I knew the answer
Right on the tip of my brain
When in doubt, picked C
Tests aren’t for wussies
Open book, a blatant trap
Trust your own judgement.
I’ve been stumped before,
No answers to the questions
Conjecture, my friend
Category: Poetry
Apologies
The paper, blurry.
Angry marks on a white space;
Ill-defined slashes
Emotions stripped bare
From teary accusations
And gut clenching guilt.
Insistent regret,
Sorry, so insufficient
Apologies fail.
Twenty-four Hours
Days aren’t as long as they used to be. Back when our two children were feisty toddlers and my
Husband worked revolving shifts, twenty-four hours lasted twenty-four years and nobody
Cared that I was drowning in every single second. Nurturing was a foreign concept peddled
By well-meaning matrons and judgemental church ladies. What in hell was wrong with me
That I didn’t gush over every milestone, each budding tooth, too exhausted to care that my babies
Wouldn’t be babies forever and that someday twenty-four hours would feel like twenty-four
Minutes, and a year reduced to a week and my babies grown and out on their own. Too soon.
My daughter celebrates her 36th birthday today. Even though I love her fiercely I wasn’t a patient mommy. The days of her infancy passed as slowly as liquid concrete, and I wish with all my heart we could have a do-over.
But she’s grown into an amazing, beautiful woman, and I’m so very proud of my Ashley. I love her, like her, care about her. Every day.
Peace, people.
Mourning Fictional Characters
Caution: The Walking Dead and Outlander spoilers!
Have you ever mourned a fictional character? A couple of nights ago I buried four of my most beloved fictional characters: Rollo, the wolf/dog from the Outlander books along with Henri-Christian, the youngest grandson of Jamie and Claire Fraser. Then on the Walking Dead the villain Neegan killed Abraham and Glenn. And still I reported for work this morning. Talk about stamina!
Rollo has died and I’m bereft. Old age took this faithful canine and now only Ian is left.
Buried near him is the sweet dwarf, grandson to Claire and Jamie. I couldn’t believe they
Took him from us, he was still a baby. And what about Glenn on the Walking Dead, his
Head bashed in by Negan? Along with Abraham who felt the weight of the vampire bat,
Lucille. Fictional characters are people, too, and mourning their deaths is redemption
For all the time we’ve spent with them and the pleasure they’ve given without exception.
Feather Fallacy
A feather in his cap, he said,
A conquest worth announcing
His celebrity was sure to win
Her eager aquiesence.
Grab her by her genitals,
You know she’ll gladly go there
Any girl would proudly say
She’d love to let you grope her.
Or maybe you’re just a little jerk,
Too caught up in your own myth
To understand the fallacy
That any woman wants this.
Harvest
Harvest
by Leslie Noyes
Fall sun brandishes
Her autumn hued wand, alight
In burnished bracken.
Gather for harvest
Wielding scythes in rhythmic strains;
A song of plenty.
Most luscious bounty,
Gifts wrested from verdant fields
Labor’s sweet reward.
Self Reflection
Introspective
Uninspired
Moody
Sad
Lost
Unwound
Confounded
Disenfranchised
Devoid of conscience,
Willing to go there
Even knowing regrets
Will flow like wine.
Exonerate
Justify
Alarm
Cry
Soul
Testify
Elaborate
Medal Count
Good intentions pave
That crazy highway to hell;
Buckle up, baby.
Embracing the blame
A badge worth acknowledgement
Bloody medal earned.
Sarcasm and hope
Those strangest of bedfellows
On bright shield inscribed
Calibration
Measuring the distance, accounting for wind direction and speed,
He set his cap for perfection, but consoled himself with need.
The targets seemed to waver, concentric circles in the sun,
His aim was true, calibrations right, as he exhaled and shot the gun.
Shocked silence followed sharp reports as bodies began to fall,
He could not reclaim the bullets, nor could the lives lost be recalled.
But the dream played out, his rights upheld to own a deadly weapon
While widows wept and clasped their children, bereft without exception.
Thoughts While Picking Up a Marble With My Toes
Deep Thoughts Entertained Whilst Picking Up a Marble With My Toes
My middle metatarsal has dropped. Easy for me to say, you think, but my chiropractor has instructed
Me in a way to strengthen this muscle in my foot that pleases and relaxes me, especially when done
In conjunction with the drinking of a glass of full bodied Merlot. Oddly enough, this stability
Enhancing exercise when combined with alcohol yields mixed results, particularly when said
Glass is repeatedly refilled over the course of an evening. Seems steady walking is purely relative.
Praying for Eyebrowz 