Dermis

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Dermis

Not understanding the mechanics of 
a boy's mind, Mother often said,
“Beauty is only 

skin deep,”

A hypothesis far too wide
For me, with eyes,
and whirling imagination  

to leap.

She meant well, of course,
hoping a sweet and sensible
daughter-in-law 

to reap.

Mother placed her faith in character
and upbringing over female 
design and shape

to keep.

But, oh, Mother dear, forgive the
 lovely visions that kept me
tossing and turning in 

my sleep.

. . . j
from the Senses and More Such collection

Intruder

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Intruder

I had just gone downstairs
to put the morning kettle on,

when much to my astonishment,
I discovered the neighbor lady

had let herself in, and demanded
we share a morning dance,

a tale told best by a blushing
wind rattling the falling leaves.

. . . j 

Red-tailed Rescue

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Red-tailed Rescue

It's difficult to be certain from this angle,
but it appears our young lady is reading
from "Red-tailed Rescue," a novel of a  
unique friendship between a young South
Dakota girl, Kate Flannery, and a brave
red-tailed hawk named Orville written by
the obscure American author and pretend
poet, John Irby. 

The Tipping Point

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The Tipping Point

Sooner or later,
Things what they are,

No matter how healthy
you are;
How crisp 
your mind;
How confident
you be,

The tipping point arrives,

A place of apprehension,
Of uncertainty,
Of no going back.

Sooner or later,
Things what they are,

Sight declines to dim,
Sounds muddy to faint,
Balance wobbles to uncertain,

A place of apprehension,
Of uncertainty,
Of no going back.

Sooner or later,
Things what they are,

Memories melt away,
Vocabulary dwindles,
Friendships lose touch,

A place of apprehension,
Of uncertainty,
Of no going back.

Sooner or later,
Things what they are.

Muscles disappear,
Weight dissolves,
Doctoring too frequent,

A place of apprehension,
Of uncertainty,
Of no going back.

Sooner or later,
Things what they are,

No matter how healthy
you are;
How crisp 
your mind;
How confident
you be,

The tipping point arrives.

. . . j
from the Senses and More Such collection

Let The Chips Fall Where They Will

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Let The Chips Fall
Where They Will

Writing poetry
is like taking a
sharp knife and chisel

to a block of 
humble wood,
that represents

your life,
your experiences,
your emotions,
your memories

and

peeling it back
to resemble 

something of beauty
and substance.

Shavings cast aside,
unimportant, forgotten.

Revealment?

Stark truth.

. . . j
from the Senses and More Such collection

Ode To A Sister

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Ode To A Sister

We knew who we were,
All those years ago,

Ragamuffin children,
Growing up as best
We could.

Got along some,
Disagreed some,
Fought some.

We knew who we were,
All those years ago.

Sheltered up together,
Learned in the same schools,
Ate off the same crockery.

We knew who we were,
All those years ago.

How many birthdays
Have now flown by?

Doesn’t matter at all,
Does it?

How far the moon?
The stars?
Or eternity?

Doesn’t matter at all,
Does it?

We knew who we were,
All those years ago,

Ragamuffin children
Finding our way,
As best we could.

Covid has passed us by,
Likewise, the measles,
mumps and chickenpox.

Doesn’t matter at all,
Does it?

We knew who we were,
All those years ago.

. . . j
from the Senses and More Such collection