trumplewocky1‘Twas feckish, and the irkly grobes
Did fark and fistle in the slade;
All dingly were the rectiprobes
And the dampnuts updrade.

“Beware the Trumplewock, my friend!
The bigly mouth, those puny mitts!
Beware the Tweet bird, and off-fend
The cronious Perkletits!”

She packed her poisal voice and went:
Fat chance the vapid imp she’d spare—
So quivered he ‘neath his Cheato tree,
And feebly cried, “Unfair!”

And, as the greelish light grew pale,
The Trumplewock, with wits of wood,
Came grabbling through the femly vale
Because he thought he could!

Eins, zwei! Eins, zwei! And quick as pie
The poisal voice sliced fierce and true:
“Go flay yourself, you mawkish elf,
And burn the residue!”

The Trumplewock would rue the day
He left his diddlepot of lack.
The frankish words would haunt him ‘til
He went galumphing back.

‘Twas feckish, and the irkly grobes
Did fark and fistle in…

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Meme a Theme…me, me , me, me,

Take a moment and read this. Thanks.


I’m close to full stop, come the news after sundown. But those fourth estate hounds, it being happy hour and all, are fed scrap after flap of Trump this or that, which spins my amateur poet pose on a damn D.C dime, and I’m forced to pirouette and sash shay some dilettantish political punditry.

Let me pour a bourbon.

Now if that first paragraph doesn’t clue you to the punishment inherent in thinking about politics then you be my kind of player.

Because, politics, in the main, is a bad play. A narrative offered without a theme. Because governance, the plot points of politics, is just one event after another. Grunt-work. The trash picked up. Timely public transportation. A nation’s defense staffed and paid for. Taxes collected. Disputes adjudicated, with property and civil rights protected. The free speech. That one person, one vote.

Now, I’m purposely mixing metaphors of making a…

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What Have We Stepped In?

Excellent piece by

A lot from Lydia

I feel like I have been working hard for years, saving my spare pennies for a long time, and I finally decided to treat myself to that pair shoes I’ve always wanted, quality shoes, classy and smart. In these shoes I stand taller and walk with a spring in my step. It’s like a dream, and I am walking on a cloud.

Then I step in something.

My shoes are ruined. I shrivel into my former self. It’s like I’m looking in the mirror on the morning after a long hard night of partying, at a party I did not want to attend.

I’m metaphorically hung over. The shoes in this story are America, and the “party” is Donald Trump.

We spent years getting to the point we were at when this party started. We looked our best. We were informed, progressive, open minded. Equality for women and minorities was…

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Morning Hug

So, I cried.

Red's Wrap

It is four in the morning. I check my phone and turn off the alarm just as it is about to ring. I have been awake for several minutes, looking out the window at the white stucco house across the street and waiting for it to be four and now it is. My husband is sleeping.

I go to the bathroom and while I am sitting on the toilet, I put on the clothes I laid out on the floor the night before. Underwear, socks, blue jeans, bra, black pullover, black hoodie. I stand up and zip up my pants, wash my face, and brush my teeth. I wet a brush and tame my hair. Then I look for earrings. I put in the small silver hoops with a tiny row of diamonds but then decide I shouldn’t be wearing diamonds to an emergency warming room for homeless people. It’s…

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The Mission Trip

Great piece from Sadly, I can see us heading in just this direction.


The Professor winced when he got out of his flight capsule.  He had to keep reminding himself of how crucial his assignment was, that every little bit counted.  No matter how hopeless it seemed.

“Remember, you’re doing sacred work, Henrik,” he muttered under his breath.

A rag-tag crowd of natives was already beginning to gather, gawking at his ship. A few of them cheered and applauded, but most just stared, stone-faced.

Naomi bounded out to meet him.  She looked energetic as ever, no matter how much human misery she witnessed on a daily basis.

“Thank you for agreeing to come here, sir,” she said after hugging him. “This is a rough area.”

“Rough areas are my job,”  he replied, his Swedish accent making the word “job” softer. Not all of his colleagues at World United agreed that the charity missions to Merka were worthwhile. He couldn’t blame them.  Visiting a…

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What is Lindsey Graham’s Problem?

