Underrated Pleasures 1

fur babies
Photo ~ my own

I feed treats to my cats

Ms. Smoke and Yang,

from my hands.

This is to enable me to feel

their moist cats non-lips and whiskers

tickling my palm.





Day 4 of Exile: Pellucidity


MichaelParkes-for adul
Art ~ Michael Parkes

Longing for naked pellucidity,

hoping for carnal reciprocity,

begging like a bitch beneath his table.

In the end,  he was simply unable

to be courageous and transparent.

I do not blame him.

It’s the centuries of inbred obtusity.

Woe is me.

Woebegone are we.





Day 2 of Woe

He has faded like twilight shadows.
I am newly aware I could never please.
I recall his delight in me once sheltered from sorrow.
Oh, light many candles on my altar.
Grieve with me in silence over the loss of our joy.

My Muse Left


Art ~ Michael Parkes

The season of the numb, empty heart —

It has been the deepening freeze/drought for a long while.

Hope mixed with denial can be folly.

The time comes to save oneself.

Confront the law of diminishing returns.

Do not fret, beloved.

There is still life on/in this hard earth.

muse left
Photo courtesy of Realistic Poetry


@RealisticPoetry      realisticpoetry.com/communitypage/…

Today’s Catch

today's catch fish
Online Art

Great One says Follow me and I will make you fishers of men.
New revelation translates I will make you fishers of people.
Southwest Native American trawls the magical golden fish.
Such beauty emerges in European fairy tales.
Something to that enchanted fish.

On an evening I fish taffeta-ribbon-silver-golden river.
Placid Moon enlightens with her pale pink lantern.
Stars remotely whisper word defiance.
For a breathless moment Loved-God-You’re-Good.
Still no golden fish tonight.

I fish and fish time passed and past:
Self gone, buried talents, waning gifts, children far,
Artless, wordless, youthless,
Faint memory quest, late great hope.

Psalmist declares restored heritage when it languishes.
God knows I languish.
Help. Silence. Then. Whispers from behind the veil.
Faith hope and love abide; the greatest of these is love.

Well. Love-Only-Love, in the end.
Like an hallucination glinting by
Golden watery shot brilliance
Lost and found in the same flash.



Love Lesson Learned

key stone
Picture from Realistic Poetry

Comes a day you realize

the person you fell in love with

has either vanished

or never even existed.

So you retrieve the key to your heart and

retreat from the rock to which you clung.

Then you lock them away

behind the door called


balcony view
Online Photo


autumn 2018
Photo ~ my own, Jean Larson

First thing in the morning

Make your feet hit the floor.

The most rigorous discipline in life


During the day, try not to

Beat anybody up —

In the flesh and especially

In your mind.

Judge not….

End of day —

Name your daemons.

Tell them to shut up

And hit the road.

Then, if you are a woman,

Try not to beat yourself up.




~ Jean Larson


over Crystal Lake PG
Sunset Over Crystal Lake ~ Patti Gmeiner

I will not forget the first time we had a corporeal encounter

A hovering gossamer legion

On the gray shore I stood watching essences float from silver heaven,

Chorusing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”

In thousands of intonations.

Once I was startled,

When someone whooshed through my closed bedroom window,

A chest-high eagle, in the half light,

Gazing at me with keen golden eyes.

Wonder One sometimes acquires the form of a warm, brown horse.

Once, my first husband shot this creature.

Of course he could not kill — only wound.

Such power heals and lives.

I embrace the sturdy neck often.

Phenomenon flies behind my back and wraps me in an owl feather cape,

Chanting singsong whispers into my ear

When I am tied high in swaying pines.

At this touch, my hang-ups snap.

I have seen Divine as a curly-haired faun,

With fragrant, silken taupe skin.

Rarely could I look into such a face then.

Medicine woman Robelle saw my Protector when I lived in the haunted vicarage —

A giant young man in a brown suit standing guard.

In that house I needed shelter.

Great Crone came and sat with me on the stone bench before my altar

As my maternal grandmother Hannah.

She cackled when I asked her if she loved me.

Another time, as I mused on the same bench, before the same altar

On a warm shore of Lake Superior, Wonder One emerged from the water

On fine gild-scaled legs, filmy wet gauze trailing,

Long strands of jewels and sea weed wound in tangled hair,

Silently sat with me.

Here again were the eyes of the eagle.

It is easy to pray to Wonder One

Who cannot be escaped,

Who cannot be forced,

Who loves on me. . . .








swinging girl
Art from Realistic Poetry

We balance, suspended between the past and the future.

There is lost beauty some days, due to our disheveled blindness.

Poets and prophets cry,

“Do not allow dreamlike abandonment

to obscure the light on the horizon

and the perfumed beyond. . . . ”

Michael Parkes
Art by Michael Parkes