Today We Pause

 Today We Pause

 

Today, we remember those who laid down their lives for our democracy

our way of life, and Eleanor Roosevelt comes to mind.

She said, “You Must Do The Things That You Think You Cannot Do.”

I’m wearing the shirt with that statement, in my mind, and looking out my window on this rainy morning, thinking about how the garden was a huge sacrifice

Much of my youth was spent pulling weeds, back-breaking work with little yield and much cost.

Now I appreciate the wildflowers fending for themselves with their steely determination.

The way they endure, while vicious and self-serving predators

concerned only with enriching themselves,

bark at and devour what they conceive as low-hanging fruit.

Anyone or anything that refuses to bend to their will.

Lives that mean nothing to them or their cronies.

Lives that sacrificed everything for liberty, GOD, and country

Honorable men and women who served

so that they could climb the ladder of success without so much as a turn of the head or a thank-you. The craven who claims his own orbit.

As if they deserved it. And we didn’t. 

Predators who trample the garden amidst those who continue to tend it, as if all that destruction never happened. The sustaining survivors, rebuilding, sacrificing, sowing hope from tiny seeds. So that we may bring a measure of joy to those who cannot.  The ones who paid and continue to pay, slaving and bowing, and hoping for reason, justice, and sanity. 

 

Retaking A Cognitive Test

 Retaking A Cognitive Test

is not  typical

This test is not about IQ

It’s MoCA, baby. Google it. 

Bragging about it is dumb and concerning. 

Can you draw a clock?

Make the time at ten past eleven

Determine the correct sequence of five numbers and letters starting with A and 1.

Draw a cube  

It’s not about how artistic you are. 

Identify the camel, rhino, and lion

Name the three objects

Remember the words: face, velvet, church, red, and daisy? We will ask you again in five minutes

Count back from 100 in denominations of seven

Say 742 backwards

Can you repeat three sentences after me in varying lengths?

Do you know where you are:

what city, the date, the time, or are you mildly impaired? What was your score? Do you remember? 

 

Paying For The Primrose Path

 Paying For the Primrose Path

 

Basil, mint, and oregano are pungent spices that put off pests like groundhogs.

 Rosemary, Sage, Thyme, 

Lavender, Lemon balm, and Hot Pepper spray are also strong deterrents

 

Nothing seems to daunt a fanatic, though

especially a greedy one, making millions off the taxpayer.

 

And getting away with it.

The President is running a hedge fund out of the Oval Office

60 trades a day in the first quarter of this year. 

750 million so far

Call the FBI,   padlock the door

Vote to ban elected officials from trading stocks.

 

Republicans who make 174,000.00 plus benefits and pensions a year

mutiny over slush fund, immunity agreement

illegal wars, threats against Cuba, and Greenland.

The aftershocks are far-reaching.

Gas prices are higher

Grocery prices are higher

Racism is still a problem

Dismantling the black vote is a problem

Diluting the black voice is a problem

Taking away a woman’s right to choose is a problem

State Legislatures dictate many of our basic rights

Where is our middle ground?

There is no room for sidelines or silence.

Does the people’s voice count when the Supreme Court is allowed to overturn the vote in Virginia?

Is everything by this administration rigged?

Are the midterms rigged?

We are not about hate and vitriol. 

We are not misinformed, stupid, or pests.

Keep Fighting Tennessee

Push Back

We can level the field.

The Blue Wave is Coming

Everyone Must Vote.

The Disgruntled Chef

 The Disgruntled Chef 

 

serves breakfast, brunch, and sometimes dinner.

It is an American/ Asian fusion restaurant in Gardiner and

received a 10+ from our group of nine hikers.

We are a senior, discerning crew, and being raised in New York, we can be a bit loud and frightening at times. Fuhgeddaboudit!

Yesterday, my sandwich choice did not disappoint

I picked the curried chicken wrap

The flavors permeated throughout, and it was visually stunning. 

As a photographer, I should know. (Sorry, no pictures this time.)

My evil twin, aka The Food Critic,

would reluctantly agree. Delicious, timely, and

pet-friendly. The tables were spaced like a well-organized trail map,

with no confusing configurations, and plenty of room to stretch and converse.

I’d go back in a heartbeat. 

I  have one question,

who came up with the name?

 

Trail Mix, Fava Beans, and Lady Slippers

 Trail Mix, Fava Beans, and Lady Slippers

 

All we need is some Chianti

and I’m checking the mileage

like there’s a truck stop up ahead

a place to fill up on fuel and wine.

Only we’re walking here.

We’re walking, and we’re talking

like it’s 1999, Y2K didn’t happen,

and guess what else didn’t:

You got it:

no wine,

no trucks,

no lines,

but I did get a few lady slippers and fava beans

from the Azores. Go ahead—look it up. I’ll wait.

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.

 

 

Bare Limbs

 Bare Limbs

Greening light,

bare limbs growing bright,

bare limbs wake and sway,

as green life finds its way.

 

Spring has sprung,

the bells have rung,

time to rise,

and greet warmer skies.

Bare limbs stir,

a soft and leafy blur,

alive with squirrel song,

while groundhogs nose along.

 

Still, we watch with care

as seedlings fill the air,

beneath the budding trees

that dance in the northern breeze.

Directing The Unruly

At present, nature’s cycle lays down its campaign—

blue forget-me-nots spread like a polite little carpet,

with purple and yellow wildflowers freelancing at the edges.

It still looks manageable out there—or at least it does from the porch—and I, their General, must command the forces.

The wild animals, aside from the chipmunks and squirrels, are currently occupied with sabotage elsewhere.

