This, That...Whatever   Thursday, December 27, 2018


let's be clear
about this -
I'm just
a casual poet
with no illusions
about the head-scratching
I put to paper

there's nothing
all that deep
no great message,
no plumbing the depths
this, that...what ever,
just a casual poet
a journal
 poet trying to account
for the days
of my life
in ways
that please me

I welcome you
as my reader,
but if you have
more important
to do -

I'll understand...

Standard post, my stuff, all from 2008, and some great poets from my library.


bits and pieces from a Tuesday morning that seems like  Monday

Li Po
The Ballad of Long  Bank

Sunday breakfast at IHOP

William Stafford
At the Bomb Testing Site

Gary Snyder
Vapor Trails

everything changed that remained the same
the little bitty woman

Louise Erdich
Indian Boarding School: The Runaways

evil is

Kaljiu Kruusa
[we are born in hospitals]
[the hangover is our shared body]

poor little Pumpkin
living on stilts
the problem with forests
national report

Lyn Lifshin
Yellow Rose

Enid Shomer

this is why
back then

watching my book being read

Adrienne Rich
Seven Skins

the view from Jefferson's veranda at Poplar Forest
on reading "Cow" by Federica Garcia Lorca

For several years after my second retirement, I worked for a testing company. This was when state assessment tests where blooming across the country under "no child left behind."

I read and scored and supervised the scoring of student responses from various states' tests (each state has their own) primarily on writing and reading comprehension, grades 3 to high school.

I also scored, and later supervised the scoring of, tests on history, government and economics, an experience that demonstrated to me that there are several states in the deep south where the voting ought to be raised to 96 or 97, or even higher.

The writing tests were often boring, but sometimes, intentionally or unintentionally hilarious and in some few cases, brilliant, mind-bogglingly so, reassurance that there are still great minds growing up out there for us to look forward to.

The tests were usually scored, not against each other, but on a 1 to 5 point scale based on standards provided by the state whose test it was, One being the best and five the worst. The ones and the fives, the best and worst were usually easily recognizable, as were the responses in the middle, the threes. The hardest to score were those on the cusp, fours on the edge of five and ones on the edge of two. These often generated discussion among scoring teams.

Downtime on the job allowed for writing time, from which came these little bits, among others.

I decided it was time for a third and last retirement when the company I worked for, Harcourt, was replaced by a company that was working toward a system of machine scoring (machines scoring a creative process, for Christ's sake) which, in practice rewarded mediocrity and penalized the brilliant writers that readers loved to find.

I quit.

And, by the way, I support this testing (and common core, as well), but not as a means to grade teachers. As a means to learn students' skill levels and to find out where emphasis to improve defenciencies should be placed, they should be used by every teacher. I strongly disagree with those who say the effect of testing essential skills denies time for other subjects. Not enough time to do it all? Most schools are closed three months out of the year, which is bad for students anyway. Use that time to teach and learn.

My soap box tirade is now complete.

This is from January, 2008.

bits and pieces from a Tuesday morning that seems like Monday

green lichen
on bare
over brown
grass gathered
in the cold forest
like boy scouts
at camp

on a foggy day

seen from my
high place
tree tops
in cotton swirl

the hive
with low voices
all eyes tight
on computer screens

every now and then
loud laughter
at something seen
in a child's writing
the room

a thermos top
and brown coffee
open like

green winter rain
anticipates spring

too soon

work done
wandering halls
for approval

I will write a poem


Referring ahead to my own story poems later in this post, here is a story poem from over a thousand years go, supporting my belief that stories came first, poetry just an accessory added to a narrative.

 This poem from my library comes from World Poetry, subtitled "An Anthology of Verse from Antiquity to Our Time." It's a huge book, 1,239 pages of poetry, published in 1998 by Quality Paperback Book Club. This poem from the anthology is by Li Po, who lived from 701 to 762, during the Chinese Three Kingdoms Period through the Tang Dynasty, part of what the book defines as "The Post-Classical World."

An ancient story every soldier's spouse can understand.

The poem was translated by Elling O. Eide.

The Ballad of Long Bank

            Number One

     When my hair was first in bangs,
I used to pick up flowers and tease from the door.

