There's a shindig in town where the upper class flocks
This societal stuff Joe constantly mocks
bow tie and black shiny shoes
entry for Joe they politely refuse
If you want to come in wear more than a pair of brief jocks
In the hierarchy of All Things
If everything is everything
And love is love
Then food is food
Which is good news
To the fine young cannibals
Who live down the block
I can smell their barbecue
Grilling sweet meats all afternoon
What is it I ask,
Long pig they reply
Clearly it is not my job to judge
But I will politely decline
Their smiling potluck invites
(8/28/26)
Mitch the mallard stood tall on his stilts,
wobbling proudly between the reeds~
he’d heard that height was fashion
in the flock of long-legged breeds.
He’d fastened a pink cape behind him
to match the flamingo crowd,
hoping they’d nod approvingly
and whisper, “He fits in—how proud!”
But the flamingos blinked politely,
their heads tilted in gentle doubt.
They liked him fine as a mallard~
no cape or stilts required to stand out.
So he let the cape fall gently,
and the stilts drift from his side;
and instantly the flamingos swooped
to snatch them in a rosy row.
They strutted off in grand parade,
one flamingo floundered pink and proud
his cape billowing like a sail~
“Behold! I’m the tallest, I do declare!”
Gleam in the mirror acts like it’s running some bright scheme,
stream of thoughts tell me I’m not as mysterious as I seem;
Twirl the frame and watch my reflection start to whirl,
furl a knowing grin, amused I’m trying to look like a serious girl.
Glows from the glass suggests it’s wiser than I know,
shows me practicing pep-talks I perfected ages ago;
Slide into view and see my mirror-self politely hide,
wide grows a teasing grin, “Nice effort,” with pride.
I warned you over and over not to do it
your blatant disregard for someone else
it was never in my nature to lose my cool
you knew exactly what you were doing
wasting the clock pretending to help out
tried as I might you ignored my request
instantly you pushed me over the edge
only able to see the most violent of red
any ounce or rational thought obliterated
I warned you politely and loudly pleaded
all I wanted was to be able to do my job
loud, proud, and filled with arrogance
maybe table all of the passive-aggressive
I will always get up and defend myself
Notoriety led to my Netflix documentary
A ghostly presence has now returned.
An absence too cruel now spurned.
Questions and answers too hard to say.
Leaves an emptiness in a lonely day.
Investments in what returns left blank.
And not quite sure just who to thank.
For God works in mysterious ways.
But I'm not sure just how it pays.
With no choice left but to move on.
I slept with these thoughts right till dawn.
A haunting presence of nothing there.
I'm just left with an empty sad dispair.
Not knowing if or what if any.
That's the shame sadly of many.
Who sit and wonder on their own.
Why someone won't answer their phone.
I try my best to respond politely.
But angst rears up a bit, just slightly.
For I am left to sort things out.
Not knowing just what it's about.
I always seem to fantasize about the same thing.
Every night when my head hits the pillow.
I'm older, more confident. Taller even.
I bump into you in town, just mooching around. Probably window shopping cause I can never make rent on time.
We bump shoulders. I turn and apologize politely and you recognize me. You'll have to remind me your name because you remember I'm bad with faces but I need no reminder.
Those eyes, the direct mirror to my own soul.
You'll say, "oh my God, how have you been?" And I'll smile and say, "I've been doing good. It's good to see you" and we exchange new numbers.
A week goes by and you reach out wanting to catch up over coffee.
I'll go.
Pretending I'm not searching your hands for a ring.
You catch me doing so but you don't mention it.
We hug goodbye.
I'd like to sit and think that it would progress.
Two kids in a farm house. The whole picket white fence. The real American dream. But even my dreams are realistic these days.
They know it'll fizzle out, the same way it did before.
peppermint Pauline persuaded perky puppies to prance their
prissy paws politely in Pennsylvania’s puppy parish. Perhaps Pauline
proved puppies are not as persnickety when they are prancing?
