Photo ~ my own

My day is so full of countless incongruent pieces that slip off the table.

It is like being in a nightmare where you are running as hard as you can, but the landscape doesn’t change.

Then the fear chatters at me and I do wonder if my mind is sifting away bit by bit . . . .




Gothic Prompt

from Realistic Poetry


Such fascination with the solitary path of shadows ahead.

Light, light years behind.



How did my Karma spawn such bereft imagination?

Perhaps opening my paper umbrella will bring consolation.



Written for @Realistic Poetry in response to this picture prompt.


Rose Alone with Helper ~ online art


Scenario of two main characters:

Rose and Butterfly have loved one another for four years.

There has been a generous beauty and sharing of art, poetry, movies, theater, history, and good company.

Rose adores Butterfly and has always believed the feeling is mutual.

Enter 2 other characters:

Old “friends” of Butterfly (with what kind of history?), Corpulent But Hungry Scorpion and Stupid But Self-Aggrandizing Viper. No problem, except . . . . Both of these friends are rude, disrespectful and cruel to Rose. Why? Who knows? Nobody will say. She has had minimal interaction with them. Stupid But Self-Aggrandizing Viper is especially aggressive and dangerous.

This behavior hurts and frightens Rose. She informs Butterfly repeatedly. He claims to be acting on behalf of her emotional and physical safety. The friends’ actions continue. On the last occasion of their unkind and destructive behavior, Rose expresses great distress. Much to Rose’s surprise and dismay, Butterfly sides with Corpulent But Hungry Scorpion and Stupid But Self-Aggrandizing Viper.

In response, Rose decides to end their supposed loving trustworthy relationship. Observation: Adults can behave like playground bullies and junior high school liars.

Rose needs your insight. Question, dear friends: Is Rose experiencing



Loss of Trust?

Gemini Caregiver’s Debate

Thank you to the unknown artist.


I will never come back, once I leave.

That’s selfish. He can’t help it. He didn’t ask to get sick.

I can’t help it either.

It’s the only life he has.

It’s the only life I have.

He needs me. It would kill him.

Maybe. Staying is killing me.

I don’t know the truth of any of these statements.

I am not happy.

Big deal. I am supposed to lose my life to find it.

No idea how to do that. Read a lot of stuff . . . .

I will be out of God’s will.

Which God? I am not trying to run away from “God”.

I will burn in hell.

Not scientific. Knee jerk control tactic. Not rational. Not loving; therefore, not anything to do with “God”.

I’m confused.

I am tired. I don’t want to die, especially of endless servitude.

As if what I want is significant.

It’s all I have. My time is running out.

Do I want to finish my life being a zero instead of a hero?

Who even notices? I am lonely.

Old song, different verse.

It is about where I finish my days being lonely.

Anywhere, I will be alone except for I Am.

I wonder why that supposition no longer functions?

I don’t know what I want.

I want to live until I die.

Whatever that means. Cliché! What about the cats? Yang would miss me. And the plants?

Can I bring the cats with me? I know who will take the plants.

Why am I being so silly?

I will know more in less than a month.

It all depends on what, who, where? That’s stupid.

Is enslavement-subjugation-resentment-starving wise?

I can bloom where I am planted.

Whatever that means. Cliché!

I will be missed.

By ….. many intimate contacts. The ripple will smooth.

All his family would miss my caregiving service.

They would have to give a care.

I am incapable of love.

I have done the action of love for years.

I expect too much of life. Get over myself.

Adventure is a factor. Time is up. Someday has flown away.

I am a selfish old woman …..

Who still has vigor and long ago learned to be my own resource.

I will never come back, once I leave.


Song of India

song of india 1
From my mother’s music collection

One morning last March I woke up free.


I purchased a ticket for myself –

Destination: Jaipur, India – for 10 days.

I will be there during September’s khus pura chand.


What will I do?

More, what will I not do?

No chit-chat;

No treading the treadmill;

No thinking.


Whom will I see?

Nobody but God in myriad manifestations.