Then my love would ride out on a bamboo horse
To circle the wellhead and play with green plums,
We lived together in the village of Long Bank
Two little children without doubt or mistrust.
At fourteen, I became your wife,
A bashful face that never could smile;
I drooped my head, faced the dark wall ---
To your thousand calls, not one reply.
At last fifteen I unfurrowed my brow,
Vowed go stay with you like ashes to dust.
Could you cling to a piling like the man in a flood,
Would I ever be climbing the Spouse-Vigil Tower?
I was sixteen when you went away
To Rough River Rock in Threatening Gorge;
In the fifth month you must not run afoul,
And cries of gibbons are sad in the sky.
The tracks by the gate where you slowly departed,
In each now the moss grows green.
The moss is deep. I can't sweep it away;
Autumn is early we gave falling leaves.
In the eighth month the butterflies came,
Flew in pairs in the western garden.
When I think of this, my heart starts breaking,
I sit and I grieve, and my face grows old.

Number Two

I remember when I was a single girl
And knew nothing of smoke and dust in the world,
But now having married a Long Bank man
I'm at Sandy Point to check on the wind.

In the fifth month when the south wind rises,
I think of you coming home from Pa-ling.

In the eighth month when the west wind starts,
I worry about you departing from Yang-tzu.

With this coming and going, what is my heartache?
There is little of seeing and too much  of parting.
You'll be reaching Hsing-t'an in how many days?
In my dreams I leap over the wind and the waves.

Last night a wild wend went by;
It blew down trees by the riverside.
Everything water and dark without edges.
Where was a places for a traveler to be?

Visitor from the north have included real nobles,
And the whole of the river was filled with red robes.
Evenings they came along shore for their lodging,
And wouldn't travel eastward for several days.
 I pity myself at fifteen or so
I had a pink face with peach blossom skin.
Who would be the wife of a merchant man.
To grieve about water and grieve about winds.

An observational from February, 2008.

Sunday breakfast at IHOP

from the booth
behind me
a voice
with a youthful lilt
and a full and jolly
that turns heads,
including mine

to see
an old man,
with trembling fingers
and liver spots
on his bald
wearing a porky pig tie
that matches his laugh,
the pale, still hand
of a dead-faced woman
in a wheel chair
beside him

Next I have two poets from Atomic Ghosts, subtitled "Poets Respond to the Nuclear Age." The anthology was published by Coffee House Press in 1995,

The first of the poets is William Stafford, the second, Gary Snyder.

At the Bomb Testing Site

At noon in the desert a panting lizard
waited for history, its elbows tense,
watching the curve of a particular road
as if something might happen.

It was looking at something farther off
than people could see, an important scene
acted in stone for little selves
at the flute end of consequences.

There was just a continent without much on it
under a sky that never cared less.
Ready for change, the elbows waited.
The hands gripped hard on the desert.

Vapor Trails

Twin steaks twice higher than cumulus
Precise plane icetracks in the vertical blue
Cloud-flaked light shot shadow - arcing
Field of all future war, edging off to space.

Young expert us. pilots waiting
the day of criss-cross rockets
And white blossoming smoke of bomb,
The air world worn and staggered for these
Specks of brushy land and ant-hill towns -

    I stumble on the cobble rock path
Passing through temples,
Watching for two-leaf pine
    - spotting that design.

Two more from 2008, one from March and one from April.

In March, I was doing interpretations of paintings I found in a book. This painting based, obviously, on a famous movie image.

everything changed that stayed the same
(after Scott Listfield, "It's a Question of Simian Survival')

the lady
torch held high,
still buried to her waist
in beach sand, but
the actor gone, now
a place for picnics,
for sand castles,
for jumping in the surf,
for an ice cream truck,
bell ringing
children running


another spaceman

in the red


I fear
for the children

An observation in April, 2008, of a woman at the place I was working (as descibed earlier).

a little bitty woman

a little bitty woman,
and trim,
sky blue eyes
by round rimless glasses

she walks the halls
with a loose
sliding gait that reminds me
of a 50's hipster
to cool to actual put foot
to floor, a little bit of float
and glide, and she cocks
he head to the side
when she talks to you,
reminding me
of a sparrow
eyeing a particularly
plump and tasty-

with a little hint of hunger
in those sky
blue eyes,
a you speak

This poem is by poet Louise Erdich. The poet is of German, French and Chippewa ancestry and is an enrolled member of the Turtle Mound Band the Chippewa of the Anishinabe nation. She is recognized as one of the most important poets of the Native American second renaissance.

