I pause at last~
a rare celestial event,
like a comet or a clean inbox.
My files stare back,
feral little gremlins
named things like finalFINAL2
and use_this_one_maybe.
I take a breath.
The universe holds still.
Even my husband is impressed.
Then~
a miracle:
I drag one folder
into another folder
and nothing explodes.
Suddenly I’m unstoppable.
A digital filing phoenix.
A desktop deity.
A sorter of chaos.
And all it took
was pausing long enough
to remember
I’m actually in charge
of this digital zoo.
You used my body
For desires that
Should never be expressed
You sealed up secrets
In a place you created
Because your soul needed caressed
You used my filing cabinet
To store documents
Full of theft and deceit
You bought items
That needed hiding
And gave me the receipt
I did my duty for years
As my bottom grew
With the weight in my pockets
I brought every case
To the One True judge
But never appeared on his docket
If Justice is to be served
Someone must take a step
To sort out responsibility
Today, I release, all that's not me
With dignity and decorum
So that we live in the civility
...of LOVE
Written by Trudy Schrader on 09-10-2026
Today’s September 2d,
but Sam the squirrel is not impressed~
no brisk air, no acorns dropping,
just heat he can’t digest.
He squints up at the cloudless, furnace sky,
tail drooping in sweaty defeat:
“Where’s pumpkin spice and sweater weather?
Why is Texas still a heat-wave cheat?”
Beside him stands an armadillo,
cool as a desert stone.
He shrugs beneath his armored shell:
“Buddy, this is Texas. We own the heat zone.”
The squirrel fans his face with a wilted leaf,
dramatic as dramatic can be:
“I’m filing a fall-weather complaint!”
The armadillo sighs, “File one for me.”
CHERRY PIE
I’m sitting here in my cool room
On a quiet rainy day
Spending my time reading
Thinking about Cherry pie
I’m feeling sleepy
Haven’t had much to eat
Cat is fast asleep in my recliner
I’m walking in my neighborhood
I’m letting my thoughts drift
I’m walking too far
I want to go back
I’m feeling lonely
Yesterday the sky was pale and grey
All I can see is a red cherry tree
I’m thinking about warm pie
Pie in the morning evening and night
But all I see a lonely pie tree
Cherry Pie so pretty the filling so hot and delicious
The fruit right off a tree
Cherry Pie fly here to me
And land in my kitchen
Be golden brown and hot
I could eat the whole thing
But the fruit of the filing
Is just so hard to find-I love Cherry Pie!
Plodding through desert land
Thirsting for a sip of water
I came across a wishing bottle
Inviting me to see my daughter
I lost her long ago, in many ways
With each person who bid me adieu
Never thinking her presence a nuisance
But watching the flick of the finger shaped like a shoo
...shut down
She is me, I am her, again and again
My mother sits as her, wanting sincere care
Grandma has arisen from her grave
And she's brought her own chair
Wait! She's wielding a whip of control
Her face is angry, eyes still and dead
She has filing cabinets against the wall
Keeping account of every word that's ever been said
...stone cold
No one ever wanted anyone that came
Did they all just endure and treat
Wound after wound healed and scarred
While cracked heels and blistered feet
Walk on..walk on...never relief
The promise of water is nothing but hot sand
And generations of daughters yearn
To be held by a masculine man
...transformed
Written by Trudy Schrader on 07-14-2026
It seems I’ve written myself into a corner~
pages piling up like overexcited puppies,
yapping for a home.
My desk groans under the weight
of poems, memoirs, and drafts~
half-finished brilliance,
and that one story I swear I’ll revise someday.
The solution seems obvious
another filing cabinet~
a shiny metal monument
to my writing compulsion.
But where to put the thing
in this tiny office
already stuffed with creativity
and questionable organizational choices.
Then it hits me
the closet~
that mysterious portal
where abandoned sweaters go to retire.
It’ll fit snugly inside
like it was always meant to be there,
guarding my words
like a loyal metal dragon.
Problem solved… for now
until the next poem arrives
demanding its own drawer
and the closet starts whispering,
“Don’t even think about it.”
death
inevitable, fatal
stopping, ending, vanishing
grave, skeleton, audit, ledger
filing, demanding, calculating
perpetual, certain
taxes
I thought my driving wasn’t that bad~
a wobble here, a creative turn there,
nothing worth filing a complaint over.
But then my GPS cleared its throat,
sounded genuinely concerned,
and announced in a trembling voice:
In 400 feet, do a slight right…
stop…
and let me out!
I swear it buckled its digital seatbelt,
recalculated its life choices,
and whispered something about hazard pay.
Now every time I start the car,
it sighs like a weary parent
and asks if I’ve considered walking instead.
