Can’t be every man’s wanna be


It’s been a few years of denial.

I’ve tried to go home, to fit in, to fix me.

But what I’ve been denying is my person- she knows what she wants, why she breathes.

I’m a mother. Above all things, I claim the right to be me – I’m know I am THE Mother.

(No, not the Mother Fucker. I’m The Mother. And forever will be. )

I am woman, on top of all else I can be, I am Woman. I am for speaking up, speaking out, speaking free.

I am slowly realizing what I want is to be ME. And this woman knows who she wants to lie close to, curled up, chin resting on chest, body cradled into a pile of what puppies must feel.

Lover, my laughter, my life: find me.


for Reticent Mental Property, images courtesy of the web. January 31, 2018.






go beyond the peripheral appropriateness directing your life

go around the curves and over the cliffs that limit fluidity

go under if there is no way to bring your authentic courage to the forefront

we aren’t what we are supposed to be

few are

we aren’t more than we think we are- though we would like to be,


Define the poetry that captures you-

does it bleed survivor or victim?

you want to claim survivor,

yet, how can you be one without the other? Be honest.

Take apart your dreams-

You are left with impossibles. Yet, you dare.

because you are superhuman? no.

–because you are alive.


Don’t stop lying to yourself

 if this is what it takes to get you through to the story you own. 


#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web. October 3 2017. On the Eve, of Libra.





Those battles we’re supposed to have lost.



She is a giant among women, breasts heavy, full, rounded, uneven.  Her shoulders carry the burden of healing old wounds, patching up cells that disobey orders,  attending to blood that cannot run clean.

Her shaken form is a salute to life itself but it is not of the life she left. Remission robs, recklessly, and in its retreat leaves barriers to ward off tenacious and happy endings. She looks no further than the day. She cannot see beyond one minute more. She must master the moment, one foot plodding in front of the other, and walk through the forest of stillness cursing damned death. .

The mind tells stories to lull us to sleep. But, vigilant, we watch you creep up into the clearing. These meadows are re-planted with wildflowers. Don’t you see them? There’s thistle with cactus, dormant but growing.  Something strong always rises from weary roots, withered and grey.

Talking in the riddles of sunshine she stretches full force, sips on the wicked fall air. 

#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web. September 19, 2017






Met a mom and her son today. He’s autism spectrum. She’s not.

I enjoyed her. She has a large life carved from necessity, a life partner who leaves her home with the resources.  Hers is a heart beating in balance, paying forward, giving time, using skills only mothers of this kind have earned.

It’s the mothering that comes through.

It cannot be helped.

I shared a few texts with my friend who battles the bottle. She’s the sweetest woman, the one who finds laughter in every failing, the person who encourages everyone around her with issues far greater than hers. She’s a stoic soul. A heart that can’t stop beating for those who have less. She is a respite volunteer, a dog rescue foster, a social worker by day, who knows all because she’s put her time in the AA pew.

There’s bravery out there.

It cannot be stopped.

Exchanged words and a glass of red with a woman, scorned, scarred, hurt, so blue. She put on a happy face for my interruption and acted strong, one foot in front of the other, measured paces on her path to renewal. She’s a little thing with a large chip on her shoulder. She’s a damsel in distress. She’s a princess waiting for the slipper. A woman who gets most what she fears; what we won’t wish for almost always comes true.

There’s a victim on every corner.

Pick your poison when you choose what you choose.


People tell her things; they cannot stop themselves. 

#for Reticent Mental Property. September 14, 2017. Images courtesy of the web.

Opening lines


On Thursdays I pick up my farm share. It’s a box of locally grown organic produce sown, grown, harvested and delivered to a nearby locale for pick up by moi. I’ve chosen the  farmer from his seasonal crop planning and self-marketing session held each year at my favorite coffee shop.

Community Supported Agriculture (a CSA) connects farmers with buyers and opens a connection between buyer and seller that lends itself well to learning about everything from where food comes from, to identifying 7 kinds of lettuce, to cooking fresh with seasonal ingredients. For about $25 dollars a week, paid in advance, my farmer gets to do his thing and in the spring, I get to eat the fruits of his labor.

I used to pick up my CSA share from a garage. The door was opened to the public at about 2pm. The owner wasn’t home. CSA purchasers show up, unload the crate into environmentally friendly canvas bags,  or plastic, I have to admit when I’m just not on top of my schedule and forget entirely and have to show up before that garage door closes and use whatever I can find in my car to carry my vegetables home.

This year I live in a new neighborhood. I chose a new CSA that delivers to the local speakeasy a few doors down. To save a few bucks I split my CSA with a good friend and that means on delivery day I need to go into the establishment with two canvas (not plastic) bags and divvy up the goods. I’ve become something of a spectacle. I hope an anticipated and engaging spectacle, but I don’t get to determine what others think of me. I just have to be me. And hope they are laughing with me (not at me) (as the saying goes).

I arrive at the beginning of happy hour. Good timing, right? I know.  By now the bartender knows my name which is kind of ironic given it is a speakeasy so true anonymity would probably be best but this isn’t the 1920’s (as much as I’d like it to be.) And what does it matter that I’m unknown. I’m certainly not unnoticed. And neither are the Thursday happy -hour regulars who are at the rail every. single. week.  Jeff arrives on the dot of Four. He sits down. Orders a rum and coke. Peruses the menu, waits for his wife to show up at about 4:30 after she gets home from her job. When I come in, Jeff is sitting there, sipping, and serves as the buffer between paying patrons and the people who come in for vegetables but not corn based beverages.

