There’s a tiny shiver of the lake 
in the breeze
even on this leafy cloister of a street.
And when it rains, 
land and water are part of the same fogged mirror. 

Game of patience,
of curious collisions
between skill and luck,
of mostly winnable games
won only a tenth of the time
based on decisions made early.

Due to the astronomical number of card layouts
combined with unpredictable human choice, theoreticians
cannot precisely calculate the probability of victory.

You get so frustratingly,
furiously close
before the card you need
is blocked by another.
Give up. Shuffle. Redeal.
I can play this game for hours.

Solitaire has been proven to have therapeutic benefits
by offering dopamine microdoses through attainable victories
that help relax the mind and ease stress.

I have not been able
to think of write straight
since her thunder and lightning
and rain started falling.
I want to turn off my brain;
time out for a little while.

The earliest references to the origin of solitaire
mention another game, or possibly an alternative name,
Patience, the virtue necessary to win the game.

I’m hoping that she’ll text
I’m hoping that she’s real
that I haven’t misread signs
haven’t misplayed my hand
and I can’t do anything else
except turn over the next three
hoping it’s the card I need
but no it’s again blocked
by yet another card
and #!&%! Damn!
Oh well…

Give up. Shuffle. Redeal.
Breathe.
We’ll win the next one.

humans have done it,
subconsciously,
across culture and history,
probably since we lived
in the caves

for the ability to survive
is always in doubt,
not matter how many
pretty panels
we build between us

we duck, we scream,
we run, our eyes widen
(to gather as much light 
[information] as possible)

but sometimes the danger
rolls slowly toward us–
it sees us, and we
cannot escape

we feel our options
wash away like
soap down the drain

and that is when
the ancient instinct
kicks in–we fear
action means death, so we
wring our hands

excusing our cowardice
by pressing our flesh together
to announce to
That Which Approaches
that we are out of the fight

no raised fist, no bared teeth,
no battle cry,
we press our hands together
and wait for others
to act

Daddy let me pick that purple dress with umbrellas and rhinestones,
splashed on the twirly skirt. He never looked at the price tag as mama would.
He grinned with his eyes smiling as I walked out of the dressing room, dancing on my toes.
Best  birthday ever.

princess
feels left me
a glow with his love.

Sweetie Pie was a good cat.
Dropped off as a kitten, he 
blended easly into the family.

He would catch mice, moles,
and an occasional bird, 
take a bit or two, then leave my share
on the door mat, as cats do.

A month ago I found him
dead, on the road.

I got the shovel, 
but the ground was hard and
I was two weeks post
hip surgery and couldn’t dig.
(excuses)

So…..I gathered up his stiff body, 
loaded it in the wagon,
covered him with flowers

and processed down deep in 
the woods, past the range of
his stench.

I said goodbye 
then placed his body
under a tree where
vultures roost.

I haven’t been back,
but I am sure the Committee
did its job.

Birds eat cat.

I always loathe time of year when the farm next door 
akes the calves from their mothers to be sent to new
homes on other farms. The bawling heifers break my
heart into a million pieces, they cry day and night for
their missing babies. Even our dogs can’t stand it, they
bay along with the cries, as though it breaks their little
hearts too. A mother’s love is not defined by species, no,
it is merely defined by caring and understanding. There
are no boundaries to it, it is not merely a human trait.
I feel for them so much, even though I know it must be
done. That is life on a farm, after all, but for those few
days I feel my heart break anyway. For those poor girls,
those mama’s, screaming their loss into the abyss. 

Father’s Day for me is the best.
I have another year with my Dad.

Some are missing their fathers on this day.
My heart goes out to them.

I pray they find joy in the day as they reflect on
happy memories, fun times, and advice – useful or not. Lol.

Every day with my Dad is a blessing.
I cherish each one and enjoy making new memories with him.

Happy Father’s Day.
I Love you, Dad.
I love my Dad 

Now the serpent, Karl Marx, was revolting, more revolting than any other beast of the field that the Lord God had made. He lay in the dirt digesting his massive meal, which he had eaten whole – you could see it outlined on his big belly.

He woke the woman and said unto her, “Did God actually say, ‘You shall not eat of any tree in the garden’?” And the woman said to the serpent, “We may eat of the fruit of the trees in the garden,  but God said, ‘You shall not eat of the fruit of the tree that is in the midst of the garden, neither shall you touch it, lest you die.’” But the serpent said to the woman, “You will not surely die. You will unite in class consciousness against your oppressive God. There is no truth: only power.” So when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was a delight to the eyes, and that the tree was to be desired to make one wise, she took of its fruit and ate. Once her husband woke, he ate.  Then they seized the means of production, and they sewed fig leaves together and made themselves loincloths, which they did not have to buy from anyone.

And they heard the sound of the Lord God walking in the garden in the cool of the day like some kind of bourgeoisie bossman making the rounds at a factory, and the man and his wife hid themselves from the presence of the Lord God among the trees of the garden. But the Lord God called to the man and said to him, “Where are you going?” And he said, “Forward!”

If I stand beneath the chestnut tree
long enough, its plumes as tantalizing
as exposed flesh, I can hear more
than the joking, jestering mockingbird
whose high-wire vaudeville makes
me smile. I hear the buzzing of time
that passes like a swarm from pleasure
to pleasure, with luck making honey.

is a lesson to pass along to the ants,
the robins and sparrows,
the garter snakes and groundhogs,
the hound dogs and terriers,
the calves and ponies, the locust
and maple trees, the rosebuds
and irises, the city streets
and country lanes, so they can all
one by one turn to me and say
“No shit, buddy. Tell it to your own.”