What will I ask?

How can I go on when I cannot?

How can I keep loving when I cannot?

How can I stop loving when I cannot?


I will expose myself

To how soft

India is.

moon in her eyes
She’s Got the Moon in Her Eyes ~ Jean Larson


The King was in his counting-house, Counting out his money
art ~ George Harrap, c. 1910

I once knew a man


Whose mission

Was to save money.

If a household staple was reduced in price,

He would purchase

Extravagant amounts,

Only to store it all

In his cellar.


His wife was forbidden

To spend beyond a given amount

After he angonizingly researched

What she wished to buy.

The time she wanted new eye-glasses,

He accused her of being vain.


He lived in a world of lack.


Was this a symptom of his thriftiness

Or of his fear?

Did he exist at the edge of annihilation?


The man died.


Within weeks of his death,

His merry widow

Brought me a hand-crafted

Many-prismed chandelier.

“I got it for you because I could,”

She declared with laughter in her voice.

It is displayed from the beam

Like a sacred relic.


I have heard —

Behind every action

There is essentially

One of two motivations:

Fear or



Art ~ Michael Parkes

I once knew a man

Who disassociated

From the private purported flaws

He encountered in others.

He considered this

An avenue to serene existence.

Was this a symptom of soundness?

Or his fear of Life-chaos?



I once knew a woman who traveled

To a country on the other side of the globe.

It was one outcome of

Having spent every holiday for the last eighteen years

Apart from her sons.

Was it a symptom of woe-aloneness?

Or was this celebration of

Her ubiquitous Life-non-aloneness-wherever?


I once knew a young man

Who wept on the neck of his of-age lover.

Some would mock his symptoms of neediness.

She knew it indicated potency

And savvy to embrace Life-Mystery.

rest susan seddon boulet
Art ~ Susan Seddon Boulet





This is Conner Walsh — not Kenny. Connor is almost as handsome as Kenny. Got your attention, didn’t he?

Journal 8-7-93

An old book title: Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff . . . and it’s All Small Stuff ~ Richard Carlson

Just because we have heard it a lot does not mean it is no longer true.


This has been an anxiety of mine: How will I do driving by myself all the way through the city to Garrett [the seminary], on Sheridan Avenue, just north of Chicago in Evanston? This seems foreboding to a sheltered “wimpette” like me. Classes are starting in mid-September. I will be arriving alone and living on campus by myself with what I can bring in the trunk of my car. Every week-end or two, I will make the 260 mile commute from central Michigan to Evanston.

I am going to seminary to learn more of Christ. Either I trust, or I do not trust.


This week, my husband Nick has been doing some post graduate work at Garrett. He contracted pneumonia while there and I am to go there and drive him home — through Chicago. This will be my first solitary run. I have never even ridden to Evanston through Chicago from the South side before. I am timid.


Enter the perfect prototype of rescuing manhood. He is Kenny – a member of the parish – a farmer in his early 30’s. [What I do not know as I write this is how popular the matchmaking website, will become years later. Understandable.]

Kenny volunteers to drive me to Garrett. He will bring me there, take a look around Garrett and Northwestern campuses, and then drive home. (Nick already has his car.)

Early in the morning he arrives. I climb into his pickup. It is a 5 hour journey. I make mental notes regarding the route all the way – especially the turns in the city. [This was before GPS.]

The ride is a cross-cultural experience. The lean man, wearing pristine Western clothing and boots, his cowboy hat and his own brand of comfort in his own (my-God-perfect) skin is good company.

While we ride, he tunes his radio in to a station that plays polkas. Polkas. Yes.

“They have a cheerful vibe.” His grin is convincing. This cowboy takes me somewhere I have never been before. Straight through Chicago to toe-tapping polka music.

On seminary and university campus, Kenny gets a lot of covert, but positive attention. The hat? The boots? His towering physical presence? Glowing-cheerful-handsomeness?

It is a pleasant initiation to casual Chicago driving.


Conclusions: I am on schedule. God’s sense of humor is subtly outrageous.