Jeff makes small talk until the bartender is free. Last week that bartender was Kevin, he shared hints about the upcoming fall menu and a quest to brand the speakeasy as a spot for a variety of classic Old-Fashioneds. And he’s serious- he intends to serve the classic midwest Old Fashioned involving real cherries and pickled mushrooms. I’m liking this guy.  I’m not sure a speakeasy is known for brandy old-fashioners…I envision Gin Rickey’s  but I’m open to ideas. Kevin has them. He’s done this before. He knows what he’s doing. I think. He thinks. Does it matter? Kevin is telling me why he wants me to keep stopping in, why he wants me to bring my friends, why he wants me to talk about what they have going on there OUTSIDE of the bag of veggies sitting on his bar.

Holly is the waitress who has the gift of gab and can upsell a plate of steamed garlic infused kale as easily as a free refill on one of those Old Fashioned Kevin is pushing. Holly takes a peek into the canvas bag of veggies and admires the size of my zucchini. I smile and bob my head, no innuendo is lost on her. We grin together and stop ourselves from stroking the firm, dark, round eggplants.  She chides me for not stopping in for dinner and I promise to make the trek with my family if I can talk them out of being digital screen time addicts. I have teenagers. That’s another story.

Behind the bar is Devan. She’s new to this spot but cut her bartending teeth on a spot up the road at a cajun flavored NOLA themed restaurant and bar run by the same chef as here.  She knows the menu, likes good crab cake, is sad that the perch has been traded out for (sigh) cod and admires the bacon mac and cheese. Down the rail, the rest of the happy people spending an hour at the veggie pick up spot slash bar, all start nodding and spouting accolades related to crisp bacon and Wisconsin cheese. Devan and I get into a bit of a shared kumbaya moment recalling the power of last week’s viewing of the eclipse and she wants to show me her pics which she captured with the help of an infrared lens app that she used with her iPhone. I’m not sure if the latter actually exists but there’s no way to prove it as her phone is dead and is sitting behind the bar holding the proof of her conquest.

Paul wanders in and I politely move one of the divvied up bags of veggies so he can sit down to my right. He has his Packer jersey on and is staying for the game.  He asks why I’m sitting there having a drink with a bag of gorgeous red onions, leeks and some sort of jalapeño pepper medley? I’m hot, I say, and they get along with me.

I take another sip of my chocolate lab porter, brewed by Wisconsin Brewing Company, just a few miles to the west and settle in for a little back and forth with whomever might take the seat to my left.


I’m not looking for anything. I do, however, love to connect up. It’s not the same as a hook up. It’s actually, totally different. And I’m okay with that. 


#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web.





Dear fucktard

Original post June 2016,Re-posted a year-ish later August, 2017, for reflection and purging and purposeful optimism.


Oh I hear you.

Tender encouragement while slamming her in the back of your parked truck, in the warm fall air, her ass in your face and your hand in her hair. I feel your thrusts, moving the metal forward in time to that bitch’s heat.

You played me so well, played both of us, but I am aware of the lies and lines. And now she is, too.

I swallowed. I swallowed more than your dick, deep in my throat. I swallowed your hook, let it take me to the bottom of that pit.  I wanted to go there. I let myself sink.

Doesn’t matter. I’m so bruised from every time before that I’ve grown numb. I’m black and blue but nothing hurts. I’ve scarred, no need to heal, just permanently fixed these aberrations to the cheek I turned, to remind me to not be a fucktard’s tart.

I get it.

I so. get.


She was such a good thing. He wasn’t.

#for Reticent Mental Property. Original post 6/23/2016. Images courtesy of the web.






Created from then


Troubled by the rising tides of wise, the pull at the intersection where we fall forward or recoil is an involuntary moment we attribute to survival. There’s a reason why heartaches are described with words of physical pain. They are accurate responses, no nuance of soothing comfort, no distance between breaking and stone cold.

Look around then, beyond the center stage of the cleaving, on the other side of this suffering statue begging to be taken from the pedestal. See the clay, already softened and remembering a shape it had once taken? She still believes in the emergence of curve, and line and cast, knows she was once held, warmed as firm hands cupped the mud and the spinner’s tears flooded the base and his breath furiously worked her.

There’s time when these lovers were melded. When the artist’s eye called his muse into the light. There was a time when these two had no blood mixed in the palettes of our canvas, when each chiseled a life out of sleeping alone.

Indeed, both were once masters of the great un- making, stoic barbs thrown in wordless, hardened thrusts.

Yet we can sleep now, with those colors deeply stained into our skin.  Now, find we are still able to forge a shared story of laughter, dance with tempting banter, make our own way out of histories winnowed through hollowed bone.

And in the dawn of the day, we fall into good graces, reaching into next lives, making new places for softness and longing, for the re-creating of now, the letting go, wisely, of then.


I’ve never forgotten you, just burrowed your songs with your scent, into the back of my soul. 

#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web. August 29, 2017