Posts for June 17, 2026 (page 2)

the voice of the wurlitzer 
came sugared through the salt
and the cotton-candy clouds
dragged their pink skirts
over the shore
where no ship ever docked

gold glinted
off the brass wotsit
at the center of everything
as if the whole world
had one bright pin
holding it down

the horses rose and fell
and rose
with their wooden throats open
and the painted swan
went nowhere beautifully

we passed it again
and again
passed the terns
the locked arcade
the tide

we passed the version of me
who got everything she ever wanted

she was standing there
in her favorite shades
under the striped awning
just watching me
go round

The thing
about retirement
is that staring
at the horizon
can make you
hallucinate
after a lifetime of
cautiously watching your feet
on the rock-strewn path of life
to avoid a washout;

The truth
is that cautious attention
to your footing can be
just as ill-fated
as ignoring it altogether because you might
miss the adventures
waiting on the overlooked sidepath
or the glorious waterfall to your left
just because you thought those wet rocks were
too risky to venture;

The fact
is that the horizon can take you off cliffs and
into box canyons where a flash flood
might drown you but
sometimes that delicious and
glorious mirage of palm trees
shading cool pools of water
might be worth
the thirst of the burning sun
and the scorpion’s sting.

Darting beneath bird   
feeder to snatch wayward seeds
makes a tasty lunch

Three weeks had gone by 
by the time I was forced to click
my little red heels together. 

I was swept off my feet by a
Blue Collar Quilty of sorts. 
He rolled me White Owls.

He kissed
my fingers
one by one.

He dropped the cherry of
his cigarette on my wrist
and spent the rest
of the night apologizing
between my legs. 

My mother says he is malignant.
She has the records to prove it. 
Two years probabtion. 8 months in rehab.
3 arrest records. An EPO. 
A friend in DV court
that remembers her name.
Her face. Her tears. 
The broken glass door and
the smell of burnt popcorn on tinfoil. 

I am thrown to the wolves. Nobody to tell. 
Every mouth filled with judgment.
I have nothing substantial to say. 
I will burn in this labyrinth.
If there is a justice higher
than that of man, I will be
judged by Him.

No Regrets

X-cept that I let
my boobies droop.

I never thought my flat chest
would be big enough to sag.

I never thought I’d be flabby enough
to see my used to be firm breasts flounce and bounce.

Yet, here I am, today, writing a poem
about how I wish I had learned to make my pecs pop.

Yes, I used to stand in front of the mirror
and try to find the action to isolate the chest muscles.

Make them flex and unflex.
If only I had been more diligent in that quest,

took care of my body better
I’d be blessed with popping

eye-gawking mouth-dropping,
performance ready at all times,

mammaries.

I don’t want to hate poetry
but I can’t find my rhythm
every lone line drawn 
at an uneven pacing

it makes me feel angry 
frustrated and cursed
an imposter who just can’t 
seem to make the words work 

wind in the lay of this land
where the eastern coal fields begin
is a living thing moving wild as it will

lofting birds carrying voices
bearing rain and thunder in madness
and silk spreading the seeds of trees

it is the trees who safeguard
the shards of the mighty wind’s heart
ever broken by its yearning for home

My wife uses little bronze plaques on stilts
to mark her plantings. Iris. Purple coneflower.
Broccolini. Onion, radish, lettuce, dahlia.

Cities use big bronze plaques on poles
to mark significant locations & events.
Old Water Street. Florence Crittenden Home.
Original home of Lexington Public Library.

Communities would be much more interesting
If we each got our own plaque on a stick design
to highlight our lives.
“In this driveway in 2002 Bernie crunched the spare
tire on a Honda CRV with a Ford Escort while thinking up a title”
“On this dogwood for 14 years Biscuit the terrier
peed nightly, even after he was blind.”
“This wicker chair is named ‘lost in thought’ and
has spawned over 80 poems”

Signs that denote who we are
instead of cataloging nameless
history.

You can only do
what you can do.
Let it go,
outcomes out of your hands.

Except inspirational speakers
on scratchy LPs in high school classes
and hair-sprayed preachers in pulpits and at church camps
all convinced me I was supposed to make a difference,

fostering a longing
in my in my psyche
for tangible successes
that has never gone away

despite all reason
to the contrary.