Tiny But Mighty

Some things are tiny and mighty.


A sore pinky toe

The rudder of a ship

A termite’s teeth

The rudder of a ship

A cotter pin

A paper cut

A dust mote in your eye

The point of a needle

A spark from a cigarette tossed onto dry leaves

The egg of an ant

The birth of an idea


Tiny isn’t powerless.

Tiny can be mighty.


Size, it appears,

is not as important

as some people think.

Where Life is Good

There is a place – at least I’ve heard it’s real

where everyone is free to feel

that Life is good.


Where everybody has enough

of clothes and food and other stuff

and Life is good.


Where fair is fair and right is right

and quarrels are settled by reason, not might

and Life is good.


Of course there are problems, but people don’t hate,

and there is much to appreciate

and Life is good.


Where is this place? I’d like to know.

If I knew, you and I would go

where Life is good.


Response to “Moon Shadow” by Cat Stevens

Does the loss of an ability mean freedom of responsibility?

Can They really take away my voice?

It seems I’d find another way to speak my mind, or at least I’d like the choice.


“If I lose my legs, I don’t have to walk no more?”

No. Put me in a wheelchair, and roll me around the floor.

I’m not one to just sit down ‘cause someone thinks I should.

I don’t know what Cat was smokin’, but I hope that it was good.


Can’t Be Too Careful

What’s that? Do you see that strange thing –

Over there, by the cottage window –

It looks like a firefly dancing about

and I swear he is wearing – a MASK?


I stared. He looked up and explained himself,

“I have babies! I can’t take a chance!”


Then he zoomed to the trees and I stood agape.

A firefly, a dance, and a mask?


Lesson learned.

Next time,

I won’t ask.


Alas! The modern world is such

that I don’t fit in very much.

Technology’s left me far behind;

I’m about to lose my mind!


French I speak,

Italian, too.

And the tongue they speak in Kathmandu.

(That’s Nepal, y’all. Nepalese, if you please).


I converse in fluent Dutch,

although I admit, not very much.

And I have a smart Pomeranian

that barks in perfect Romanian.


But there’s a tongue I just can’t learn;

it makes no sense to me, by durn.

I even speak obscure Balochi,

but I cannot understand Emoji.


Who thunk that up, anyway?

Season of the Reckoning

Could this be it?

The point in the life of Earth

when debts are reconciled?


For debts there are,

and they will either be settled

or they will tip this planet into oblivion.


How many centuries can it last

that some people get the best

and some get the leavings

on this home of the haves and the have-nots?


The wealthy few always been on top,

but there’s a lot more of Us

than there are of Them.

Knowing this, the Fat Cats planted distrust,

hatred, suspicion of each other

to keep us from realizing the magnitude of our combined power.


Are we savvy enough to stop our petty, contrived disagreements

and see a bigger picture?


That would start The Season of the Reckoning –

the evening out of opportunity, of justice, of power.


Come. Sit, let’s talk.

Back Porch Good Morning

Back Porch Good Morning


Sensuous aroma of coffee wakes me.

Black smoothness, warm, delicious.

I can feel it, hot, going down.


Sunlight pierces my eyelids,

familiar stab, hinting at the coming migraine.


I clench my eyes shut

and turn my chair away from the rays.

Better now.


Seeing without looking,

I know the trees are happy.

How could they not be happy,

with a thousand trills of birdsong in their hair?


The gardenia is showing off again,

smiling from every blossom,

though I cannot see them from here.

There’s no fragrance quite like gardenia

mixed with morning dew.

Gardenias never travel incognito.


And Shisa’s here, pressing

her warm muzzle into my hand,

saying good morning and that

she still loves me.

Eyes still closed, I bend and kiss

the top of her orange head

while she licks my fingers.

We both enjoy a small brain squishy,

then she wanders off the porch to the grass,

heeding Mother Nature’s call.


I put my bright blue coffee mug down

on the white plastic table and stretch –

a long, delicious, gentle stretch –

arms out, legs out.

I could stretch a mile,

but I’d hate to have to walk back.

I settle for half a mile.


Then I reach for my black-and-white plaid journal

and my pen.

Open it to where the green ribbon is.


And the day has officially begun.


It’s going to be a good one.


I can sense it.


Some say that there are many worlds,

not just our planet Earth.


God, I hope it’s true.


I hope that somewhere,

humans or something like humans

have done Life right,


because we certainly haven’t.


I hope somewhere

there’s a world not governed

by lust and greed and hate.


It gives me hope to think it.

A Letter to Silas

My dear grandchild,

Silas MacKenzie Mathews,


You would be a man by now.

So many years have passed.


How we wanted you to stay,

but your fragile body wouldn’t let you.


Did you hear what your daddy said that day,

your last day here?

He said, “I am proud of my son.

He tried his best to live.

He stayed as long as he could.”


Eleven weeks wasn’t long enough for any of us.


We still talk about you, Silas.

We still say your name.

We have not – will not – forget

that you were here,

that you were ours,

that you are as much a part of this family as any of us.

You were – you are – real.


And we can’t wait for the day

we each can join you where you are.


Tell me, do you grow up in Heaven?

Or will you still be that precious baby that we love?


Either way, this grandma will be ready

to give you a lifetime’s worth of love.

The Way of Children

Baby comes on storkish wing,

Tiny, helpless, lovely thing.

Every day, he grows a bit;

Last week’s clothes no longer fit.

Before you know, he’s pulling up,

And drinking milk now from a cup.


Little children grow so fast.

Childhood isn’t meant to last.

Before you blink, the future’s past.


Then one day he’s walking, talking –

Suddenly has a lot to say.

Before you notice, he’s in school,

Thinking he’s grown up and cool.

Then middle school, and high school, too.

Has ideas of what he’d like to do.

One day you wake and he’s a grad,

And you’re barely used to being a dad.


Little children grow so fast.

Childhood isn’t meant to last.

Before you blink, the future’s past.


There’s not a way to stop them growing,

It’s supposed to be that way, I’m knowing.

So take the time when they are young,

Before all the childish songs are sung.

Children are quickly growing things.

First, give them roots. Then give them wings.


Little children grow so fast.

Childhood isn’t meant to last.

Before you blink, the future’s past.

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