This relationship is over;
my love is no more.
I don't hate you--
you've just become
a bore.
I thought about why
you don't do it for me
anymore:
It's pretty simple--
you crossed one of my kind.
I know you can't see it;
because you're blind.
You thought she was your
*****,
or a *****.
Now listening to you has
become a chore.
It wasn't deliberate;
I just started flipping the channel.
I realized I could no longer tolerate
the sound
of your voice.
It's not a political statement,
just my choice.

To eat or not to eat; that is the question.
A doughnut--******, airy--I’ll consume,
adjust my diet later to make room,
or falsely reject pastries’ sweet delight
while bingeing pasta deep into the night?
Doughnut, thou art satisfying; sweetly
filling morsel, savored now discreetly—
perhaps a little midday’s sugar craving
is better solaced, hunger I’ll be staving
off,  resisting better night time craves.
‘Tis better, easier to have the faves;
by portions small on calories I’ll save
and skip on other dishes that don’t taste
as sweet and crispy, but go straight to waist.

A magic spell to undo fear.
A charm to make care disappear.
An invocation against desolation.
An elixir for agitation.
Just three words I swear are true–
to repeat three times–”I love you.”

Found among Dad's things while cleaning out his condo. He died at the end of December:

EXHORTATION TO A TROPICAL FRUIT

Go
Mango!

AT THE HEALTH SPA

Virginia slims
Virginia's limbs

THE ULTIMATE CHALLENGE

The daredevil
Dared evil.

LEBANON

Malicious
Militias

THE HOSTESS AND THE BASKETBALL PLAYER

Julia serving
Julius Erving

I’ve a soft spot for you;
you press my tender button.
My heart’s a big furry teddy bear
with arms wide open.
I want to ruffle up your hair--what’s left of it.
Walk over here— my lap’s for you to sit.
Wait, you’re too heavy— I forget that you’re a man.
Perhaps I'll sit on top of you—
that's a better plan.
I’ve bought you dark chocolates-- treats for my sweet boy.
You’ve brought me red wine-- when I’m drunk, I am your toy.
Playtime’s fun; we can make or break the rules--
we’ll play House; we’ll play School.
We'll play all through our nap time, until the coffee's brewed.
We'll add some sprigs of wild thyme to our diabetic food.

I think of you in the eve and morn,
your beautiful face and aphrodisiac form.
But can it be you that I truly love?
Or are you a mask
for one I dare not think of?
The two of you have the same dark eyes,
and gentle souls. Are you a guise
for the hidden one whom I hold more dear?
Are you a shield against that which I fear?
Be it so. You’re a comfort to me,
so that I can have my fantasy, and,
reality.

If you told me of your deepest sin
would you fear I’d despise you?
Will you trust me, let me in?

Do you think I don’t wish to know
everything about you?
Would the truth be such a blow?

Don’t you think I might suspect
the truth you think you’ve hidden?
You fear you’ll lose my respect,
that you’ll become the unforgiven.

From the deepest depths of hell
even you can crawl to earth.
I’m here to hear what you can tell
and to tell you of your worth.

There’s a way to wash the stain
out of your broken soul.
To seek redemption, heal the pain.
To make amends should be your goal.

Give me a chance to be the one
who can see that you have grown.
That you are more than your worst day
and you don’t have to be alone.

Some of us can see
when someone truly seeks redemption.
Who seeks it not for sympathy
but for truth and honesty.

Your face is lined;
your brows are white.
You’re facing down
your long twilight.
Your tummy has a little bulge--
I see marks of what you
used to indulge.
Your teeth aren’t white;
your hair is thin,
but I believe that you’ve won
the struggle within.
There are bags
underneath your eyes,
but that gaze now is
so much more wise.
You don’t stir my blood--
the blood of youth--
but your words today
speak realms of  truth.
Love is left
when lust is gone,
and this love will last
‘til the world is done.

I saw you standing by the door
as I swayed and rocked on the dance floor.
The music was familiar, I could follow
the rhythm, the melody;
it seemed to be the missing part of me--
my unspoken sorrow, and sexuality.

