does the ibis sing?
it does not.
its cry, a nasaled honk —
just one of many things
I sometimes ponder
over a cup of tea
on a late summer morn.
angry, distressed, worried, outraged, positively furious with those who ushered in this despicable madman
the takeover in DC
’nuff said…
a rekindling
Emily speaks
to me, yet again
metaphorically speaking
stuck inside our castle,
demons & dragons await
just outside the door —
there is no armor to bear
to protect oneself
from the fires that rage on the other side
action items crossed off by eight o’clock on a Saturday morning
severe storm risk looms
early morning lawns are mowed
weeds are whacked
walks are walked
runs are ran
Ode to Quentin Collins
Ripped from the pages of Tiger Beat,
my 14-year-old obsession —
Dreams of being ‘discovered’ by him
& happily, ever after, as the story goes
I will remember this
forgotten by all but one
an unexpected one, at that
kindness is still kindness
clearing the fog in my head
bejeweled waters sparkle
beneath an August sky —
a gentle head-sea ripples
as puppy peers over the bow
the numbers game: #206
This week’s number, courtesy of Judy Dykstra-Brown’s weekly throw-down, is 206. Here are a few photos from my archives to fit that bill!
regrets & disappointments
remembering
what might have been
could have been
should have been
*
onward, regardless…
A Sawyer's Daughter 
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