Count Me Out

I won’t be watching the presidential debate tonight. Living in the eastern time zone means that the event won’t begin until 9 p.m. I’ll be in bed and hopefully engrossed in book seven of Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander series by then.

It’s not that I don’t care about the debate. Quite the opposite. I care so much that I fear I’ll throw up when Trump resorts to his de rigueur raft of lies. I care so much that I know I’d never be able to fall asleep once the debate ends. So I’ve set up a recording and I’ll watch sometime tomorrow afternoon. 

In the meantime I’ll be praying that Hillary shows what she’s made of:  Her grit and determination. Her capacity for compassion and concern for the underserved. Her immense intelligence and extraordinary political savviness. 

I’ll also pray that those who are undecided will recognize that there is really only one legitimate choice in this election. Hillary Rodham Clinton. I’m with her. 

Lady in Green

Lady in Green
By Leslie Noyes

sitting all alone in a bistro at noon, she was beautifully wrinkled, a smile for the ages.

Similarly alone, yet slightly less wrinkled, I claimed a seat in a nearby booth.

Waving my fingertips to catch her attention, I complimented her vibrant style,

Told her that particular shade of green suited her well, that she looked lovely.

She blushed an innocent shade of rose, saying, “Then I will wear it every day.”

We ordered, then discussed the importance of kindness as we munched our separate

Salads. I asked if she’d let me take her picture. There was that blush again.

After wiping a smudge of ranch dressing from the corner of her mouth she nodded permission.

It didn’t occur to me until I’d left the cafe that I should have asked her name.

I shared the picture of my anonymous lunch companion in a snapshot post a few days ago. The more I thought about her, the more I knew she needed her own poem. 

My suggestion to my readers–find someone and tell them they’re lovely. Watching them blossom will make you feel lovely, too.

Peace, people.

Stalking Jack the Ripper

This sounds fun. Gruesome and fun.



I have been waiting and waiting for this novel to come out, and was so afraid it wouldn’t live up to my expectations. Not only is the cover stunning, that incredible first sentence grabs you and won’t let go for the rest of the novel.

17-year-old Audrey Rose Wadsworth wants to be a scientist. Specifically, a forensic scientist, helping Scotland Yard solve murders and various crimes though post mortem examination of victims. The trouble is, Audrey Rose is the daughter of a lord in 1880’s London, and she should be attending teas and social outings, not cutting into dead bodies and searching for clues on the trail of vicious killers.

Her father has been teetering on the edge of insanity since the death of her mother five years before, while her brother flits from one area of interest to the next, all the while living the high life befitting that of a lord’s son. Her…

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Fast Cars and Life

I’ve long had a penchant for fast cars, and have even owned a few, though I seldom exceed the posted 

Legal limit. What does this indicate about the nature of my driving? That I feel the need to speed, but lack the 

Necessary courage to press the engine to the full extent of its ability? Or that I only use my car’s 

Excessive horsepower as a tool to avoid potential collisions with less observant or less capable 

Drivers? There is probably a metaphor for the way I live my life embedded in the 

Lines of this poem, but to analyze it, I’d need to either slow down considerably or speed way up.

The Hurt

Friends through skinned knees and brownie scouts, shared all the secrets we’d figured

Out. Built our circle of misfit toys, hardly noticing the slights of those boys who found us too

Juvenile. We weren’t easy, but neither were we prudes. Eager to please, shy around those

More crude. Then I moved away, torn from our safety net; you found yourself caught in

Another web. Do you recall telling me that my leaving was the best thing that could have

Happened for you? I cannot imagine saying that to someone who’d been my friend.

But then maybe friendship was an illusion, and being discarded was the ugly truth. 

I’ve forgiven you, but no longer trust you. Your silence now speaks volumes. Who are you?