You seemed immature. I didn’t try to understand
what you were saying. Your offered hand,
I rejected.  
I thought you were adolescent, smirky
trying to shock, pretending to be *****.
It didn’t make me feel like being flirty.
In fact, you reminded me
of everything I despised.
I couldn’t see the pain in your eyes
or peel away the lies
to hear the truth that you were saying.

A few decades later, here we are.
I’ve now found myself hitched to your star.
Do I now understand who you are–
or did you change--
older, wiser, the pretense gone?

I”m so sorry to arrive at this party so late.
Forgive me–
I was blind,
I was deaf,
I needed someone to hate.

In human form, only a man.
Yet, as I stand before you, I
see a Messenger of the Divine.
Struck dumb, I am at your command.
Take your pen, and with your hand,
write your name,
then etch it into stone.
Give me this token, so, as I travel this earth, alone,
(wherever I may roam)
I will remember that you are mortal
and frail, like me.
Though you serve as Messenger
of this Divinity.

My love, my guiding light,
shield me from the horrors
of this mortal world's blight--
the sorrow, and the pain,
and blood running
into rivers like rain.
I close my eyes and curse my sight.
But as I turn to you, your image
blocks out the deepening night.
I imagine your hand, your fingers touching mine
(though you will never be mine). With you,
I am home. I walk through the night
to where it is always day; I shall never be alone.

I'm under the spell of your dark eyes' gaze,
your gray shaggy hair and your feral smile.
I'd rip off your clothes with my sharp front teeth--
come to my lair, and stay awhile.
The dogs follow me, 'cause they know I'm in heat,
but it's you I want, and I'm on the prowl.
The electric current sends a siren call--
I know where you are. I can hear you HOWL.
I run in the night, through the crowded dark street.
I run to the rhythm of the pounding hearts' beat,
to the edge of the cliff, where my love and I will meet.

A mother sobbing,
a raging mob.
What we need is people
to do their job.
A cop stands still
amidst the crowd.
To **** or…be killed?
His head is bowed.
Lock the door and
set the alarm.
So simple a task
to keep some from harm.
Collecting a paycheck,
is easy to do.
But there’s a lot more
we expect of you.
By the time that you
become a grown up
you should have learned
it’s important to show up.

They were human once, it is said.
Now they torture the living
and abandon their dead.
Like their predecessors
of the same name,
destruction is their pleasure
and killing their game.

Their Dark Lord sits upon his throne
in Sochi, where his mind dwells alone.
To unite all, under his dark reign,
as subjects, or slaves—to Him, all the same.
No longer in Thangorodrim does He dwell.
He rules now from Moscow, and seeks
an Empire of Hell.

Hell is created
by the ORCS whom he orders.
Their blood lust to be sated
far beyond  Russia’s borders.
Destruction they rain from the skies above
on people who flee
from all that they love.

They were human once,
and perhaps even Him.
Now they are beyond
the world’s Creation
and we call on Varda
to vanquish him.

I’m a lone gunslinger
with a broken trigger finger.
I’m an old firefighter
with a gas can and a lighter.
I’m a spy undercover
with a double agent lover.
I’m the blind preacher
who has Satan for a teacher.
I’m the hangman
with a noose around my neck.
I’m the ship’s cat,
sunbathing on the deck.
The apocalypse is here
and we’re all going to heck.

I apologize for my offensive tweet. I know that my words caused real harm, and for the next two weeks I will be spending time in reflection, meditation, and  healing yoga at my Colorado ranch. I am also donating $100,000 to Black Marxists Anonymous.

I humbly ask forgiveness for the insensitive remarks that I made on my friend’s 1985 middle school yearbook page when I was 13. I know that my words caused real harm. There is no excuse for my poor judgment, and although my supporters mean well by pointing out that I was an adolescent, I do not agree that I should not be held to the same standards as a contemporary adult. I have spent time with my pastor examining my deep sinful nature.

I regret my costume at the Met Gala. I know that cultural appropriation causes real harm, and for a white woman to wear a dress adorned with feathers is an insult to Native Americans. I have auctioned off all of my turquoise jewelry and donated the proceeds to a Diversity, Equity and Inclusion Committee studying ways to improve BIPOC representation on the Met Gala planning committee. I have engaged a Native shaman to guide me to a path of understanding via guided Ayahuasca use.  