Her poem is from Unsettling America, "An Anthology of Contemporary Multicultural Poetry," published by Penguin Books in 1994.

Indian Boarding School: The Runaways

Home's the place we head for in our sleep.
Boxcars stumbling north in dreams
don't wait for us. We catch them on the run
The rails, old lacerations that we love,
shoot parallel across the face and brake
you under Turtle Mountain.Riding scars
we can't bet lost. Home is the place they cross.

The lame guard strikes a match and makes the dark
less tolerant. We watch through cracks in boards
as the land starts rolling, rolling till it hurts
to be here, cold in regulation clothes.
We know the sheriff's waiting at mid-run
to take us back. His car is dumb and warm.
The highway doesn't rock, it only hums
like a wing of  long insults. The worn-down welts
of ancient punishment led back and forth.

All the runaways wear dresses, long green ones,
the color you would think shame was. We scrub
the sidewalks down because it's shameful work.
Our brushes cut the stone in watered arcs
and in the soak frail outlines shiver clear
a moment, things us kids pressed on the dark
face, before it hardened, pale, remembering
delicate old injuries, the spines of names and leaves.

This piece, written in May. 2008, a memory from 40 years before.

evil is

there were seven hundred,
maybe a thousand of us
standing in the parking lot
after an hour
grateful at least
that the bomb threat
had come in May
and not in August,
when the sun and heat
might have put some of us,
the older ones, anyway,
in greater danger of heat stroke
than from a would-be bomber

I had bomb threats before,
two, in fact,
one I took seriously
enough to call the police
and evacuate our building
and another, years earlier
from a client I knew
and was not worried about,
mainly because I knew
even if he had a bomb
under his bed, he wasn't smart enough
to make it explode

he was a really sad case

built like a pear
with a pockmarked face
and greasy hair
and if his looks and his borderline retarded
mental capacity
and a complete lack of any kind of moral sense
wasn't bad enough he suffered
from a younger brother and sister,
both, in contrast to him,
beautiful, both of the very highest intelligence.
and both with even less of a moral sense
than him - had they not been born dirt poor
on the wrong side of town, some might have been tempted
to place that moral genius label on them, future
captains of industry and national, even world leaders

as it was
they were just plain white trash evil...

they beat their older bother, my would-be bomber,
regularly and had since they were old enough
to make a fist, taking turns,
the beautiful younger brother one day,
the beautiful younger sister the next,
and sometimes, both together,
never a day of peace
for the elder...

one day
they got carried away
and beat him to death, and they were all three gone,
the older brother, dead,
and his brother and sister serving life
without parole...

I've sometimes thought I must own them
some form of payment,
for it was from their lesson I learned
the truth and reality of evil in this

Here are two short poems from Estonian poet Kalju Kruusa.

Born in 1971, the poet studied the English language and literature and semiotics at the University of Tarku and works as a translator in addition to his own work.

His poems are from the anthology, New European Poets published by Graywolf Press in 2008.

Both poems were translated by Miriam Melfatrik-Kenofontov.

[we are born in hospitals]

we are born in hospitals
long dreary corridors
footsteps echo in the silence
the suffocating smell
of chlorine and medicines
the walls steeped in disease
our names are recorded
all in order
papers filed
in files locked away
a guard desk stands at the door
no more visitors
for you today
outside it grows dark
round the corner the morgue
move your feet
says the cleaner

[the hangover in our shared body]

the hangover in our shared body
under the ceiling like mist
on the hall door handle
like thick dust
a dream at the window
your stockings on a chair
something of mine on the floor
the bed unmade till evening
into the warmth again
the hangover in our shared body
shelters us
husband and wife

the machine is way above and beyond

Next, some pieces from June and July, 2008, beginning with several short bits I did while doing a three-day drive-around in the eastern part of the state

poor little Pumpkin

Texas, -
hiding out
amongst the trees


Baptist Church

little Pumpkin


living on stilts

with West Bay
on one side
and the Gulf of Mexico
on the other,
susceptible to a flooding
tidal surge
across their narrow
little strip of mostly sand
from almost any
anywhere in the restless
and often angry
the whole village
on stilts
like the cranes
that fly pass their windows
during calmer seas

a new model
for coastal living
in the global warming

(their best efforts to protect themselves, not good enough.