I regret of travelling years
Shouldn’t have been to many places
Memories do disappear
Faces mix with other faces
Shouldn’t have been humiliated
When they asked how long I’d stay
Should have turned my back and waited
For a flight home the same day
You don’t dare to question me
Should have said, but chickened out
Offered my excuses politely
Was allowed to join the crowd
Once I stood beside the study
Of the Constable’s Leaping Horse
Thought I’d rather be that muddy
Piece of clay on painted earth
Than to bear this old torment
Of the human pedigree
But if you could say that moment
Wasn’t my best, I would agree.
A possum of high degree
invited me
for snails and tea.
I would, of course, politely decline
to find another place to dine.
I like my snails with wine.
I carry a secret of mythical proportion,
a tall tale stitched into every pair I own.
Tailors sigh, measuring tapes surrender,
and zippers negotiate terms before dawn.
It arrives before I do,
like a parade float rounding the corner,
casting a shadow that deserves
its own weather forecast.
Park benches scoot over politely.
Doorways raise an eyebrow.
Statues whisper, "Well, that's excessive,"
and mountains feel strangely competitive.
I never mention it directly.
Why spoil a perfectly good mystery?
Let imaginations do the heavy lifting,
for they rarely travel light.
So I walk on, humble as I can be,
guardian of this improbable monument,
a living reminder that sometimes
nature enjoys showing off.
She eases into the stillness,
lamplight gathering softly at her arms,
a gentle warmth settling over her
like a shawl laid down by evening itself.
Her shoulders ease, unburdened,
as the glow coaxes the hours
to loosen their hold at last.
The needle glints softly~
a slim sliver of silver light,
moon-fine and obedient,
resting between her steady fingers.
The room is still.
Wallpaper fades into amber,
shadows gather politely
along the baseboards,
and the chair beneath her
creaks in a language
only she and time understand.
The world outside is dark, almost bleak,
but here~
here the lamplight makes a sanctuary
of small things:
the curve of her wrist,
the soft fall of fabric,
the quiet devotion
of mending that which can be mended.
I can almost smell the warmness
of linen, dust, and a hint of lavender~
the scent of evenings
when nothing urgent calls,
and the simple act of sewing
becomes a way of keeping
the world stitched together.
and Mother needed the comfort
of being held
in its gentle, golden reach.
There she was, a youthful beauty,
scantily dressed for show,
drawing much attention,
for reasons she would know.
I acknowledge her politely
as we pass by in the aisle,
I nod my head in recognition
followed by a smile.
I know that she does see me
close proximity as we pass,
she shoots a glance, seems thru me,
as if I'm made of glass.
My younger days, a long time past
of that, I sure do know,
back in the day I would engage
starting with hello.
Realistically, with present sight
where age becomes the barrier,
we'll pass each other, only,
as ships do in the night.
They say a dog is man's best friend,
so to my dog, friendship, I would extend,
but relations with Chester soon would fray
when I told him politely to "Stay!"
When I asked him to shake hands,
he said, "Please don't make demands".
Then, he got angry and scowled.
"Don't anthropomorphize me", he howled.
When karma comes around —and it will—
it will not knock politely
with white gloves and a hymn.
It will crawl up
through the floorboards
like black water in March,
cold as a widow’s wedding ring.
The life you lived
will loosen its tongue at last.
The walls will remember you.
The mirrors too—
those silver traitors
holding your true face
beneath the practiced one.
Every kindness you strangled
with your careful hands,
every soft thing
you fed to the fire—
they will rise.
Not angels.
Not demons.
Only the terrible arithmetic
of being known.
And the people you wounded
will not need revenge anymore.
Your own footsteps
will testify against you,
muddy and endless
through every room.
When karma comes—and it will—
it comes wearing your voice,
your eyes,
your fingerprints.
You cannot hide from a thing
that grew inside you
all along.
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