I take full responsibility for standing next to Ned, my former best friend, in the photograph that has recently emerged of us at a friend’s wedding last year. Ned’s inexcusable remark on Tuesday that “All lives matter” is deeply offensive to me and today I join the diverse community that is boycotting his performances. I am ashamed that I ever called this person my friend.  

I regret ever working with J.K. Rowling. She is a transphobic hatemonger who deserves our scorn and contempt. I realize that she will continue to espouse her bigoted views, because her fans do not care, Harry Potter lives forever, and she’s a billionaire who probably lives in a castle. But I will continue to post my outrage on my Facebook page so that…anyway, Rowling *****!

Some say the world will end in fire;
some say in rain.
I’ve seen the world end
again and again.
I’ve heard the bell toll
and the raven talk.
I’ve walked to the end of the pier
and seen the boat crashed up on the rock.
But each time I arise,
I awake to face the dawn.
Because there’s always one more job to do,
while I whistle one more song.

This old house is a crumblin’ down
This old house is a tumblin’ down
The paint is peeling
water drips from the ceiling
and the foundation’s sinking
into the ground.

The wiring’s faulty and the floors have a tilt.
The ground it was built on was actually silt.
The basement has rats,
the attic’s got  bats
and the neighborhood’s ruled by feral cats.

The driveway needs paving;
just who will be saving
this rotten old house at the end of the road?

I’d build a new house if only I could.
If I could do it, you know I would.
But I can’t tear it down and begin again.
It’s my home and I'm here to the end.

Spring and summer, they come and go.
Then it’s the hell that waits for me below.
An arm? A leg? Which part is scheduled for torture?
Fair Demeter, where are you? Are you truly my mother?
The pomegranate seeds were bitter pills.
Supposedly something that would cure my ills.
But there’s a side effect for every cure,
and I know now I cannot endure
the months-long torture of a winter in hell.
And my future fate no seer can tell.

I enjoy these brief respites.
I live now for my pleasant visits
to sunny days and strawberries;
away from my torment, the dogs and ferries.

Your left knee is arthritic,
Your spine is warping too
Your reactions aren’t so quick
And you’re often in the loo,
But we cannot help you
Your time is simply due.
It’s normal for your age.

Your skin’s become quite dry
As well as your nether parts
Your outfit isn’t fly
And you’re far more prone to farts
But it’s been written in the cards
It’s been sung by many bards
It’s normal for your age.

You tell me it’s an illness
And you want it treated fast
I’m afraid it’s your willfulness
You weren’t designed to last
The diagnosis is that your youth is in the past
We won’t treat your condition; the die’s already cast.
It’s normal for your age.

Roy Horn always favored big cats.
He put them in all of his acts.
But then Manticore,
who thought Roy was a bore,
said “Enough” and then Roy was just snacks.

She only wanted to walk freely,
or gallop through a valley
and feel the wind in her hair.
To camp by a stream and eat lembas
and wild roots.  Wander here and there
with Feanor’s sons, hunt wild boar, and drink
and laugh.
She would cast away the distaff.

But freedom for a woman can be a fragile thing,
beautiful and brief as a moth’s wing.
Eol, the Dark Elf, dwelt in shadow, in Nan Elmoth.
He saw Aredhel, alone and lost, and desired her, to betroth.

She had no choice
but to seek help at a stranger’s door.
And then she had choice no more.

Captivity breaks weaker hearts.
But Aredhel was Elven, and of Finwe’s line.
She bided time. She worked her womanly arts.
She raised a son, and loved him,
and told him stories of fair Gondolin.
When chance arrived, they broke free
and fled West, to the fair city.
Eol, enraged, pursued them,
and the words of Curufin stung him.
He would have killed his only son
for his defiance, but fate denied him
this pyrrhic victory.
Maeglin lived, and watched his father
die, as he stood by, free.

Maeglin—his father’s son—desired one
who loved him not. In reckless despair, he traveled too far,
and Morgoth preyed on his shame and desire.
It was not hard to turn Maeglin traitor and liar.
But no reward had Maeglin in this life--
never did he take fair Idril to wife.

Aredhel died to save her son, not knowing
he would be the one
to bring ruin on the Elven city.
Maeglin (his father’s son) had no kindness nor pity.  
He revealed the secret path
to Morgoth (his likeness in envy and in wrath).
And in the end, all fell: Gondolin, Nargothrond
and Doriath.