The entire villages destroyed by hurricane Rita
less than a month after I passed through
and wrote this poem)

the problem with forests

the problem 
with looking at a forest
is that
can see

A report on the state of the nation, July, 2008. How unfortunate that it was not as bad as we thought and destined to be ten years later.

national report

July 25, 2008

New Hampshire

storms carve swath
of death, destruction

God is blamed
along with newly elected
and Greek sailors
on leave -

God makes no
newly elected
unleash swath
of meaningless
Greek sailors
comment one word,
after lengthy discussion
among themselves
in a foreign language
which a panel of experts
said, when consulted,
might be Greek


community college
shooting injures 3

incident blamed on
and newly elected members
of the Arizona House of
and Albanian parachutists -

all refused comment
except the ghost of Barry
who, when consulted, said
I could've beat
if more people had'ah voted
for me


bear attack leaves
woman in bad shape

close associates report
bent in at least three
places, also suffering
bad case of

District of Columbia

US Airways fires pilot
whose gun discharged

fires back


river oil spill cleanup
could take weeks

if not months
or possibly years -

former governor Edwin
Edwards reports from his prison cell
that he could fix it in hours
if everyone in Louisiana
would just send him three
and forty-seven cents

District of Columbia

foreign AIDS aids
legislation approved

former Senator Jesse
Helms signals approval
from his grave, as long as,
the recemtly deceased
none of the money goes to


Charges against marine dismissed

after court martial panel determined
that the killing of two Syrian bankers
was provoked by their wearing
of long beards, open toed sandals,
and otherwise appearing

Elsewhere in the Universe

President George W. Bush

assured by the
and Karl Rove
that his swing would
with just a little more practice,
returned to his game
of golf, handing off
the nuclear
to Jenna
in the interim
so she'd
have something to play with
while on honeymoon

Next I have two poets from Claiming the Spirit Within, subtitled, "A Sourcebook of Women's Poetry." The book was published by Beacon Press in 1996,

The first poem is  by Lyn Lifshin; the second is by Enid Shomer.

Yellow Rose

pinned on stiff tulle,
glowed in the painted
high school moonlight.
Mario Lanza's "Oh My
Love." When Doug
dipped, I smelled
Clearasil. Hours in
the tub dreaming of
Dick Wood's fingers
cutting in, sweeping
me close. I wouldn't
care if the stick
pin on the roses
went thru me,
the yellow musk
would be a wreath 
on the grave of that
awful dance where
Louise and I sat
pretending we didn't
care, our socks fat
with bells and fuzzy
ribbons, bloated and
silly as we felt. I
wanted to be at home,
wanted the locked 
bathroom to cry in
knew some part of me
would never stop
waiting to be
asked to dance.


The whites of his eyes
pull me like moons.
He smiles. I believe
his face. Already
my body slips down in the chair.

I recline on my side,
offering peeled grapes. 
I can taste his tongue
in my mouth
whenever he speaks.

I suspect he lies.
But my body oils itself loose.
When he gets up to fix a drink
my legs like derricks
hoist me off the seat.
I am thirsty it seems.

Already I see the seduction
far off in the distance
like a large tree
dwarfed by a rise
in the road.

I put away objections
as quietly as quilts.
Already I explain to myself
how marriages are broken -
accidentally, like arms or legs.

Here are two longish story poems from August,2008. The first was contemporaneous to its writing and the second was based on a memory.

I like story poems. I like to read them and I like to write them.

this is why

when I woke up
at 5:55 this morning,

this story requires
a little bit of 
set up

it is
to know 
that I am a head-west,
sleeper, that is, I just sleep
better if my head
is oriented to the west
and my feet to the east

that explains 
why I was sleeping at
the foot of my bed...

it is to know
that, at a hair
over six feet tall
I used to be tall, though
no longer, because
people younger than me
so they got taller
than me,
(my younger brother, for example,
is six three and his son is
six five - all fed better
than me
and I try not to resent it)

I sleep on an old bed, the bed
my father was born on,
it's probably 110-120 years old,
an important fact
since it was built back when
I was still tall or would have been
had I been around
in 1880 or 1890

that explains why
I sleep on a pillow half
hung over the end 
of the bed

also important
it is to know that my cat
often sleeps with me,
actually , more on top of me
than with me

and that explains why,
when I woke up at 5:55 this morning
with a cat hat, the cat, that is,
sleeping on the top half
of the pillow
on top of m head which she had pushed
to the bottom half of the pillow...

