The Reading Room

Some time ago the invitation came.

“I’m going to The Reading Room, are you game?”

I’m uncomfortable meeting humans face to face.

Can’t we do this at your place?

“What’s your worry? Your work is good,

I’ve read some and I want more.”

I won’t fit in. They are young and what’s that word…”woke”?

Read my work aloud? Yeah, that’s a joke.

My world is far removed from theirs, far from being “woke.”

“My friend, it will surprise you, just how little they know

about what it means to be truly “woke.”

A chance to hear your heart could be the start

that rescues them from their yoke.”

I’ve seen first-hand the hurt of peer pressure,

The desperate need to measure up.

To be needed and valued by anyone who feeds their ego.

If you promise to call me out on that, I’ll go.

After some time, I went along.

First, we listened to a writer’s song, and then

He followed that with what he penned.

My heart was stirred and drawn to learn

What was this passion? What made them yearn.

To have their words heard.

Was it not enough to write to you?

One Poet more, and then two

Shared their words in voice and page.

Many knew of what they spoke;

Who knows, perhaps there’s more to being woke.

Braved the night and soon I spoke,

My words to share.

No one laughed, snickered, or stared.

They asked for more and so I read.

I gathered with friends and got out of my head.

Joyful Memories

His joy spills out in rumbling,

and deep, rolling peals

Hers reminds me of

fizzing and bouncing,

Like those wonderful bath bombs

Hers is soft and bubbly, sometimes

exploding into rhythms of squeals, leaving

no question of delight.

Their little one attempts to mimic both.

She is occasionally successful and always in her own style.

Grandma’s came higher-pitched,

through her nose and made her belly jiggle.

Grandpa’s joy came from deep in his chest

and made his whole body shake!

If you were in another room,

you could know who was happy

by the sound of their voice.

Memories made of joyful sounds last forever.




Maggie’s faithfully repugnant groundhog

visits every day. He knows

she can’t come out to play.

He’d best be glad;

he makes her frightfully mad!

Maggie sits at the window on serious duty,

Just waiting for him to come for his booty.

Sometimes she sees him,

Sometimes she smells him,

Either way, she gets irate,

Shaking and growling.

Nearly a convulsive state.

It is a useless warning that he ignores.

Unless someone opens doors.

Merely the sound of squeaking hinges

Gives that whistle pig the cringes.

Shrieking his complaint,

Chuck runs in a rage

Hoping Maggie can’t escape her cage.

A stalwart sentinel, she warns him off.

Alas, my good girl, you really tried.

Perhaps a hug from Mom will suffice.


Oh, how I remember

learning to make fudge with Mom.

Crisp Autumn night, no school the next morning.

Perfect time to mess up the kitchen.

Her favorite saucepan awaits ingredients on the stovetop.

Beautiful brown label box, with white and yellow writing.

It says Cocoa and above that the brand

that begins with an H, the same

as that candy that doesn’t ‘melt in your hand’,

except that it does.

In goes the sugar, in goes the cocoa powder,

Don’t forget the salt (giggles get louder.)

Next, the milk and stir, stir, stir.

Bring it to a boil, but don’t boil it over!

Get a cup of cold, cold water and a spoon.

At just the right time comes the instruction to drop.

Drop it by tiny spoonfuls until it

Forms soft (not too soft) balls in the water.

Now is when things move fast! Get a stick of butter, quick!

And the vanilla! and the wooden spoon.!!

Now Mom says, this is your part… beat it, hard and fast

Until it thickens at last. Hurry now,

Pour it into the square pan. You did grease it!?

Favorite memory… all of it didn’t make the pan!


Forty or Timeless?

“Father Time” is NOT:

the gentleman I thought he was,

as I timeless as I thought,

kind to 30-year-olds, or 50-year-olds, or 70-year-olds.

He was kind to 40-year-olds!

40 was my best year in human terms,

and that was many years ago, truth be told.

But, who tells the truth about age, anyway!!

My conclusion is

“Father Time” is an evil, man-made idol

To steal from thinking minds,

Taking away their ability

to perceive the beauty of

the timelessness we really live in.

If a believer is given

Eternal Life through

believing what

the creator of time said,

the only measure of time is


He, God, the Father who

Does not slide down

a tower in a ball of lights,

dressed in white robes with

a staff and a long white beard,

sent His Son to free us,

Free us from Time so we

Can live forever in

His realm.