Environmental advice
from a re-purposed hag:
Stop driving cars.
Use a re-usable bag.
Cook dinner at home.
Adopt children, not pets.
Don't use plastic cups.
Don't eat tuna caught with nets.
Don't toss out food--
it becomes methane gas.
Stop shopping for clothes;
give consumerism a pass.
Wear natural fabrics.
Turn off extra lights.
Use solar cells.
Live the days and sleep the nights.

In the last pandemic,
I fell in love with a sick person.
We didn’t stay 6 feet apart.
I pressed my head on his chest
and listened to his beating heart.
We shared our limbs and our breath,
and there was only one part
of him that threatened me with death.
I miss the days when we knew
what risks we were taking.
But we still  measure love that’s true
by what we are willing
to do and to not do.

I type my poems in Microsoft Word,
Which capitalizes when I don’t want it to.
Microsoft capitalizes on its digital monopoly.
Monopoly is a board game about capitalism
that I played as a child with tokens and play money.
But I spend real money on Microsoft Word.
I don’t want capitalism to rule my world.
My world needs rules. Such as, the writer decides when to capitalize.
Capitalizing Word makes it a brand name.
A brand name is copyrighted, as are my poems.
But do  I own the copyright to my poems in Microsoft Word?
Word has it that if Monsanto seeds blow onto your farm,
the plants they become belong  to Monsanto.
Word.

Little Red was a fast runner; she sped round the track with surprising velocity. Freddi Wolf was a newcomer, with size and intensity. "What big shoulders you have," said Red. "And you’re towering over me." "Don’t worry," said Freddi; "I’m just a girl who tries hard; you  could probably beat me". "Your legs are quite hairy," said Red. "I don’t shave them with frequency." "And your voice is so deep." "No more comments! Have decency."  They both ran very fast, but Wolf took the win. He bared his white fangs when he collected his trophy. But he quickly changed his expression to a sheepish grin.

Buzz
From HortiDaily: "In a few countries, bumblebees are not available and manual pollination must be used... It pays to remember.. that without proper pollination a tomato plant will not produce premium fruit.
When tomato plants are pollinated manually, the best method is by using electric bees. These are battery operated vibrators. Staff must vibrate every plant in the glasshouse three times per week "

Tomatoes won’t ripen right
without pollination.
It helps to have a bumblebee
to give that good vibration.
But if you lack the bumble,
there’s another way, you see:
Your plants all can be pollinated
manually.
You will need to use some labor,
and wield a good *******--
the electric bee will soon become
your best-loved pollinator.
Your fruit is premium
and you’ll want to keep its savor.

They’re just things, they said. They can be replaced.

30-year-old handwritten letters from friends.
Photos of a place that no longer exists.
The stuffed animal that had a name.
The quilt grandma sewed for me.

You have your memories, they said.

But my possessions were the keys to my  mind’s drawers.
My old life is locked away.
I can't see it now,
through the smoke and flames.
I can't smell it,
only the  poisonous odor of melting vinyl.
I can't hear it,
just the crackling and crashing of the trees.

You’re lucky to be alive, they said.

But I'm having trouble proving I'm alive.
I have no passport, drivers license or diploma.
No utility bill,  birth certificate, or computer hard drive.
No Social Security card.

Some have it worse than you, they said.

Some always have it worse.
I didn't lose a husband, mother or child.
Just my cats. I thought they would follow me out the door
but they ran in the other direction.
I try to think of them in the forest somewhere,
climbing trees, and
not as charred bones.

But
I have the car.
I still have the car. I will drive it far
far away
from here.

