Purple Umbrellas

 Purple Umbrellas

Lift my spirit,
purple umbrellas.
Tiny pockets of twilight
perched above white hydrangeas,
keeping the sun from stealing
their porcelain blush.

In my sister's nascent garden,
everything is practicing:
buds learning to blossom,
bees tuning their buzzing,
breezes humming backup,
while the umbrellas sway
like flowers pretending to be birds.

They make me think of Mary Poppins,
drifting over London's rooftops,
her umbrella winking at the wind
as if every gust were in on the joke.

And surely, they're cousins
those merry umbrellas and Katya,

who is, by now, somewhere over the Gunks,
zipping through blue skies
with determination in her pockets
and laughter on her sleeve,

off once again
to rescue Gina
from yet another faux paw—
the kind that leaves everyone smiling,
tails wagging,
and the whole world blooming
just a little brighter.

Because gardens know the secret:

it takes only a splash of purple,
a pinch of whimsy,
and one well-timed umbrella
to turn an ordinary day
into a song.

Blank

 Blank

Face it, Gina
you are clueless,
the perfect rube
for his brutality.
And not much has changed.

You tried to leave,
but he kept pulling you
back into the maze,
where every exit
looked like forgiveness
and every promise
turned into another wall.

You stayed mired in the bog
for years,
calling survival

something nobler than fear.

Now you're old.
The Rose of Rosendale
has wilted,
yet somehow
you're still wet behind the ears,
still believing
the next apology
might bloom into spring.

It's 101 degrees, baby.
Maybe you could cool off
in the Dunk Tank,
let the shock
wake you from yourself.

Forget the past.
It has already taken

more than its share.

Hypnotize yourself.
Plan a future.
Hop on a new freight train
one that doesn't circle back
to the same forgotten station.

Wreck what's left
in cat years,
shed every borrowed skin,
and walk away.

You do remember
how to walk away,
don't you?

Because the door
was never locked

Only your hope was.

Writing A New Book

 Writing a New Book

The process can feel like a rewrite—
a better-edited version of the past.
But who would read it?

Time is precious and fleeting, especially lately.
They say memory is unreliable.
How many people will forget these last several years?

Some say to start with an outline.
Others say to write immediately, while it’s fresh, while the anger still burns.
And over the years, I have been very angry.

But now it is late spring, and I have a remarkable story to tell—one filled with strange adventures and unforgettable characters: Katya M. Cartouche, a black cat; Tiki, an eight-foot wooden yet mobile Indonesian tiki; Gina, beautiful and innocent despite adulthood; and Anthony—the Roman with the hooded beak—from Naples. There is also a dead ex-husband and a time machine.

Tony used to tell Gina that no one is truly good.
He said it often.

What he meant was that no one is entirely bad, and no one is entirely good.
People are complicated, unpredictable creatures.

For Gina, letting go of the safety net felt like jumping from a perfectly reliable airplane. The first step was the hardest. After that, she simply had to trust that the parachute strapped to her back would open and carry her safely down.

It did.

And the book clamoring to be written could become a bestseller in some universe willing to accept the truth as Katya and Gina understand it.

Right now, though, they are knee-deep in the swamp, while the ticks cling on for dear life.

…

And soon, all the masks will come off.