We live in the country, bordered by woods and woodchucks—voracious little heathens with excellent tunnel strategy.

Monet would paint this if only someone had the decency to install a pond.

“You over there—yes, you—stop growing.

I’d like you all to remain exactly this height and not flood the front steps this year.

We will maintain peace and harmony despite the seasonal uprising.

Sticker bushes are hereby ordered to retreat and let the front line have its moment to bloom.

Day lilies, front and center. Lilacs, this is your hour—try not to get smug about it.

I need a clear view of the field before the next skirmish.

To mulch or not to mulch: that is the question.

Whether ’tis nobler to trim and weed or to let the ivy stage its slow-motion coup along the side garden remains under review.

Your General is, alas, allergic to the insufferable poison ivy, which looks innocent now but has the soul of a criminal.

I promise to attack the flanks and tidy up soon—tomorrow, if morale improves.”

Mother's Day

 Mother’s Day

 

Over the years,

we look back

and remember the women

who helped shape our lives

and this year was no different.

Each year, I like to think

I’m growing a little wiser,

though some years the jury is still very much out.

Choices made and lessons learned

have a way of humbling us at remarkable speed,

but Mom usually knows what you’re thinking

before you do, which is honestly unsettling.

She made you, after all,

and, as the saying goes, she can still take you out—without leaving her chair.

Maybe that is the purest form of love: fierce, patient, and never fooled.

So shape up, say thank you, and try not to make her repeat herself.

And when she leaves for her next great position,

as a star in  Andromeda,

pass on what she taught you:

Love, after all, is the greatest gift we get to give.

Sometimes, The Thing That Stands Out Is Small

Sometimes, The Thing That Stands Out Is Small

 

It is the board in the fence,

shifted only slightly to the right,

opening a breach in your understanding

of the neighbor—

and making you wonder which way they lean.

Is it safe to bring a hammer and a nail,

or would that cross the line itself,

that invisible border saying, without words,

where your limits lie,

what may be carried in your hands,

or whether a weapon still counts as speech?

Because you might expose what is already

plain,

and then they would have to set it right—

straighten the board by making a hammer of you,

in their grim reckoning,

and leave you on the fence, a warning to whoever forgets where they do not belong.

Blue State of Mind

 Blue State of Mind

The bleeding hearts and forget-me-nots have not bloomed.

How can this be?

It is September 2025.

The war has not happened yet.

Gas is cheaper for the moment.

I do not have to listen to a calm voice

still draping a silk sheet over the obvious

while its weather gathers at the door

Oh, happier day, while the weather gathered

So get to work on something that will not fold.

If you want greatness,

then alter the course of history.

Come up with answers that can stand in daylight.

Real answers. Real solutions.

For problems already licking at the frame.

We’ll keep the time.

Power, Code, and Accountability

 Power, Code, and Accountability

What is real? Who lays the first name on it? And when the system splits open—when the bright machinery throws sparks in the dark—who is left beneath the light, carrying the answer like a weight?

The documents are the Rosetta Stone. Not the smoke. Not the theater. The record. The fragment. The half-buried tablet that teaches you the grammar of power, syllable by syllable, after the public story has gone thin.

Power moves like weather now—crossing borders, climbing walls, outrunning the old alarms, leaving the people at the fence with their hands still raised.

Capability keeps widening its river. Reach keeps learning new roads. And accountability arrives downstream, late again, counting what the current carried off.

So skepticism is not a luxury. Verification is not a luxury. Scrutiny is not a luxury. They are the small lanterns we keep lit for one another. They are the habits that keep the dark from getting organized.

Because the danger is not only the face you can point to. It is the institution that goes soft at the hinges. The incentive that bends toward profit. The signal, smothered under so much noise, begins to sound like an echo.

So support independent reporting. Ask the harder question, then ask the question beneath it. Demand what can be shown. Demand what can be checked. Demand something sturdier than performance, something that can hold in the light.

The Seashell Indictment

 The Seashell Indictment

 

is like the proverbial ham sandwich

burning taxpayers’ money,

time,

and oxygen.

like a war with Iran

the cost of regime change,

nukes,

shaking hands with a dictator,

gas contracts,

ballrooms,

and data centers.

86 the mayo.

Ground your flight of fancy.

Do a 180.

Clean out the barn.

Signed, the people.

 

 

Posing For The Directory

 Posing For The Directory

Hello there—name’s B. Owl, pleased to meet your gaze,
Local legend, night patrol, working oddball days.
I haunt your hood, patrol your block,
A burrow boss around the clock.

My family tree? Oh, quite profound
We dig our dreams straight underground.
Champions of the sandy sprawl,
Cape Coral knows—we’re tiny but tall. 

We’re pocket-sized predators, yes, that’s the deal,
Mini Hawk vibes with a bargain‑meal feel.
Feathers fierce but fun-sized, cute,
Think raptor… in a travel‑size suit. 

Prolific? Please. We multiply like gossip,
Burrowing babies—you simply can’t stop us.  

We’ve got runway legs—oh, honey, they strut,
Long, lean lines? Yes, we serve that cut.
Takeoff smooth, landing bold,
Frequent flyer miles untold.  

We soar like Allegiant—no snacks, no frills,
Just feathered finesse and aerodynamic thrills.  

By day we chirp, by night we scream,
We cluck, we rasp—we run the theme.
Coo, rattle, shout, a vocal buffet
Broadway cast of the avian way.  

So do admire us—but mind your space,
We’re cute, not cuddly—respect the face.  

Spring has sprung—our season’s prime,
Burrows buzzing—it’s go‑time, it’s time!