I was only a bit surprised at this, since the cat
often did strange things, though not nearly as surprised
as the cat when I lifted my head
from the bottom half of the pillow, causing
the cat on the top half of the pillow
and the pillow itself
to fall off the bed and drop
to the floor...

and that's what happened
at 5:55 this morning
and it's also the reason
my cat
has ignored me all day

not a funny story, perhaps,
but a funny start to what has been
a very tough day otherwise

back then

27 years old
in 1971,
I finally graduated
from college
9 years from when 
I started

using my last
GI Bill check
to pay off
the friendly grocer
who had been holding
my hot checks,
I enjoyed
total assets of
one Bachelor of Arts Degree
(Sociology and English),
a '49 Chevy that ran on only
five cylinders,
a tank
of cheap gas,
and 35 cents cash,
36 if you count
the lucky penny
I found in the parking lot
while walking back
to my car

I went
where one goes
with 36 cents,
a tank of cheap gas,
and a car that ran;
even if only on
five of its six cylinders
so it was very efficient,
and a Bachelors Degree
of limited
to any employment likely
to greatly increase
my fortune

so I went home
to the only place
I knew
where I was likely
to eat free
for at least a couple
of weeks

it turned out
I had misunderstood
the benevolence
of my father
and within three days
of arriving to the
welcoming arms
of family,
I had a temporary job
delivering frozen chickens
for a company
owned by the parents
of an old girlfriend
I wanted
very much never
to see again

and within
two days of
that job's ending
I was back
to driving a taxi,
2 p.m. to 2 a.m.
7 days a week
for a 33% commission
which, more than once
amounted to
$3 in earnings
for a 12-hour day

after that
I had a few more
jobs like driving a cab
offering very little pay
but a lot of material
for a couple of good poems,
until eventually,
rescued from literary
I found 
a temporary job
lasting 30 years
and 10,000 neckties


this personal history
came to mind
two weeks ago
when I attended a
college graduation
featuring graduates
who will probably, by
the time I finish this poem,
be employed and earning
3 times what I made
in the best of those 30 years

so it was
and so it is
for this pre-boomer,
born either too early
or born to late

The first time this happened, in September, 2008, I felt like I'd won the Nobel Prize.

watching my book being read

the first time
I watched someone
read my book today

I don't know;
someone who
doesn't know me

on the other side
of the coffeehouse
who don't know
I'm watching

it's a young couple,
boy and girl
who stopped a the free reads
table by the door

I watched them,
to see what they would do

I could tell
it was my book they picked up
by the distinctive colors on the cover,
so I paid close attention
a they took the book
to a table
in the far corner of the room

they read together,
handing the book back and forth,
pointing to a page,
a poem,
talking about it,
reading sometimes
very quietly,
laughing loudly
at other times

it made me feel
to see the concentration,
to hear the laughter...

thee book has serious poems
as well as many meant
to be funny -

I'm going to continue
to assume
they were laughing
at the right places...

(and don't you
try to tell me

This is an observational and an awkward moment (for me at least) from October 2008.


leaning forward,
was writing something,
a list,
I think, 
and the neck of her dress
scooped open
and I could see
her small brown breasts
the thin cotton
and I quickly looked away,
by my inadvertent
of her body

she seemed
to never 

The last poet from my library for this post is Adrienne Rich, with her poem from The Norton Anthology of Modern and Contemporary Poetry, Vol. 2, published by W. W. Norton in 2003.

Seven Skins

Walk along back of the library
in 1952
some one's there to catch your eye
Vic Greenberg in his wheelchair
paraplegic GI -
Bill of Rights' Jew
graduate student going in
by the only elevated route
up into the great stacks where
all knowledge should and is
and shall be stored like sacred grain
while the loneliest of the lonely
American decades goes aground
on the postwar rock
and some unlikely
shipmates found ourselves
stuck amid so many smiles

Dating Vic Greenberg you date
crutches and  chair
a cool wit an outrageous form;
"- just back from a paraplegics' conference,
guess what the biggest meeting was about -
Sex with a Paraplegic! - for the wives -"
In an donut of cabs is chair
opening and closing round his
electrical monologue the air
furiously calm around him
as he transfers to the crutches

