One Night in Paradise #MeToo

I have always thought
it could have been worse
and I was lucky
that night at my cozy cabin
when a drunk neighbor
married father of three
twice my size
let’s call him Bob
came through my gate
inside the stockade fence
onto my porch
slurring c’mon let me come in
gripping my arms pressing me
with his whole big body
against the side of the house
his mouth on my face
and neck
rocky stream only feet away
and far below
but somehow I objected
enough times and loudly enough
that he stopped
took off
and yes yes oh yes
that could have been a lot worse
but my little cabin
was less cozy after that
Spring Creek less comforting
realizing even then
this was not my first
impotent rage
nor would it be the last
and upon reflection
I am feeling a bit less lucky

Linking up with Paul’s prompt in the Imaginary Garden: AWHAPE ME!


Listen Up People

everything’s simple:
When people
tell you where
they stand, believe them.
No bonus points for time spent
deep in denial.

Shardoma Weekend in the Imaginary Garden! Uh oh.


On Main Street Near the Crosswalk

I will confess
to being jealous
of the street poet
with his antique typewriter
and handwritten sign
(though I did wonder
why it wasn’t typed)
but then I heard him say
"there are
teapots out there
you can make"
so I kept walking
thinking that the lesson is
so much depends
on context

Sharing on the Tuesday Platform in the Imaginary Garden


Dubious Haul

A locked box
at the end of a red thread
containing all the sighs
of middle age
complaints like barnacles
dreams dragging behind
splintering on the rocks
all of yesterday’s ideas
mostly regret

For Kerry’s photo prompt in the Imaginary Garden


Observations 10-1-17

It’s harder now to see
beautiful things
like exhortations to sky
in a rock song or the way the cat
licks between her toes while bathing.
These days, I might listen
to the whole record not hearing
a single word, feed kitty
when she meows but keep going.
I barely noticed various shades
of scorched grass blanketed
with wet leaves, and it must have been
before that when my foxglove browned.
I am quite aware of the cold space
on my thigh where your hand
should rest, the bitterness of each
sip of discount coffee, my tailbone.
I know that isn’t much.

Linking this up in solidarity and very, very late to Karin’s prompt in the Imaginary Garden: Thinking of the Little Things