Chicken Little was right. It’s Sunday
and the sky is falling. It’s Sunday night
and it’s almost midnight or it seems like
midnight without you here. It’s late and
it’s August or almost August and you’re
not here; you’re out there somewhere,
sailing among the same stars in another
kind of sky.
………………Come back to me soon. Come
home tonight to this house of straw, losing
its battle with the wind; come home again
from the sea and the salted air to the trees
on the hills alive with green and the stars
falling like wayward wishes.
……………………………….Come home, my love.
It’s almost August.  The midnight sky is falling.

Yeah, What He Said

I never heard this song until today, when I heard James Taylor sing it on The Prairie Home Companion.  This is exactly how I feel about My Beloved Sandra

 “Something In The Way She Moves”

Something in the way she moves, or looks my way, or calls my name
that seems to leave this troubled world behind.
And if I’m feeling down and blue or troubled by some foolish game,
she always seems to make me change my mind..

And I feel fine anytime she’s around me now, she’s around me now almost about all the time.
And if I’m well you can tell she’s been with me now.
She’s been with me now quite a long, long time and I feel fine.

Every now and then the things I lean on lose their meaning
and I find myself careening in places where I should not let me go.
She has the power to go where no one else can find me and to silently remind me
of the happiness and the good times that I know, and then I just got to go then.

It isn’t what she’s got to say but how she thinks and where she’s been.
To me, the words are nice, the way they sound.
I like to hear them best that way, it doesn’t much matter what they mean.
she says them mostly just to calm me down

And I feel fine anytime she’s around me now, she’s around me now almost about all the time.
And if I’m well you can tell she’s been with me now.
She’s been with me now quite a long, long time and I feel fine.


Six Word Saturday


My Friend Gita Popped The Question

My efriend Gita, over at HOUSE OF WRITERS, posed a challenge to help us all keep our literary juices flowing.  I’ve been in a bit of a dry spell lately, so—despite my natural aversion to writing prompts—I jumped on it.

The challenge (in Gita’s words): Answer the question, “How did you get here?” with 10 sentences. Make each sentence a separate thought. Don’t try to form a story with them.

My response follows. Read others at: House Of Writers

How Did You Get Here?

I took 91 North until the gas ran out.

I took a left turn at the dining room.

I never turn down an invitation, especially one that says, “Come live with me and be my love.”

I felt the need to check the theory about greener grass.

Magnetism rules.

There wasn’t enough room in my girlfriend’s place for her and me and Jose Cuervo.

Nature called.

Everybody calls it city life, but it isn’t.

All the signs where I came from said “STOP”.

When I was nearly 42, I was born here.


And don’t forget to visit Call Me Cate at SHOW MY FACE



Six Word Saturday

“Six is plenty.” (What she said)



Call Me Cate is taking down names at: SHOW MY FACE.



Another Trip To Lunenburg

     He drives all the way to Lunenburg once a month to visit his oldest client. It’s a required visit—paperwork exchange, residential inspection, general well-being check—but he never feels like it’s just another business obligation. The old guy’s almost 85 and reminds him of the grandfathers he never met. The old guy’s home provider always makes him feel welcome, too, not like just some Agency slug that comes to collect the paperwork and check out her housekeeping.

          It wasn’t always like that, though. When he first got the case, the home provider—the Agency calls them Shared Living Providers (SLPs)—never had her red homebook ready, never completed the tracking sheets documenting the old guy’s community access program. She’d always treated the old guy like family and didn’t feel the need to record his daily activities or prove that the taxpayers’ dollars were being wisely spent. It had taken almost a year for her to come around, to recognize that the formality of meds charts and tracking sheets was as big a pain in the ass for him as it was for her. Eventually, when she noticed that he always got it out of the way as quickly as possible then sat around a while longer just to shoot the breeze, ask about her kids and talk about their vacation plans, the redbook and the paperwork became less of an obstacle and their relationship improved immeasurably.

          And as much as he now looked forward to his monthly visits as a legitimate afternoon furlough from the office (he always scheduled it for three o’clock so he’d have to be on the road by ten) he especially liked that it afforded him the opportunity to stop for lunch at The Mooselook. Even though he only had a chance to stop there once per month, he’d become enough of a regular that Janey never had to bring him a menu; just came over to his booth to ask if he’d being having his usual—Sluggerburger, medium rare, no lettuce.

          He’s an avid journal keeper, and always spends as much time writing as eating. A few visits back, he wrote about Janey and her apple crisp. He went home after visiting the old guy and printed it out, sent it off to the restaurant anonymously, and posted a copy on his blog. The next time he came in, all the servers—none of them named Janey—came over to his table to tell him they’d figured out it was him that had written it, Googled his name from the credit card receipt and seen the blog. Even the cook came out to thank him for the free publicity.

          He always arrives at the old guy’s place well-fed, but he never turns down the offered coffee. Coffee’s always good after a nice apple crisp, and sharing it with an SLP keeps the paperwork in order.


Thursday Thirteen

13 Important Things I’ve Forgotten:












Lots more cool lists here: THURSDAY THIRTEEN


Winter Canary

While I hope we have a lot more beautiful summer and a lovely colorful autumn ahead, I’m looking forward to the release of the winter issue of Canary, “A Literary Journal of the Environmental Crisis” from Hip Pocket Press.

Landscape Triptych, one of the first poems I wrote about the rapture of the Green Mountains—long before I actually moved here—will appear in that issue (publication date TBA).

I’ll come back and tug on your sleeve again when the time is right but, meanwhile, you should definitely stop by and check out the current (summer) issue (and archives) at Canary.  It’s a pretty slick publication.  You won’t be disappointed.  



Tanha (Desire)


Call it what you will—Karma, Medicine, Magic—it’s all the same folderol and pointless anticipation, eyegoggle and balderdash, humbuggery.  

Every epileptic wants an implant, fat people want to be in the movies, soldiers just want to be home with their dogs and tractors. Everyone wants to be a famous surgeon, or meet a famous surgeon, or have the ultimate surgery to transform their lackluster into sparkle and pop, change their humdrum into get-up-and-go, make them into the person of their dreams.

For the most part, what we want is what we think we ought to want. Somebody else tells us.

For some—those lucky few—it’s as simple as wanting a shopping cart without a sticky wheel.

Most of us, though, want what’s a little harder to come by. World peace. Nightmare-free nights, even a temporary cease-fire. 

Me too, sadly. Any of the above. You name it.

Six Word Saturday


A Beautiful Morning For A Ride 

Just me and my NPR friends.


Need more fun? Go see Call Me Cate at SHOW MY FACE

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Ron. (x3) Is In The House


Three of my (I think) finest poems are featured in the new issue of CLAPBOARD HOUSE.  Issue #14 is loaded with lots of really fine work from over a dozen other very accomplished writers, so I’m very happy to be included.  Do stop by and read it all, including my pieces: 1) Getting It In Writing, 2) Grace, and 3) Wrong Hands.  I’m particularly fond of Grace, which is about the summer (long, long ago) I first discovered myself as a writer.


We’re waiting for you here: CLAPBOARD HOUSE


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