Can I Get A Pass?

 Can I Get A Pass?

 

or a little mercy—

the kind that hushes even the shiver in the leaves.

I’ve been laboring since dawn—

the kind of labor counted in acorns, wind, and worry—

said the squirrel, still a quick brown spark in the branches,

flitting from limb to limb like a thought that would not settle,

and the forest answered him with laughter.

The birds, being birds, turned mockery into song—

a bright unruly weather of chirps and shining eyes,

as though all spring had been a rehearsal

for the sweet small privilege of teasing a squirrel.

Hershel sighed for a holiday.

Sally, meanwhile, wanted one as well—

preferably with cake and a patch of afternoon sun,

which seemed, for squirrel ambition, almost courtly.

You’re nuts,

said one voice, and not with kindness enough to make it praise.

Ask again in five minutes, when hunger comes back wearing its old crown.

We all have a stake in this—

if not in heart, then surely in bark and timber.

Then even the deer and mountain lions lost their solemn manners

and laughed as though some ancient burden had skipped them for a day,

and even the trees leaned softly into the joke,

bending in the breeze with that old wooden laughter

that begins in the leaves and ends in the smallest wheeze.

So there it was—

a brief and shining mercy, dressed up as a punchline.

 

 

 

The Power of Story

 The Power of Story

 

We each have one.

It defines who we are,

shaping our day-to-day

in a profound way.

Our stories travel with us.

They thread their way

through our lives,

follow us down paths,

to the right and left,

guide our steps,

while our dreams lean ahead.

Our stories are fledglings,

small birds learning the air,

on their own

into the great wide world

to be interpreted by people

who will add, subtract

and make them their own. 

 

Stories stitched into patterns

of color, history, and skin

changing faces

leaving traces

of greatness from above.

They will explore the vastness

of space

travel to other worlds

throw stones at what they fear

take what is not theirs to study,

then form conclusions,

acting on limited knowledge,

from fragments they mistake for truth,

and then retell the story. 

 

 

The Katya Chronicles-Gina (present time)

 The Katya Chronicles-Gina (present time)

Gina was still on her sixth life.

Time had passed quickly, and there was no looking back—though she had no desire to.

Too much had happened—things that could never be undone.

Tony was dead.

He had been gone since 2017, and the horror show had long since ended.

The years of abuse were a faint memory.

Gina was starting to remember the good times.

It hadn’t been all bad. Nothing ever is.

Now, when she looked at an old photo, she could almost see why she’d fallen for Tony.

He was strikingly handsome, with a muscular frame and piercing blue eyes. You could bounce a quarter off his abs. He could hold his own with anyone. Tony was all swagger and menace—a predator with a colossal ego. In the end, they caught him in the act, and he would never abuse another woman again.

In the photo, he posed beside a giant marlin hanging from a hook. There were many pictures like that, trophies from fish he had battled over the years. He had even written a poem about his conquests. Even that had felt like an invasion, as if nothing was sacred, as if he had to claim superiority in every possible way. By then, he was deep into his tattoo phase, his upper torso covered in ink. Gina’s name was tattooed on his upper arm—left or right, she could not remember.  Enough, she thought, tossing the photo back into the box. It was time to shower and get dressed.

 

Gina needed to focus on caring for Sophia.

Her mother was on her ninth life. Sophia’s time was almost over.

Nothing was more important than that, especially not a dead husband. 

 

The Trouble with Time Machines

 The Trouble with Time Machines

Or Outlander—and the weapons I’d bring into battle.

Guns tear holes. Bad attitudes hold the wreckage together. But Jamie and Claire—what happened to them? Are they truly gone? Are we really supposed to believe the door to time travel is shut for good—and that we’ll never hear Sassenach again?

And Roger and Bree? Ian and Rachael? Absolutely not. I wouldn’t leave them dead. I’d drag them back, send them home to the Ridge, and give them the lives they were always meant to have—especially for Fannie, after Claire swore she’d never leave her behind.

I’d make Claire carry gemstones—no excuses, no regrets. If Jamie can time-travel in dreams, then I’m not surrendering my happy ending.

Not while Katya and Tiki stand at the forest's edge, straight from the future, beside their one-of-a-kind time machine. So tell me—do we get the ending we deserve, or does the doom-and-gloom crowd win?

Money

 Money

say it:

Show me the money.

honey

where would we be

without it?

I’d like to shout it

from the rooftops

Money makes the world go round

you relentless hound.

It’s what keeps us afloat

in your boat

which is huge

what a stooge.

It’s that silly

willy nilly

Philly

at the Kentucky Derby.

It’s everything we had

before the wheel turned against us.

So it comes down to this:

money, power, and time.

We find the signs

you left behind, too late

after the horse is out the gate

and your horse always wins

again and again.

You shout down

through the air

in some satellite above humanity

in your precious throne room

filled with supercomputers

and data banks for your crypto

currency.

But shh

Don’t say it’s power.

Don’t say it’s time.

Don’t say you care, it’s money.

 

 

Chocolate As Inspiration and Art

 Chocolate As Inspiration and Art

(Inspired by Lagusta’s Luscious in New Paltz)

 

We appeared to be provisional citizens of an avoidable misunderstanding,

furious vulvas, indeed!

While the confections proceeded with unofficial diplomacy

until Hawaii entered the paragraph as an expert witness with tenure.

And to think it all started with vegan chocolate, made by women, which arrived with the self-importance of a minor prophet and excellent packaging.

Our writers group nibbled while drafting, each of us pretending this counted as research.

It was intense and sweet, like brainstorming in formalwear during a very polite emergency,

luscious and lively, as if every sentence had a train to catch and a reputation to protect,

and somehow, against all odds and several commas, it was wildly productive.

We praised the small miracles of language, especially the ones that arrived five minutes after we had given up

while rolling each confection over our tongues like a suspicious but promising thesis statement

letting the sweetness settle into us until every bad draft looked briefly like destiny in a good coat.

Feasting, Fanfare, and a Very Determined Walk

 Feasting, Fanfare, and a Very Determined Walk

 

Today is the Feast of the Ascension,

and the clock is grinning at five.

A little late for heaven’s early-bird special,

but still squarely in the rooster-approved shift

when prayer slips in like steam from a fresh cup,

bringing mental cobwebs to heel

and kicking stress out like an uninvited cousin.

I am oddly peaceful,

like a parade float before the band starts blasting.

Today’s grand quest: a lap around the lake with friends,

having already evicted a few stubborn gremlins from the attic of my mind.

I am awake,

armored in clothes,

and primed like a toaster at dawn.

The body is on board,

though the appetite has been throwing confetti for days,

so now it is time to let my Keens preach.