Sometimes we take a turn with others in the dance club.
It’s fun and friendly but when it’s over - you know it.
He stepped on my foot
and I winced in pain
he’d stepped on my foot
and then he did it again
That's the danger in dancing
a slow dance - being too snug
his hands on your back
and you're pinned like a bug
I should wear combat boots
when cutting a rug
with guys I'm not sure of
I’d finally had enough
The last guy ended our dance
by adding a hug - I don’t know,
a bit extra, but I went with the flow
Why am I sweating in strange men’s arms?
Then again, what exactly is the harm?
The social oddity of public touching,
of course, is that if we weren’t dancing,
would I even stand close to them?
p.s.
If you’re looking for a Summer, French-café coded, it-girl drink to put out your fire of thirst, try a ‘Diabolo menthe,” it’s made of lemon soda plus mint syrup and obviously non-alcoholic. Pair it with a vanilla Madeleine, a petite, shell shaped pastry with a lot of charm. YUM
.
.
A song for this:
I'll Call You Mine by girl in red
August by No Vacation
Dogs
rug hogs,
no respect
as they make nests.
Old,
still bold~
stealing treats
and craving sweets.
Ruff
ruff ruff,
understand
as they demand
fidelity
from you/me,
they stay
fae.
Magical friends
make amends,
canine
fine!
We live amongst ourselves in recognition
memorialized for our distinct deeds rendered
It is here that we witness ourselves flourish
as our aged reflections are kept pristine
Rehearsing our roles to absolute perfection
awaiting for this progressive saga to be told
As we are the revered immortals here...
never to be forgiven
there was a green bug
not beetle or slug
found him on my rug
he looked like a thug
he crawled next to my jug
I heard a small ugh
a large hole he dug
proving he is a thug
not a slug but a bug
he looked happy and snug
I became my own thug
squashed him on the rug
Mama pulled out the old pine loom she said her grandfather crafted, next she opened the lid to the hinge-creaking time-worn garment trunk filled with vintage gingham dresses of cotton & wool clinging to colorful memories that shaped us today. "Grandma worked hard as a young mother in these dresses she made" Mama said, "now we're going to make kitchen rugs on the same pine-loom my grandfather built to honor their memory " pieces of each dress will stich the passage of time, but we'll hang them on the wall for future generations to admire and remind. Some pieces bore stains from a life well-lived, vegetable dyes, colorful store-bought yarns of wool and cotton all created with toil of her nimble fingers, "if they could talk, the stories they'd tell!" mama said. Generations have passed indeed, a few rugs remain, some were given as gifts to family members through the years , I'm a grandma now, with memories to share.
September
2025
Too large to avoid everyone knows it's here
not wishing to collide they won't stand too near
nor broach the subject they keep it under wraps
Mum's the word keep it under your hat
they all walk 'round it talk around it
they're not blind so what gives
it's unkind to animals and who wants to live
with an elephant in the room
too large to evade it's something they ignore
not wanting to impede but can't close the door
a line they won't cross they'll avoid it at all costs
just sit there and stare
even sweep it under the rug with a broom
but with lumps and bumps that big
how long can they keep on pretending it's not there
the elephant in the room
Being depressed is like a rug.
Has fibers and some small fibers tear away.
And no one notices.
Everything is frayed, and funny.
So I laughed at the blinds opening and closing.
I’m never ready for bed in time.
So I just get depressed by the lamp light.
Being depressed as a rug.
Being vacuumed and swallowing the filth.
Slithering around the room.
Tearing away from the shadows.
Into more shadows.
Being depressed is like a 100 year old rug.
That got taken out of storage.
And thrown away.
(Turkish DOBAG rug)
Degrees of Soul
Awhile ago I got a Turkish rug that opened my eyes
To what real joy looks like
Transferred to one’s work.
In this rug I could see the soul of a weaver
Proud to be part of a tradition
She added to with each delicate knot.
And with my eyes so opened
I could clearly see by extension
The degree of soul of each work of art in my home.
And the range was startling
From nonexistent to brilliant glimpses
Into the creative Mind of the universe.
After a few days my vision grew foggy again
And the soul of all these pieces
Became once more hidden beneath the surface.
The window onto the essence of the Mind
Had closed taking with it the lucid vision
And sense of connection.
I was left apart but never separate
From the knowledge that soul truly exists
It’s mark on everything we do.
The degrees of soul are everywhere like this
Subtle and informing
Flavoring what it is we call quality of Life.
And so we live and breathe
Taking and giving an essence beyond words
Even when unconscious clearly manifest.
(11/14/24)
Under the rug it goes
So nobody else will know
Under the rug it goes
Safe, beneath trodding toes
Under the rug is safe
For an unspoken mistake
Under the rug there’s pain
And spitted, rotten, distain
Under the rug where secrets travel
The fibers insure, nothing unravels
relaxed and purfect
curled in ball dreaming of a
magic carpet ride
On the Rug with Death,
two beers in hand
(though no one here drinks)
we laugh, his lifespan
a joke still fizzed. My breath
ignites wars, lulls drivers
to sleep and builds bridges
for his guests. What idle past-
-times you worship, he pitches,
eye wand’ring to traverse
the awkward silence as I
know what comes next. My
gauge on Man’s power dwindles.
Perhaps, he drawls, you might taste
something ever so slightly
more enlight’ning. His heavy
accent traces over the words, like
sugar on a sticky thumb post-binge.
Tongue in cheek, his fingers surpass
my laugh in wishing to be broken.
Taking on an odd challenge - committed
Ideal forms, fired in keenest kiln
Trespass pages torn out, inmate omitted
Anguish arms, firm steely shield
Tigers eye eclipse rolls out a rosy moon
Rising icy on closed encyclopaedia
Thick black book unlocks fabled fortune
Weighty trust instilled immediately
Figure of founding, supportive substance
Dad proud serves duty’s obligation
Blind mice sheltered held to his sentence
Prickly wife handed down probation
Gifted a ginger ring fingers, grand future
Lady Luck spun an oily halo roulette
Leather bound night bite slim smile Luna
New moon on red her high fate met
17th December
Sentence ended
Cut loose, cast adrift
from all I set out to accomplish.
Thrown to the other shore
by a stream I was sure would carry me to the sea.
Stranded at the source
words replaced thought, images replaced word
to leave me speechless
mind agape
transfixed to glossy page after page
of color and pattern, wholeness and detail,
art and craft manifest
in perfect balance on warp and weft.
A beautiful obsession, from ideal to actual,
a literal magic carpet ride
to a figurative land before time
a land of light, and space,
barren hills
and broken hearts,
sheep and wool, plant and dye,
ceaseless wanderings and flights in the night.
A land of my dreams and conception
(there on the carpet as my parents lay)
a carpet beckoning and enticing
to stay and rest awhile, caress and stare
without inhibition
at the sheer beauty
only a fellow nomad could conceive
for the solace of another world weary soul.
(2/20/22, first published in my sixth book of poems, OUT OF TIME OUT OF MIND, 2022)
Vladimir was looking for a car pet
He saw an Afghan he just had to get
How clear could Vladimir be
But the salesman didn't see
The hound's picture tucked in Vlad P.'s wallet
You and I we sound so great
We play our songs, we stay up late
You and I we look so good
Dressed up in the finest wood
You and I we're quite a team
Four hands, one song, well, that's my dream
You and I in harmony
Strings in tune just perfectly
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