Mo’ money. Follow the money. Always.

A lot from Lydia

Republicans are returning to Washington after an emergency meeting at Camp David. The timing, on the heels of the damning publication of “Fire and Fury”, leads me (no one of consequence), to believe Trump is in damage control mode. He claims the meeting was regarding other items on his to do list.

I believe they were strategizing, collaborating, and synchronizing their stories with hopes of avoiding indictment. It has become apparent that more people, than just those in Trump’s campaign, conspired with Russia against the United States.


What is Lindsey Graham’s problem?

It wasn’t long ago, he was one of the only Republicans willing to oppose Trump, but now the South Carolina Senator has joined Iowa Senator Chuck Grassley to refer Christopher Steele, the MI6 agent who penned the Trump-Putin dossier, to the Justice Department for investigation of potential false statements. They know the dossier contains no…

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Just show up. It matters.

Red's Wrap

My friend’s mother was dying in her living room. I knew that but I didn’t.

She’d told me her mother was terminally ill but it never really sank in. Oh, that’s why you brought her across the country and set up a hospital bed in your living room. I get it now.

My friend told me this on a long walk with our dogs. No one asks how I am doing, she said. No one visits. No one ever brings food for us.

So that night I made a pot roast with potatoes and carrots and onions and I took it to my friend’s door. You’re the only person who brought us dinner, she said A few days later, her mother died.

At work, a colleague’s wife faced a new wave of cancer. He sat in my office and complained that every night they went out to dinner. It was expensive…

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Written Many Years Ago (215 to be specific) – ‘ON THE NEW YEAR’ by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

This is so very good! A gem, indeed. Enjoy. Also, be sure to check out more of Esme’s writing at

Esme's Cloud

This poem was composed in 1802 for a merry party that used to meet each year at Goethe’s house, so I’m posting it now, on the eve of the new year, as is right and proper. (*Raises a glass and wishes one and all of her fine friends and followers the very best with bells on for 2018 (*bemoans the lack of the promised tinfoil suits and flying cars from her youth wanting her money back forthwith*) Good luck folks, (we might need it) *blows a kiss*


FATE now allows us,

‘Twixt the departing
And the upstarting,
Happy to be;
And at the call of
Memory cherish’d,
Future and perish’d
Moments we see.

Seasons of anguish,–
Ah, they must ever
Truth from woe sever,
Love and joy part;
Days still more worthy
Soon will unite us,
Fairer songs light us,
Strength’ning the heart.

We, thus…

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Oddly enough, I didn’t cry when I wrote this one a couple of years ago, but now I find myself with tears running down my face.

Praying for Eyebrowz

Clutchingher handbag tightly in her left hand, Mary Riley gripped the rail at the top of the steps outside St. Vincent’s with her right. For the hundredth time that winter she wondered why she hadn’t requested communion be brought to her home. And for the hundredth time she smiled to herself, knowing how much she looked forward to Father Mark’s homilies and the feeling of belonging she received from attending mass.

Although a chilly wind swept across the steps they were clear of snow and ice, yet Mary knew the three sets of four steps could be treacherous for one her age. Just last fall her friend Ruth had taken a tumble on the last two steps and broken a hip. That same Ruth who’d once raced her to the top of the steps so many years before had never recovered from her accident and they’d buried her two…

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Food Photography – Rustic Bruschetta

Here’s a treat from my friend Julie Powell.

Julie Powell - Photographer & Graphic Artist

Last week I had a few days of total bliss; no work, just pottering around doing what I want, I slept in, tidied up in the studio, played around with Still Life, got a haircut. One particular day I decided as it was just me home for lunch, I would buy some fresh crusty bread and make bruschetta and then, I thought I would photograph it all. That took longer than making it and eating it, but such fun. All shot in natural light, in the kitchen!


So let’s talk about this tasty recipe, it’s quick and easy and you can do it in about 15 minutes from start to finish (assuming you are not trying to photograph it all). With flavors bursting from the baby spinach, the sweet cherry tomatoes and the yummy, gooey melted cheese – all come together with the crusty fresh baguette and gives you a yummy snack…

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