My Perfect Day

On a perfect day
there would be no clocks
calendars
schedules….

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On a perfect day

there would be no clocks

calendars

schedules.

I would awaken

when I was rested

sleep when I was tired

eat when I was hungry

drink when I was dry.

On a perfect day

I would go wherever

my creative muses led me.

I might wade a creek

touching nature

teaching children

or I might go to

France’s Mirmande

cobblestone streets

sun on my face

ancestral winds at my back.

On a perfect day

I might drive over

to Penn’s Store

where I would meander

amongst fellow misfits

poets, painters, songsters.

No one would care

what I looked like

what clothes I had on

or how I wore my hair.

On a perfect day

no one would be nice

because of what I could give them

or do for them

or how I made them feel

about themselves.

No one would misread me

assigning desire where

only kindness was intended

or assuming anger when

quiet contemplation overtook me.

On a perfect day

I might paint, write

sing or dance

or stare quietly into space

not really knowing where

my mind had been

then suddenly

having an inspiration

an insight

an ah-ha, that’s it!

On a perfect day

I might make a memory

with another or a few

without baggage

ownership

hurt

just joy.

On a perfect day

I would be like a butterfly

landing where flowers bloom

hurting nothing

taking nothing

expecting nothing

–just being.

All I would want

would be warmth and freedom

from jars, nets and insect zoos.

The Turning

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Winter Wind howls bitterly beyond
the glass barrier, separating me
from nature.

She threatens, she taunts,
“Spring will never find
her way here again.”

She lies. I know that.
Soon I will rake my hands through
clear water, scoop up tiny snails

and marvel at their form
before returning them to
tranquility.

Soon, Brother Sun will kiss
my dark head, even if Winter Wind
throws a tornadic fit, she is

always doomed to give way
to the turning, the forever
turning.

Looking for Pork Chop McQuade

Upon the death of her father Cupcake became the caregiver of her mother and sister, both morbidly obese, both perpetually depressed. While her aging uncle, Faucett, tried to give her guidance, she longed for empathy and emotional support. So, she married Bob “Pork Chop” McQuade who turned out to be a conspiracy theorist. Now, her mother is dead, her sister is a recluse, Uncle Faucet has Alzheimers and Bob…well, Bob is missing. In an attempt to find Bob and cling to the last shred of normalacy in her life, Cupcake accepts help from a local sheriff, Daniel Ransom, a man driven by guilt. As they set out to find Bob, Cupcake finds the person who’s really missing in her life, herself.

 

 

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