You see people as numbers
And dots on a line
Tracking each blunder
And if they were on time
Millions of ants
With money not souls
You refuse that they can’t
It’s no use if they’re old
Emotions get in the way
Unless they can earn
By the end of the day
Filing up urns
Fact isn’t law
And law isn’t right
Even if you plainly saw
I’d have hoped that you might
Statistically and categories
Wishful thinking and lost stories
All for order
Human no more
The stage is set, my phone is off;
The play has yet to start.
The audience is filing in,
Preparing to depart
From reality for just a while,
An hour and a half
And hopefully, they’ll be rewarded
With a smile or laugh
Or possibly with sadness
Or nostalgia or with rage.
No matter which – it’s all contained
In lines upon the stage.
Forgotten are the problems
That they’ve briefly left behind,
Yet when the show is over,
Back at home that’s what they’ll find.
Yet in this brief reprieve they get to
Focus on the show
And the struggles of the actors,
Far from those that they might know.
I don’t want my limbs chopped off.
That’s what mental illness is.
Not in my mind,
There’s an apple tree.
Around there.
The filing cabinet is there but stretched thin.
I don’t want my limbs chopped off.
So I’ll sing a song about it.
Loud alarms ringing.
It makes me happy so.
Still fraying.
Afraid of alarms, but running toward them.
Everything could be red but it’s not that way.
Everything could be: so it is.
I don’t want my limbs chopped off.
I’m not an octopus.
Nothing grows back anymore.
Except for mental illness.
Yes.
In a dissociative state.
They would rain back down.
Like a cannonball!
Spiralling toward the sky and me.
In the end I don’t want my limbs chopped off.
Or so they say.
Santa’s village was on the edge of reconstruction and renovation.
the elves were excited, they held a parade and massive celebration.
Electronics, cell phones and I-pads are sought by children of today.
The workshop was full of antiquated equipment to toss away.
No one wanted wooden blocks or dolls that talk or wiggle.
They still had a filing cabinet of Barbie dolls that had a giggle.
Super hero items are now the absolute must-have rage.
They needed to delete obsolete toys that never reached a finished stage.
Santa’s reindeers were dancing around all joyful too.
They were on permanent break, for deliveries now came through Lou.
Lou was the head elf, and a big proponent of Amazon Prime.
So the reindeers could lay around and dine, all of the time.
the blinders rest with ease—
seams seemingly gaunting;
haunting whispers crunch like teeth,
seekers left to guess
pestering what comes next
be a kiss that is gentle
or bent with tiles filing
finally laying—rather lying;
dying to look you
hook right between the eye
lend the heaven, tongues that speak.
though weepy,
deep and soundly they hide
behind masks clasping dearly
refraining to reclaim their faces
places they’ve felt love.
people they’ve once known—
sewn behind is their truth
and truthfully their pain is plain
written in bold
holding bruises
whether you choose to see it
or be it amiss.
wishing well feels like rope
we can feel it doping us
hoping that our next breath
is the last one to give less.
but living session after session
their weapons once sharp dulling
full hands weaken with tire
and wiry sighs leave the senses
why?
because we weren’t just prizes
disguised to heel blindly
or crawl without first running—
we are not sick and lowly farm animal
simple, dirty, managed to be manageable.
~ In the back of my mind, in a filing cabinet, I hold my dreams...
sealed until my death ~ quote by poet
Dreams are as golden seeds
a source of reflection
It is incredibly
liberating to escape
from the reality
Fly with your imagination
stimulate human growth
in a safe atmosphere
A fragrance of a dream
even in a waking state
I plant dream seeds for joy
as far as possible
The ability to daydream
My previous life story
with different approaches
deep or superficial
with roots in life situation
The future of the past
with airy butterfly wings
I'm protecting my dreams
they can disappear in a flash
My dream is still alive
deeply rooted in the heart
Locked in my diary
you will never find the key
To Be Sung to the Tune of Man on the Silver Mountain in the style of Ronnie James Dio with Rainbow
I compute, I compute
I'm a meticulous brute
you can't stop me from filing
Cause I'm no fun, I'm no fun
But I get your tax done
The new tax code I'm learning
I wear bland attire
and lift your refund higher
Someone's screaming my name
Come and save me money again
I'm the killer accountant
I'm the killer accountant
In the day in the day
I can show you the way
And look, I'm right beside you
In the night, in the night
you will not be uptight
Uncle Sam can't see inside you
Write off your dryer
Lift my pencil higher
Someone's screaming my name
Come and save me money again,
I'm the killer accountant
I'm the killer accountant, hey, hey
Well, I can help you, you know I can
I'm the killer accountant
I'm the killer accountant
Just look at me and listen
I'm the man, the man, give you my hand
I'm the killer accountant
Write off your dryer, lift my pencil higher
I'm the killer accountant, I’m the killer accountant
Have no fear, no fright, there’s no audit - that’s right
I’m the killer accountant
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