On the First day of Xmas, my Dem Rep gave to me
A transwoman in her skiv-vies.
On the second day of Xmas, my Dem Rep gave to me
Two fake *******, and a transwoman in her skivvies.
On the third day of Xmas, my Dep Rep gave to me
No women’s sports teams, two fake ******* and a transwoman in her skivvies.
On the fourth day of Xmas, my Dep Rep gave to me,
Four phalloplasties, no women’s sports teams, two fake ******* and a transwoman in her skivvies.
On the fifth day of Xmas, my Dem Rep gave to me
Five preg-nant men! Four phalloplasties, no women’s sports teams, two fake *******, and a transwoman in her skivvies.
On the sixth day of Xmas, my Dem Rep gave to me,
Six double mastectomies, five preg-nant men! Four phalloplasties, no women’s sports team, two fake *******, and a transwoman in her skivvies.
On the seventh day of Xmas, my Dem Rep gave to me,
Seven teens with breast binders, six double mastectomies, five preg-nant men! Four phalloplasties, no women’s sports teams, two fake *******, and a transwoman in her skivvies.
On the eighth day of Xmas, my Dem Rep gave to me,
Eight cheater’s trophies, seven teens with breast binders, six double mastectomies, five preg-nant men!  Four phalloplasties, no women’s sports teams, two fake *******, and a transwoman in her skiv-vies.
On the ninth day of Xmas, my Dem Rep gave to me,
nine pharma lobbyists,  eight cheaters’ trophies, seven teens with breast binders, six double mastectomies, five preg-nant men! Four phalloplasties,  no women’s sports teams, two all gender locker rooms, and a transwoman in her skiv-vies.
On the 10th day of Xmas, my Dem Rep gave to me
10 years of electrolysis, nine pharma lobbyists, eight cheaters’ trophies, seven teens with breast binders, six double mastectomies, five preg-nant men! Four phalloplasties, no women’s sports teams, two all gender locker rooms and a transwoman in her skivvies.
On the 11th day of Xmas, my Dem Rep gave to me
11 lost scholarships, 10 years of electrolysis, nine pharma lobbyists, eight cheaters' trophies, seven teens with breast binders, six double mastectomies, five preg-nant men! Four phalloplasties, no women's sports teams, two all gender locker rooms and a transwoman in her skiv-vies!
On the 12th day of Xmas my Dem Rep gave to me,
12 preferred pronouns, 11 lost scholarships, 10 years of electrolysis, nine pharma lobbyists, eight cheaters' trophies, seven teens with breast binders, six double mastectomies, five preg-nant ment! Four phalloplasties, no women's sports teams, two all gender locker rooms and a transwoman in her skiv-vies!

Werewolf

I’ll trek through the woods and find a wolf pack.
I’ve got a simple strategy for a quick attack.
I’ll **** their Alpha and feed them deer;
I’ll become the new Alpha and I’ll rule through fear.

I’ll lead my pack with my bow and arrow.
We’ll eat the moose’s liver and **** the bones’ marrow.
We’ll hunt together by the cold moonlight.
I’ll plot the course of the season by the stars of the night.

We'll eat the flesh of those who dare come near
in the dark frigid dawn of the early New Year.
I’ll hunt down stragglers and set their bodies burning;
it’s survival of the fittest in this wicked world’s turning.

My dogs will howl at the moon by the edge of the cliff;
they’ll be the rhythm section while I play my riff.
Don’t come near us, don’t try to follow:
Steer clear of my pack, or you’ll have no tomorrow.



The Retort

So, you’ve got some silver bullets in your automatic Glock.
I hate to give bad news, and this might be a shock:
But I’ll take your silver bullets—
I’ll wear one as a pendant.
As for the rest of you—
they’ll only find a remnant.

Mating Season

I shed my human form, to meet you in the night.
We tread into our lair, within a limestone secret cave.
No one knows the site, except the watching grey-black owl.
We circle and we nip, with loving tender bite.
I smell your musky scent and hear your throaty growl.

Alpha Alpha pair, there are only two of us.
I’m the queen and you’re my knight
(but with no shining armor bright).
Instead, a coat of grey and white.

And when our rendezvous is done
we’ll greet the others at  the cliff
and all howl in unison.

"When you encounter a mountain lion, be vocal; however, speak calmly and do not use high pitched tones or high pitch screams"--California Dept. of Fish and Wildlife

Be vocal, but avoid high pitched tones and screams
when a mountain lion appears on your path.
Remind yourself that it’s not a  dream.

If the path goes down to a flooded stream,
and bodies float by--
stay calm;  avoid high pitched tones and screams.

When you go to the store and there’s no milk or cream,
as the cows are sickened  from a poisoned well,
remind yourself that it’s not a dream.

