tumbled and cocooned

in flannel sheets

sweat pouring

thoughts racing

rerunning scenes obsessively


sliding back and forth in my brain

like sand in a shoe box

they won’t let me sleep

no illness

no nagging conscience


every day bits

“to-do” lists

Monday morning


weekends too short

money too tight

nights too long

and empty

without you

I turn on the light

pouring nonsense on these pages

in hopes of silencing the demons

of an ordinary life

knowing sleep


slipping away off the bed

through the door

a soft furry cat

disappearing in the night




Falling Apart (on a prompt)

Like a puzzle box


pieces of my life scatter the table

straight edge outlines

delineate my pathway

greenery bits, chimneys and brick

lie scattered among children’s hands

a hazel eye there from a face

I love so dearly

plaids and froth of ocean waves

mix with the deep green of forested mountains

rocky bits amongst skyscrapers and asphalt

the pieces doubled sided to view the

second 50 years of my life

appearing on the magic tablet as the years tick by

I have thought about putting it together

piling up the matching pieces on paper

a mural for my children to open and play with

perhaps marvel at on a Christmas night

by doubt stays my hand

the pieces return

scattered in the box

as middle of the night second thoughts

make me stare blankly numb

at my life which has fallen apart





Looking into the bathtub, I saw something blob-ish, back and hairy.  It lay there like a slug after the rain, shiny and repulsive in the light, half in the drain and half out…dripping.

Nothing gags me worse than when the cat has been in the bathtub and clawed up a chuck of slimy hair out of the drain.

Donning the latex gloves, I felt the gag reflex triggering as I leaned over to dispose of the nasty toy.  I flung it down the toilet and flushed before I could think about it too much.  Icky-shivers catch me as I walk out of the door. Ugh!

Positively gross and absolutely filthy.

Bludgeon – The Extern

via Daily Prompt: Bludgeon

Not a momentary hesitation, the needle shot through my skin and skewered the vein before I could move from the woman’s grasp. Jabbing deliberately due to some imaginary insult I had dealt her, she drew blood for a final sample.  She drew blood with a sick, sadistic worm of something twisting in her brain that the other students noticed.  It was almost gleeful, that look in her eyes. Something not quite right.

They stayed away from the pond, gazelle staring at the latest “kill” across the room.  None of them would allow her to draw from them again.  Fresh blood…new student…new victim.

She externed the week after.  The hematoma lasting two weeks, black and purple bruising, fading to decayed yellows and putrid green and eventually nothing.  I wondered if her career would last that long.

Reflections on Writing on a Rainy Day Alone

Writing lines

small type font

fountain pen

pencil fading

into wisps of smoke

and nothing

the blank page stares

a mirror

pond forming under branches

green and dark full of sound


whispers of my heart

quietly curling in

rising incense

a still room

no beats

no music

no one to hear

scratches in a journal

the pen runs dry