Not Alone

Falling ~ by Michael Parkes

According to the prophet Daniel, the Hebrew teenagers, Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego were thrown into a furnace for refusing to worship the Babylonian king Nebuchadnezzar.

They were Divinely protected from the fire by a 4th being walking around in the flames, and finally taken out of the furnace. Daniel reports they did not even retain the smell of smoke after they were rescued.

Daniel also records Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego had actually been saved by “someone like the Son of God”.

Quite the story.

I have dealt with my own fiery trial over the last some months. That furnace is history.

Yes, I have survived. But I can’t seem to heal these singes or shake this smell of smoke.

Not quickly. Not alone.

This “someone like the Son of God” is slow and subtle.

Quite the story.

My Last Lament About THAT

Angel Interrupted by M. Parkes
Angel Interrupted

As of December 14, 2018, I am going to quit mourning and start enjoying this Yuletide/Advent/Christmas Season.

“After a while you learn the subtle difference between holding a hand and chaining a soul

“And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning, and company doesn’t always mean security

“And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts and presents aren’t promises and you begin to accept your defeats with your head up and your eyes ahead

“With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child and you learn to build all your roads on today because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans and futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight

“After awhile you learn that even sunshine burns if you get too much so you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers

“And you learn that you really can endure, that you really are strong, and you really do have worth

“And you learn

“And you learn

“With every goodbye you learn.   ~   Veronica A. Shoffstall





Day 6 — This is not a spell or a prayer or a curse. This is a RANT.

“Heav’n has no rage like love to hatred turn’d 

Nor Hell a fury, like a woman scorn’d.” 

~ William Congreve

angry Indian goddess
Angry Indian Goddess

Today I found out the day he will be connected to his arranged breeding partner — next month. He did not have the balls or the courtesy to tell me himself.

I hope she treats him exactly the way he treated me: with secrecy, shame, withholding, lies, and sneaking.

I hope she has terrible body hair, body odor, rotten teeth and bad breath.

I hope she is frigid and demanding and boring.

I hope she bores and disgusts him over time.

I hope she fights with all of the “family”.

I hope he is embarrassed to be seen with her.

I hope he misses me every second of his “wedding” day.

If the prophet Ezekiel can reflect a jealous god in ancient texts, I can lament too.

May he have the pain he caused me. May it simply come back on him.

I hope the weather on that “wedding” day is windy, cold, dark and dank.

I hope she can never get pregnant. All the silly hypocrisy and bondage for nothing.

May it be.


Thank you for reading and being my therapist /: ))




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



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