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

c’mon

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

stomaching

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

Suddenly,

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

bobbing

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