After the rodeo they held a
dance in the 4-H building behind the stands—
They haven’t done that since 2017

I still walked back to my car in silence,
the din of a crowd behind me, freshly plowed dirt and pine, warm beer

I’m in this red summer dress, little yellow flowers all the way down to my ankles,
this is the kind of dress you’re supposed to find me in, in the cornflower blue evening, wisps of peach stratus clouds stretched behind the glaring rodeo lights

Deep Wreck and some kid from Wyoming
arced against the masses, wild hair flying
Red checkered pearl snap

You’re supposed to find me here, You.
You’re supposed to fall in love with me.

Turn it Loose by the Judds plays in the little
red alcove, a bandstand in the foreground;

I get in the car and go home.

Hope to visit them in the forest on their trees in California with my Canon at the ready
To capture the lovely Monarchs for a poster
Last Spring, several followed me while walking
I loved it, but knew the legend
They were those who passed on saying Hi
Hope that is true
Wishing I could soar with them
Gently flow with the breeze
Elegant Butterflies

Neon’s radioactive glow in a window,
offers the cheap promise of pleasure.
Like a hypnotic, fluorescent serpent,
it flashes, blinks and winks - “Welcome”

It fairly slithers on rain-slicked boulevards,
warms like moonlight on cold unfriendly nights,
and signals cool, ready fun in the summertime.

We dress our vices in silky, pastel colors, like the
gamblers choices of Disney flavored whiskies.
It’s the soft, velvet glove that hides brass knuckles,
oh, you’ll feel those bruises in the morning.

The world’s a dark alleyway with an electric blush,
whose color flatters the lonely, desperate,
and makes sin look like something you could fall for.

Neon is perfume for the optical senses.
In that light, everything seems possible.
Isn’t that girl smiling at you? You see,
beauty is easier to trust than the truth.

Neon imperviously reflects off regrets,
and glitters brightest on broken dreams.
Of course daylight is harsh, but honest.
Didn’t we come in here to escape it?
.
.
Songs for this:
The Ballad of Mac the Knife by Sting & Dominic Muldowney
Any Old Thing by Swing Republic

I crave the hush of a world asleep,
Where shadows stretch and secrets keep.
To melt into the void so wide,
No ticking clocks, no tides to bide.

Beneath the moon’s cold silver eye,
I’d let the noisy moments die.
The breeze would kiss my weary skin,
And stir the stillness deep within.

A pen, a page, a heart laid bare—
Each thought a whisper in the air.
No roles to play, no masks to wear,
Just me, the night, the quiet stare.

Oh, to pause this spinning sphere,
To breathe in peace, to disappear.
Not forever—just a breath,
A stillness sweet enough to death.

How I crave that gentle cease—
A fleeting second carved from peace.