Wading in a Rocky Scream of Consciousness

On the occasion of going to dine

at Crys’s mom’s……refined



the wine

on time

Saw a Neanderthal in a pinafore…

Twice a year my nose gets outta joint

Th Roly Poly Poet…I get no further than that, you see, after so grand a title…

Dead Ends

You poets out there know I’m sure

how sneaky words can pose a lure

in order to make you think you’re on the brink…

But some poems are dead ends–never see

the light of joyful welcome.  Sigh,  we know it’s we who have failed them.

Other poems just don’t have it, only

lie on the dock smelling fishy,,.

They do it about once a year now–

my words. They want to play with me.

They jump in the dirt and roll…and

expect me to crawl in the mud after them–(which I do)

If I say thunder rattled the window pane

where does your mind go next?

I wrote a depressed poem called Down in the Mouth

and it was so bad I wrote “Lighten Up,”

both blessedly missing from this diatribe.


For shame, Alphonse, was my response

when he suggested a rendezvous–

just we two. I got mad, then sad

for though he was my sisater’s beau

I always thought him cute, you know?




About Nan Mykel

At 79, I was just about to stop keeping a journal, but that felt like accepting that growth was finished. I don't want to be finished, yet! I'm 80 now, and struggling to communicate with you, if you'll come and set awhile. P.S. My how time flies! I'm 83 now.
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