Therefore, and hereafter,

numbers don’t matter to anyone but people.

That makes ME timeless!!



Spiritual Kisses

The view

out my writing window

takes on a lovely hue

in Springtime.

Just after sunrise

The streams of light filtering

through new growth,

sparsely filling the

hackberry and maple, give

a supernatural glow of rebirth

to the landscape,

casting long shadows.

And just before sunset,

a golden wash from

the evening sun

gives a heavenly kiss

to the earth

and says goodnight.



Love At First Sight

Dear Mom,

I hope you like my picture. I would have signed it with my paw, but we don’t have ink up here. Sorry about the wet mark. Licking it was the best I could do.

There are a couple of things you should know today. First off, I fell in love with you the moment I laid eyes on you. I know you think it was the other way around, but that’s not so. I guess you forgot how good my sniffer is!

You smelled so good and I caught your scent when you and Dad walked through the door at the pet store. When our eyes met, I knew I wouldn’t let you get away and I would love you forever! Mom, I still do.

It is hard to say what I loved best about you because I loved everything. I loved the way you said my name and called me for kibbles and snuggled. You made sure I had all the things I needed to make me happy. I loved our walks on the greenway and rides to the lake. Remember the ducks! Woof! That was exciting!

I want you to know how thankful I am for saving my life more than once. It was scary being in the pet hospital for 4 days without eating. I couldn’t! I missed you so much and my doctor was really glad when you insisted on seeing me that 4th day; you were the only one who get me to drink water – right out of your hand!

When the neighbor kid let me off my leash and I was missing for 40 days, you and Dad never gave up! God told me you prayed every day to get me back. I could hear your voices calling my name and you could hear me bark when that man would let me outside. We were so close, but you couldn’t see me.

I know you loved all of your pets, even Slik. He was a cool cat! I didn’t really know the other cats. I’m glad I shared a home with Ginger; by the way, she sends you her love too. We have always been pals. Thank you for not letting her suffer in the end.

We watch all the shenanigans the youngest pups put you through and we laugh, knowing how we did the same things. They are sweet dogs. We hope you keep them safe too.

Well, Mom, we could go on and on with stories. Our lives with you were special, but you need to focus on this 2022 Poetry Marathon. Keep up the good work.

We will see each other soon.


Annie and Ginger


Lumbering down the pavement,

Satchel in hand,

Insides wrapped

in tangles of pain.

Or was it just hunger,

nothing was gained.

“Ah, a welcomed café.

With space for me!”

She chose the oak one.

A hardback chair

at the table with a sunflower cloth.

“Please bring me some cheese,

Cheddar is best.”

Spying the wineglass on his tray,

She calmly stated

“I’ll have a red, today.”

She pulled out her manuscript.

Her lips, now tight and thin,

whispered aloud,

“Nail a deal for a hardback and

This one’s a win.”





What happened to you, Salvadore?

Born in 1904, long before the war.

A fine, handsome young man of artistic nature.

Barcelona beaches and galleries launched you to fame in 1922.

Awards with high praises were given to you.

How did you go from beautifully skilled,

Award-winning works like “Market”,

Lauded by the University Vice-Chancellor’s Prize,

To works in the 1960s so bizarre, Picasso paled.

You did indeed become surreal

And, sadly, to me, you did not appeal.

Your work spoke tortuous dreams

That may have been born of your zeal.

You left your mark,

But was it your heart?

Glad I never called you “Da’ling”, Dali.

Rest in Peace – I hope.


Let Me Dance

Sunlight dances across her tiny cheeks

Unhindered by grownup life,

She runs and jumps high,

There is no strife.


Blowing dandelion kisses to the sky,

Laughter and giggles fill the air.

Not a hint of how or where

Life will take her.


Not a hint of how confusion

Will overtake the joy of innocence

In days to come.


Not a hint of hurt,

horror or agony of loss,

yet known.


And, yes, not a hint of joy

that comes with

tomorrow’s love


Or the blessings from above,

When surrendered life

Overcomes the doubt,

The doubt that life is all about.


Let me dance

In the Love that comes

From the Light,

The Light that comes

From The Son.




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