Such anxiety that has me bound.
So tight I can’t breathe.

Dispel this fear that I’m nurturing.
These thoughts that have my lungs
in its taloned clutch.

Let not its grip tighten more.
Let not the flame be extinguished.
Let not the last dregs of my strength flee.

Grant me the courage to once again
triumph over the siege that has me...

All bent misshapen and twisted in knots.

I wasn’t so afraid
of shadows that stalk.

Wish I wasn’t so afraid
of demons that talk.

I made a painting.
One of the future.

My brush was sure
my strokes, deliberate.

I had chosen colours loud
I had chosen them fearlessly.

Think I’ve completed my painting.
And I hate it.

How do you tell if she’s a lady,
When she’s turning eighty five?
She doesn’t wear much jewelry
No furs or fancy styles.

She doesn’t play croquet,
But likes to root instead through dirt.
Her uniform’s a crumpled hat,
Old shoes and a muddy shirt.

You can find her on any sunny day,
Outside in all weather,
Stacking stone and hauling hay.
Collecting white stones & robin feathers.

But don’t dare swear or she’ll object!
Don’t watch **** TV or
She’ll tell you what to do instead:
“Rake some leaves or sweep this floor!”


She might strike you as old Rose Sayer,
Prim, proper and cold.
And to God each night she’ll say a prayer,
“Jesus please, don’t let me get old!”

Dedicated to Mom, Who Believes in Living Forever