I’ve been a man and I’ve been a woman,
and nothing in between;
I’ve liked men, loved women
and hated everyone around me;
I’ve been a model student and a failure;
A daughter and a painful,
painful reminder of youth slipping away.
I’ve been big, defensive and dangerous,
I’ve been small, submissive and scared;
I held you in my hands and I watched as you fell.
I was thin when you met me, even though I didn’t realise;
I always saw myself as a storm cloud, rumbling and dark,
ready to shoot arrows, not aiming to hurt anyone,
and engulfing the trees with my wrath.
I’ve been yours, and theirs, and his and hers;
I’ve been the rock at the shore waiting for the waves to break;
I’ve been everywhere, and nowhere, and where?
Where can I find a place where I can finally be myself?
You are so very far away
Like a lone star
In the endless desert of the cosmos
You burn in living fire
Pouring out a radiance
Brighter than the sun itself
Yet you are distant ...so distant
No human eye beholds you
No poet sings of your beauty
No weary soul is warmed by your light
Perhaps one day
You will burst like the stars
Shatter into flame
And bloom like a flower in the void
A black dog
Whining and whimpering
Sitting at the end of the bed
An omen
personification of misfortune
Forever the dark cloud
looming over
everything I’ve loved
Forever the killjoy
Sometimes I wish I lived
In a world of shared deeper
Contextual continuity
Of mythology, cosmology and meaning.
But I know I’d be an outsider even then
Destined to push against the tide
Question authority and bend
The rules of reality
Asking why and how and when
Making waves
Not just to mess with a good thing
But to stir it up
The way a wind blows a storm in
And through
To cleanse the air and renew the land.
People like this need their space
For the sake of themselves and others
And fortunately for everyone
This world, this life
Is built on a foundation of space.
(1/19/26)
A misfit in Liverpool
I think of oranges, and saw a painting by Constable of a morning sun
that looked like blood orange dripping nectar down on some
Fishermen are trying to catch eels on the dark surface in the bay.
There were sail ships too, ready to hoist sail in the morning wind.
When I lived in England, I met several police constables, most
of them, nice blokes, alas, during the miners´ strike, they became
radicalized, they had a good talking to by those higher up, and
were also promised plenty of overtime.
John, the constable, - fifteen years on the beat and no promotion-
A friend of mine refused to partake in hitting miners over the head,
He continued his lonely beat, but at the station, he was ostracised,
a lonely figure in need of a friend- He often came into my cafe after
hours and we drank vodka with orange juice, lamenting the time we
lived in. John retired early, and I sold my cafe.
A misfit in Liverpool
I think of oranges when I see a painting by Constable of a morning sun
that looked like blood orange dripping nectar down on some
fishermen trying to catch eels on the dark surface of the bay.
There were sail-ships too ready to hoist sail in the morning wind.
When I lived in England, I met several police constables, most
of them, nice blokes, but during the miners´ strike, they became
radicalized, they had a good talking to by those higher up and
were also promised plenty of overtime.
John, a police constable fifteen years on the beat and no promotion-
a friend of mine refused to partake in hitting miners over the head,
he continued his lonely beat, but at the station, he was ostracised,
a lonely figure in need of a friend- He often came into my cafe after
hours, we drank vodka with orange juice, lamenting the time we lived in. John took early retirement, and I sold my cafe.
Alone and Separated
Far from a Child’s touch
Divided in much
A bus with square wheels and not round
A Passenger train with no steam engine pull
A flying Eel
A rewrite Reel
All the above are Misfit toys
Needing the joy from every Girl and Boy
They are stuck on an island in the middle of nowhere
It’s up to Santa to bring the care
The Misfit Toys have nowhere to go
A change needs to be a flow
Misfit Toys cry out to the world they deserve a home
A place where a Child and Misfits can roam
Misfit toys must be seen from a different angle
It’s up to the child
Being enjoyment while
Misfit Toys for Christmas and any season
Imagine, a Misfit Toy hand held by a loving child
That is the true meaning of giving.
Marvelous ancient music box,
prim guitarist on pointe shoes rocks;
A misfit figurine
not concerned how she’s seen;
Her erratic tempo is not Bach’s.
Candle wax drips calcified tears,
riptides of dreams burst boundaries;
Drops become circles never squares;
Out of the box locked in a freeze
with rough edges it aims to please;
There’s no hiding their benefit,
claws can rip apart arteries;
That’s the magick of a misfit.
I am a misfit -I stay in misfit
I am different from everyone else
It's a question of what you can do.
Well, I can work.
That's what I can do.
Yet, I can't be with people or be friendly.
I just don't have it within me.
That's why I'm outside.
For this, I remain on my hill, on my descent.
It's a crescent just for you and me.
Just think, it's a fact, and that's just the way it is.
Can we agree now that this 'it' has always been?
This way been it, and this way will be it.
The way in the future.
In the way of our kids.
Yes, I can work.
That's what I can do.
Everybody else knows how to play ball.
I've never learned how to play ball.
So the ball don't play me too.
Marvelous magic’s meant to be;
Melani, not melancholy;
Dark is not the madness in me;
Measured? maybe; Measured? maybe;
Mastered the macabre that’s within,
muted miles of emotion;
A myriad of feminine,
misfit maiden, misfit maiden.
Social Misfit Mr. Mollander McGumphry McGee
Took his hen for a walk down street seventy-three
Dancing beside him was a weird lunatic-like chickadee
I am glad we do not look that ridiculous said MM McGee
The hen kept her mouth shut, for she was brighter than he
Ridiculous is not the half of it she later told her sister Bree
No one else rides a hen down street seventy-three
We looked like two complete idiots, McGee and me.
Thunder god
Oh, thunder god might be the harbinger of an eddy,
He is a potent striker and a deity,
Yet his mind bores him with the power which is at the ready,
You may think he has a lot of power,
Though his dejection is that by a sneeze he may raze a tower,
He just wants to watch and smell a flower,
He is considered a monster and blight,
Sailors are scared of his thunder’s sight,
Little do they know he wants a buddy who can hold him tight,
He may be very potent and active,
I am afraid we are wrong as we see a different perspective,
He cries and causes storms because our views are radioactive,
He is humane and full of clemency,
Oh, brothers but his surly nature is the only thing we can see!
A world of complete turmoil knows no misfit to be a hero.
February 23, 2023
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