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Pity the Poor Poet….

Who searches and listens

with open heart and a healthy

Muse, awaiting  the bursting

forth of a metaphor reflecting

that in life which is soulful,

gentle, appreciative of both

nature and humanity,

loving appreciations for

justice, honesty and the milk

of human kindness, but

which arrives  full blown as

a plateful of poop, accompanied

by the words “I am your mouth!.”



Posted in A mixed bag | 2 Comments

“Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night” Re-blog

Gives grief life!

Lucky Otters Haven

Dylan Thomas (1914 – 1953) wrote one of the most powerful and moving poems of all time, and this one has always been my favorite.

It’s been said to be about old age, but in these dark times, it has another meaning to me.

I never considered myself a patriot before, but now that my country seems to be broken beyond repair, I’m realizing I do in fact have a deep patriotic streak and am willing to fight for its survival.  This poem brings out that part of me and has the power to move me to tears.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they

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You Are Not Your Scars (Re-blog)

Taking this to heart:

Child of Cynicism

“Youhavescarsonyourarm.” People sometimes approach me, whilst staring at my limb. My first and foremost reaction is to look down at my arm in fake surprise and panic, pretending I hadn’t previously realised the marks. Thank you Captain Obvious for your insightful input.

Sarcasm aside, I am more than happy to explain the cause of the raised streaks: when I can tell that a person is genuinely intrigued-and not intending to belittle me. I am comfortable with admitting that I did this to myself at low points in my life. That’s what happened. Why should I be ashamed of that?

I do not blame those who stare, or those who sneak a peek when they don’t realise that I can still see them out of the corner of my eye. It’s different. It’s human nature to feel that desire to take a second glance at the…

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This is Why Women May Not Thank You For Catcalling (Reblog)

She says it like it is:

Child of Cynicism

It’s just a casual stroll down the street. That’s all it is.

Nothing more, nothing less.

A simple quest to buy milk, or to collect bed linen from the Laundrette’s, with no underlying intentions whatsoever. Walking along the roadside, you lean down to tie up your shoelaces, to adjust the buckle on your knee-high boots.
“Hey, Blondie. Nice tits.” The young men outside the bakery yell after you. “I would.” They turn to their mates and snigger.
They turn to their mates and tell them they want to fuck you.

You would think-or at least, hope-that in this day and age, after years of campaigning and crying outside of parliament, that we wouldn’t be having this conversation. But in a world that has appointed a self-confessed pussy-grabbing maniac as it’s head of state, I can-categorically- announce that we are: and that, as much as it breaks my soul to admit…

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When I Run into My Father for d’Verse by an incest survivor

When I run into my

father in heaven,

What would I do?

What should I do?

I hope he’s in heaven.

I hope I am too.


Posted in Incest | Tagged | 25 Comments

The End for d’Verse

The purple skein of yarn is no more.

It has run away–

Hi ho, away I say! Away.

Sweater half begun. No one

left to don it.  No one, I say!

The sink is empty, the tree

uprooted.  My life? It’s

been one long improv. An

improv, I say!  One two three

five–no, four, dammit!  I

never did get it right, a life

of improvisation….


Posted in A mixed bag, Death | Tagged | 10 Comments