Archive | November 2016

CATT ON MOUSE

He thinks he is being so clever

Stretched ‘cross the desk like I never

will notice he grabbed it

before I could nab it

and save it from ….     oh drat… what word will describe AND rhyme…

 

to be continued…

 

Emil Catt loves to sit hide my mouse so I’ll pay attention to HIM and not the compute…tsk

 

 

 

 

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PERHAPS

I do not dismiss the grief and shame

you have spent years facing

I understand whence they come

I am your witness

I bear witness to the horror

Believe it

or not

I have an idea

however

watching your struggle

the incessant

ripping

gripping

tripping

pain

I suggest that your obsession with it all

is more damaging

more debilitating

imprisons your battered heart

enslaves your shattered mind

more

than the horrible events themselves

I agree

you cannot ignore

you cannot forget

certainly not forgive

certainly not

I believe

however

you can break its hold

control its influence

box it up

yes

compartmentalize it

allow yourself a few minutes

now and then

to wallow

then put it away

where you can readily find it

then get back to life

Perhaps

or not

“Get back to where you once belonged…”

one step at a time, eh?

CATT ON STOOL

He actually thinks
I placed this stool
in front of my computer
so he can jump up
and sit on it looking at me…
He keeps looking at me…
 
What?!
What do you want?!
No!
No treats for you
until you get off my stool!

HOME AGAIN NOW AND THEN

Drove up I-70 to Georgetown

where I lived in ’85

the air was crisp,

the shops were filled,

the hills were still alive.

I shuffled through Ophelia’s

craved bone china white and blue

old books loved

toys well played

and dragon puppets, new.

The Shoppe Internationale

beckoned as of old…

Swedish toys,

Norwegian trolls,

Bright blue glass trimmed with gold.

Crossed the street to use the lew

in the warm and toasty library,

Intriguing book

of sailor’s yarns,

and others made me tarry.

Drove back ‘longside the deep cold lake,

thinking of thirty years past…

but,  does no good

to think too much,

can bring you down too fast.

So just there, ’round ’bout Downieville,

I turned off the frontage road

and joined the traffic

sailing past;

put down my punishing load.

Turned on the great new stereo

in my great new true blue Mini,

turned up the tunes

and sang along,

Made it home with smiles a plenty.

excerpt NaNoWriMo 2016

…how to adequately describe the fifteen minutes in which one hundred forty six souls perished in the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire, March, 1911…

Hundreds of horrified neighbors and fellow workers stood across and down the street from the smoking Ashe Building,  hypnotized, stunned, necks craning backward,  hands held over  gasping mouths as one, two, three,  more, and more long haired, terrified, frantic young women threw themselves  from the windows of the eighth floor, skirts and shirts and stockings flaring.  Young men silhouetted against the roaring flames held  the girls’ and women’s and the few boys’ hands as they frantically climbed onto smouldering window frames, then stepped out,  falling,  flashing, slashing,  smashing to the sidewalks below, never seeing, never hearing, never screaming, never moving again.  And people stood there, staring, not believing, destroyed.