Posts for June 30, 2026 (page 12)

What does animal love 

            (for Pat Lawrence, 1941-2025)

She keeps dropping things—
Scrabble tiles, the endless pills,
the pens & pencils she’s always using
to sketch faces, landscapes,
the occasional naughty cartoon.
Parkinson’s has done its number
on her. A stroke hasn’t helped.
Now everything slips through her fingers
& clatters to the floor, rolling under
the kitchen table, the sofa, the bed.

But art’s too important to give up on, 
too much who she is. Her email handle
is patlartist. Her paintings don’t seem serious
until I realize that their smiling doggies
are all beloved pets long gone, mourned
& deeply missed. A bodacious self-portrait
in the nude on a beach, which makes me
laugh at first, has jagged lines
racing up her back, indicating the pain
she was in at the time, & still is.

One morning on the porch, she tells me
that because she can’t paint anymore,
she’s giving up sketching, too, out of spite.
I’m so angry, she says. If I can’t paint,
I’m done with all of it. I say Don’t be like that,
then leave to get our weekly groceries.
Next morning when I come downstairs,
a bowl of pears has found its way
from a kitchen counter into her sketchbook,
rounded, luscious, sex on a beach.

Writing As Therapy

I realize that not everything I’ve written,

Needs to be shared,

I look back across so many lines,

Where my soul I have bared.

I think of all the feeling,

And emotion that I see,

And remind myself that perhaps that,

Was written just for me.

Writing is my therapy,

The focus I achieve,

When with words upon a written page,

I allow myself to grieve.

Thoughts that have robbed me of sleep,

And haunted me at night,

Seem a bit less frightening,

When viewed in black and white.

As they spill out together,

And line up on the page,

The words seem more orderly,

And less inclined to rage.

Errant flights of fancy,

Twist out for me in rhyme,

I relax and breathe more fully,

After writing for a time.

In silent frustration,

With no words that I can say,

I write my thoughts upon the page,

Then go about my day. 

Empires rise and fall 

marked by ruins, what have I 

to show for us? If I can 

express the consuming joy 

of our rising then maybe 

I could survive the tangible pain 

of our end. We grew together strong, 

beautiful in our independence  — 

a golden age. Who would have thought 

we would die so politely, weakened, 

betrayed by Graduation Day. The end 

of an era. Our time weighs 

heavy, bittersweet. Too close to survive 

acquaintance, dying from the unyielding 

perfection of our history. I hate 

the memory of us trapped 

in photographs, stolen souls 

smiling, mocking. A new age beckons 

and I will go or remain a relic.

A shadow of our love held still

as we walk away

Never make an enemy. Otherwise, God may make them your next-door neighbor in Heaven

You only control this: What you say and do not say. What you do and do not do

Life is about two things—learning and helping

A mirror is a reflection, not a judgment

“Tell the truth with love lit by rage.”   

…Eddie Glaude ( homage to James Baldwin)

we chant we
sing we shout we
march on Lexintron streets to
drum beats we
wear frog costumes and
make speeches
on “No Kings” igniting 
sparks but
this flame’s not
hot enough

it’s time to burn

What topic to choose on this very last day
words all jumbled and floating away
earthly items
what touches my heart
two companions waiting for a moring walk
the heat index unsafe for most
what will this day hold
is still yet to be told
and so as this event comes to another end 
like so many of life challenges
it ebbs and flow like a ocena tide
some days words are easy to find
others drifing on the river
just out of touch, stiii enjoy this challenge
and all it brings
time is taken just for me
a gift of thoughts to share
with others who stepped right in
a comfort in knowing its a safe place to write
all the words that occupy
this crazy screwed up mind
and in the end 
left excited for the next new begining.

Choices were made, though not all were wise.
Now my bow hangs over a bookshelf,
string long since loosened.
Where arrows once filled my hands,
are teacups, pastry dough, and
dog-eared novels.
The winters come and go now as they should.
No endless darkness. No frozen roads
swallowing travelers whole.
The young speak of those years
with wonder in their voice.
To them, it is an adventure—
campfires beneath stars,
treasure buried in forgotten places.
I do not tell them how often we were cold, frightened, and lost.
I do not tell them how young we were.
That is perhaps, what I miss most,
the certainty tomorrow would be there.
The bliss in believing.
Sometimes I catch myself
setting an extra cup at the table,
or glancing toward the door
when the bell chimes.
For a heartbeat, I expect to see them—
boots dusted with snow, laughing at a joke.
But none of us can walk together forever.
So I tend the fire. I recommend the books.
I listen to travelers tell their tales.
And when night softly falls over rooftops,
I raise a glass to friends and the foolish courage of youth.

More popcorn and sugary drinks.
Quality cartoons and hide and seek.  

An hour past their de facto bedtime.
Two hours past ours.  

We ought to put them to bed
but what does “ought” mean
to three early tweens
when grandparents snip a string
on the balloon bouquet of rules
their parents gave them to hold?  

We validate what they already know –
every seatbelt eventually unbuckles.

                                                    –a found poem

Belonging is a feeling that humans
constantly crave.
The desire to socialize and experience the world around us
is a sensation gifted
to almost every human being.

Humans find heaven in sonder,
realizing that everyone carries their own conflicts
and weary circumstances.

When given the opportunity to explore new worlds and meet new people,
do we welcome it, or shy away?

London is well-recognized for its nice view
of the Eiffel Tower,
and the pastries–like croissants.

Even among brutalist towers, it’s hard to feel lonely,
surrounded by a moving stream of life.