigently to escape.
              ljm

I’m a balloon with too much air
     Someone didn’t know when to quit
           The huffing and puffing wouldn’t stop
                     And I’m stretched past the breaking point
                               My wit’s been dulled so I don’t fear
                                      That I’ll pop myself with a sharp retort
                               I’m staying on the cobbled path
                        Avoiding the roses in the garden
                 And the cactus in the field next door.
             If I had a clue where I was bound
   I’d have a chance to make it there
    But one sharp look will do me in

And the blast will level Burbank.
         ljm

The power-giving tank is empty
  And the engine’s partly blown.
  There’s also not a lot of rubber
   Left on the two back tires.
    The steering wheel is badly cracked
     And the rear view mirror is missing.
      But somehow it still runs just fine.
       Every morning she fires it up
        And chugs around the neighborhood
         In what seems like a waste of time
          As nothing really gets accomplished.
           Valued as a vintage model and for
            The speed it once produced,
             The chrome is polished every day
              And the radio still plays.
               It belongs in a car museum
                But the owner never will give in.
                 She says she’ll keep the engine revving
                  For maybe another year or two.
                           ljm

(with apologies to Elizabeth Barret Browning)

                                        Arrogant
­Book Soldier
Conceited
Con Artist
Covetous
Cunning
Deceitful
Disingenuou­s
Egoist
Egregious
Envious
Entitled
         ­                               Evil
Haughty
Hypocritica­l
Ignominious
Immoral
Jealous
Jumped Up
Machiavellian
Martinet
Mendacious
Nit Picky
                                        Obsessed
Peck Sniff
Perfidious
Persnickety
Pompous
Popinjay­
Predatory
****
Rapacious
Regimental
San­ctimonious
                                        Self Important
Shylock
Smarmy
Sophist
Supercilious­
Unctuous
Unethical
                                   ­     Vile
                                        Vicious
       ­                                 Zealot
       ljm

She wears the long black dress of desolation
It swirls with heavy motion as she walks
It’s been in her closet many years
And she really never thought she’d need to wear it

When she finally takes it out, it’s dusty on the shoulders
And she freshens it with a dampened cloth
She is surprised that it still fits her
Since she’s grown much bigger over time

Her whole world lays in shattered pieces on the carpet
She needs to gather them into a bag
To put out for the Friday trash-man pickup
But though she looks, she cannot find a broom.

She puts the bigger pieces in a basket
And collects the tiny shards on masking tape
It’s obvious it can’t be reassembled
So tomorrows hopes must stay there on the floor.

She does not choose a souvenir to keep
From the wreckage of her plans and dreams
She’s seen the circus and the rodeo
So why save pieces of the carousel.

She tidies up and shuts the door
To live in other nearby rooms
So she won’t step on memories
Or trample hopes into the rug.

Tomorrow she’ll tie a red sash on her dress
Don hat and gloves and make her way
Across the bridge to meet the road
That leads to new beginnings
And a broom.
                 ljm

I’ve spent half of my life waiting for the other shoe to drop
And the rest of my life picking it right back up again.
                       ljm

Pretty girls get listened to
Fat old ladies are ignored

A lovely face will unlock doors
A homely face will find them closed

A shapely figure’s always noticed
A shapeless one’s invisible.

This is the way society works
Not even pretending to be fair

How do I know about these rules
I have lived by them - Three out of six.
ljm

After a long, frustrating sojourn in the wilderness of error 500, the light has come back on and we can see each other again.  Eliot has conquered the dragon and the Holy Grail is within our ken once more.  Odes of joy and thankfulness spring forth from the fertile pens of the faithful.  Thank you, Eliot, and don’t you DARE do that again with no warning.  Some of us almost bled to death.
                                                           ljm

or

HOW TO GET RID OF THE MEMORY OF A LOVER WHO BROKE YOUR HEART

Wrap the memory tightly in Saran Wrap
Secure it with strong rubber bands
Lock it in a metal box that has a key
Melt the key in the toaster oven
Completely wrap the box in 7 layers of silver duct tape.
Put that in a plastic bag and seal with staples
Put it on the top shelf of the back bedroom closet
Pile old shoes on the shelf in front of it
Lock the closet door
Nail the bedroom door shut
Burn down the house
Move to Europe
Fall in Love again

Works every time.
             ljm

Water’s running down the curb
Someone’s sprinkler head has failed
Shall I take my normal route
Or follow and see where it ends
Silly question - Off I go
I don’t often walk this street
It rises steeply at the top
The stream comes from much further up
But I’m determined to see where...
Oh! What’s that by the puddle there -
A tiny little humming bird
Darting just above the flow
I stop to watch - this is a treat
The tiny thing with atomic wings
Hovers here and there
Than lands at water’s edge
It’s only centimeters deep
But to him it is a river
At last he settles in the stream and drinks
His needle beak darts in and out
He doesn’t know I’m watching him
Entranced
And now he dips his wings and head
And fluffs his feathers in the morning air
Giddy as a toddler in a splash pool
It feels so good
He does the same thing two more times
While I stand stock still, transfixed
At last, refreshed and clean, he  launches
Into the heart of a nearby tree
And disappears from view
I can’t see him any more
So I move on -

The broken sprinkler still calls me
I find it only two doors up
A geyser by the driveway
Burbling up their water bill
The homeowners likely still asleep
In this very early morning hour
I don’t know the residents
So I don’t go knock on their door
I’m sure they’ll see it soon enough
And shut the water off
It’s blazing hot but I feel cool
Walking along the little stream
That’s running down a street
Called Rippling Springs - how appropriate
Each morning walk is a different gift
As I make this new place into my home
But spying on a humming bird
In the comfort of his morning bath
Is a treasure that’s above the rest
                     ljm

With Highway One almost completely to myself
North of San Simeon
I find a pristine ocean on my left
Green covered hillsides on my right,
And a warm sun in a light blue sky above.
The stresses of the city and my topsy-turvy life
Begin to fall away as I relax and revel in it,
All alone here in my faithful Jetta.