But first you go for cocktails
in his room at Harvard
he mixes the usual martinis, plays Billie Holiday
talks about Melville's vision of evil
and the question of the postwar moment:
Is there an American civilization?
In the bathroom huge
grips and suction cupped
rubber mats long-handled sponges
the reaching tools a veteran's benefit
in plain sight

And this is only memory no more
so this is how your remember

Vic Greenberg takes you to the best restaurant
which happens to have no stairs
for talk about movies, professors, food
Vic orders wine and tastes it
you have lobster, the Beef Wellington
the famous desert is baked Alaska
ice cream singed in a flowerpot
from the oven, a live tulip inserted there

Chair to crutches, crutches to cab
chair in the cab and back to Cambridge
memory shooting its handheld frames
Shall I drop you, he says, or shall
we go back to the room for  drink?
It's the usual question
a man has to ask it
a woman has to answer
you don't even think

What a girl I was then what a body
ready for breaking open like a lobster
what a little provincial village
what a hermit crab seeking nobler shells
what a beach of rattling stones what an offshore raincloud
what a gone-and-come tide pool

what a look into eternity I took and did not return it
what a book I made myself
what  quicksilver study
bright little bloodstain
liquid pouches escaping

What a girl pelican-skimming over fear what  mica lump splitting
into tiny sharp-edged mirrors through which
the sun's eclipse could seem normal
what a sac of eggs what a drifting flask
eager to sink          to be found
to disembody         what a mass of swimmy legs

Vic into what shoulder could I have pushed your face
loving hands first on your head
onto whose thighs pulled down your head
which fear of mine would have wound itself
around which of yours       could we have taken it       nakedness
without sperm      in what insurrectionary
convulsion would we have done it      mouth to mouth
mouth-tongue to vulva-tongue to anus       earlobe to nipple
what seven skins each have to molt what seven shifts
what tears boil up through sweat to bathe
what humiliatoriums       what layers of imposture

What heroic tremor
released into moisture
might have soaked our shape       two-headed     avid
into your heretic

Finally, poems from November and December, 2008.

In November we drove through about 15 states with the eventual goal of driving the Blue Ridge Parkway. This is from a stop along the way in Virginia.

the view from Jefferson's veranda at Poplar Forest

large poplar
yellow leaves
still holding on
despite the lateness
of the season;
a gently slope of close-cut
a creek running fast;
another pasture, tobacco fields,
in Jefferson's time a crop he despised
but planted anyway
because he need the cash;
a forest of poplar trees broken 
by a winding crushed-shell drive

round the side of the mansion,
and in the back, slave quarters,
not for the cultivated eyes
of the gentlemen and ladies
of the Commonwealth of Virginia

And, to end this 10 year reunion with old poems, this piece from December.

on reading "Cow" by Federico Garcia Lorca

I am reminded
how I sometimes worry about the meat I eat,
not because I'm a vegetarian
or because I think it is necessarily
immoral to eat other creatures,
bu because of the way the creatures
come to become an entree on my plate

if you've ever been to a slaughter house,
you know what
I mean...

no respect
for the life being taken
in the end
no respect
for the life being eaten

if I continue to eat meat,
I will almost certainly continue to do,
I will endeavor to remind myself
of the creature whose living essence

no more hamburgers for me -

from now on
when I go to McDonald's
it will be ground cow on a bun to go

no more BLT (which I love)

lettuce and tomato
on toast
with mayo
and crispy slices of

never got enough respect
for us to disrespect them,
so we eat our chicken breast
without thinking much about it

I haven't decided yet
how to deal with that

maybe this,

breast of feather fowl
or maybe
of feathered fowl
with secret spices
and fried

...need to think
a bit more
about chickens
I think

My comment button no longer works, so if you would like to comment on this post, email me at I appreciate hearing from readers.

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  Just click the "Comment" tab below.


New Days & New Ways

Places and Spaces 

Always to the Light

Goes Around Comes Around

Pushing Clouds Against the Wind

And, for those print-bent, available at Amazon and select coffeehouses in San Antonio

Seven Beats a Second


Sonyador - The Dreamer


  Peace in Our Time

at 5:59 PM Blogger judysnwnotes said...

Must say, Allen, before I forget -- the IHOP poem is mesmerizing -- there are layers of "story" in that brief poem -- Nice! // Judy

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