Being that those who are peacemakers
Would be much more entertaining
If they hung out with the rabble-rousers,

Being that those who are meek
Should grow a back bone.

Being that those who mourn
Should suck it up, buttercup,

We shall shape
Our society to sustain
Only the self sufficient.

Because being Blessed
Counts for nothing here.

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Space Dirt

A fireball meteor.

It made the papers,
Second page, local news.

Sleeping, I missed it.
But who needs to see
Burning space dirt, anyway?

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The sun felt so good.  Soft kisses- dark chocolate- warm blanket- hot coffee good.

The dark, pre-dawn morning had been a slap in the face, with temperatures so cold we hadn’t seen the like since last winter…

Cold driven by clear skies- sparkling stars like ice cubes in the mix.

Then the stars relented, and sent one of their own… with a radiant dawn one of their own…

With golden yellow kisses, one of their own…

And the stinging stopped.

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A Skylight

What do you call a skylight
at night?
A skydark?
A starlight?
A moonbright?

Sleep is hard work.
Read my dreams,
and you’ll know…

Restful respite,
Eyes open,
Wakeful sleep,
And me.


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“Is it real?”

She was recalling of the Rubber Rat, which, in it’s unrealness,

Had somehow made its way to the waiting area bench

The day before.

“What?” I queried, following her gaze to the pearly plastic bottom

Of an empty bin.

“That.” she said, pointing at The Spider.

A Real. Spider.

(A genuine work of art, though not made by human hands).

Fat spiders, hairy spiders- they’re creepy.

This spider was neither. Slender body, graceful legs.

A super-model.


Its brown-gray form boasted tiny geometric designs

Which brought to mind

Stained glass.

Walk the runway, Spider.

But do it outside.


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Me & God
We have one thing in common.
We love to create.
Though with me
It takes more than 7 days
(On the average)
To finish a project.
But then again,
Unlike God
I have a day job.

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OK, so I’ve turned into a ghost junkie. I love those cable TV shows where teams of investigators turn out the lights in a supposedly haunted place & try to collect hard evidence from soft, see-through ghosts. They rarely come up with anything convincing, but the ghost stories and the vicarious creeping through of spooky places in the dark gives me a thrill.

Yesterday my hubby visited a local book store (as he is wont to do), and picked up a book called Haunted New Hampshire written by a gent named Thomas D‘Agostino. The book contains a series of entertaining narratives outlining the haunts in our home state. Though in the introduction the author says, “Among New England states, New Hampshire was said to rank rather low in overall haunts.” there are many fascinating stories, some quite nearby to where we live (though none from the city of Somersworth in which our rented abode sits. C’mon ghosts of Somersworth! Rise up and show some spirit!)

Anyway, I flipped anxiously through the pages, hoping to find some spooky tidbit about Wentworth by the Sea, the hotel (built in 1874) that hubby and I stayed in for our anniversary outing. Guess what? Nothing! How, I ask you, could a self-respecting establishment with such a long history not be haunted? I think the place needs a ghost. After all, who would want to stay in a place that even spirits eschew?

But… how to attract a ghost? I doubt if they read want-ads. And I’m pretty sure they don’t know how to access Craig’s List. People want old ghosts anyway, not ones young enough to be tech savy.

And… how does one pay a ghost for his/her services? Maybe attention is enough. Most ghosts seem to be ‘attention whores,’ much as they slink about and hide when one is actually looking for them.

Maybe the promise exclusive billing, and free room and board for eternity would entice a ghost take up a new haunt.


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