If the wildfire turns your hot tub to steam,
as you run down the street to your neighbor’s car
be vocal, but avoid high pitched tones and screams.

When the weather goes to another extreme,
and mudslides cover another town,
remind yourself that it’s not a dream.

When the fisherman catches no salmon nor bream,
and there’s no more coffee, nor chocolate ice cream,
be vocal, but avoid high pitched tones and screams.
Remind yourself that it’s not a dream.

I asked you to tell your story.
But you lied--
you closed the door on me.

Betrayed  in younger years,
your pain never faded.
It petrified, into a rock wall
high and sheer.

I can turn the key slowly,
unlocking the mystery  
of how old wounds still sting, but,
it’s no quick release from misery.

You found relief
in an inanimate remedy.
Or was it the chance of death you took
that entranced you,
a needle roulette, not Russian,
but just as deadly?

I cried
when I heard you had died
in your ecstatic reverie.
And the crimes that had been
perpetrated against you
were upgraded by Fate
from neglect to homicide.

The elixir was mixed.
The potion had been poured.
The candles were all burning.
Over the Book of Spells, I’d pored.
I handed you the goblet--
my commandment you ignored.
I intoned the incantation--
you sat and just looked bored.
I looked into the crystal ball
and told you of your fortune.
You disagreed—but how is this?
Of the two of us there’s only one
who is the sorceress.
Why did I paint the pentagram
and summon all the spirits?
I’ll have you know I’ll still be charging
my fee for all your visits.

55--is it the limit?
I’ve been slowing down, for sure.
Trying to economize, but my size
is growing.
No longer a tease; I’ve got bad knees.
I seize the day,
but please,
ask me if I prefer the elevator.
I might see you later--or not.
We can't count on tomorrow,
but I don't dwell in sorrow.
Now I hear more, see more,
even when I've lost my reading glasses. I know what life is for.
I grow things. I sing. Gladly
I do the dishes.
I have no birthday wishes. Wishes are for a future.  
I’ve removed things, and sewn a suture.
The way I was is history. That girl, with pretty shoes,
didn’t play the blues.
Now I listen, and I play those tunes.  
I’ve got no use for pretty, ‘cept for being pretty sure.
Sure, I've been wrong—wrong to wear those shoes, for one thing,
cuz my toes hurt.
Now, I know all the dirt. I’ve got things buried so deep
no one knows. But from the dirt, stuff grows.
I’m watering those plants, and wait til you see what springs up. Time ain’t up yet,
and there’s a green hill, and tall trees, and a sunset.

I saw you standing, dressed to ****.
Perhaps waiting for someone to tell you of her thrill--
the thrill that you give, when you start to sing.
I should’ve told you then that I’d been listening.
I’d just started to listen, just begun to catch the fire;
it wasn’t until later that I burned with desire.
Then I fell for you, I fell for you deep.
You’ve been playing with my mind; you’ve been visiting my sleep.
I wish I’d told you then, that I’d give you anything;
though nothing I could give you, would equal what you bring--
what you bring to me nightly, what you touch in my core.
When you’re next in town, go out the back door.
I’ll show you the stars,  I’ll show you the lights;
I’ll give you what you crave at the  end of the nights.
I’ll tell you of my dream, I’ll tell you of my vision,
then I’ll worship at the altar of my one true religion.

These shoes be hurtin’ me
and this top’s too sheer.
I can’t sit in this skirt.
Do you think I want men to leer?

I’ll wear my skirt long,
like the Orthodox Jews:
A high-necked top
and a pair of flat shoes.

I’ll wear sneakers with socks,
and jeans or black leather.
I’ll wear wool scarves and hats
on account of the weather.

Is it really “fashion”
or some type of mockery?
To dress women like ******
seems to me an atrocity

I don’t care what you think
of the outfit I chose.
I’m considering Islam
just for the clothes.

Hills glow emerald
Grass embraces winter rain
Forgets summer drought

Let’s take your ragged soul and patch it up together.
I’ve got some thread, and tricks up my sleeve.
With your grit and wit
we’ll  take the pieces, and make them fit.
Your new you may feel strange,
because some parts are re-arranged,
but your vision will be clearer,
and your hearing more  attuned,
emotions deeper--
when we’ve stitched up those wounds.