My granddaughter calls me Gramita,
a blend of English and Spanish.
Is blending physics?
Dang it, no — more Martha Stewart than Isaac Newton.
I don’t know physics.
I asked my grandson who does.
He was appalled that I was mixing poetry and physics.
I watched five YouTube videos about the laws of physics.
Well, watched is a strong word.
I had them on while sitting on my porch looking at
ducks and squirrels and raindrops.
Oh, wait, raindrops! Some physics there, right?
The falling to the ground and momentum and
maybe one of those kinds of energy that I already forgot and
gravity — yeah, gravity, some sort of gravity at play, right? …
I doubt anyone will memorialize me as a dead poet. I won’t be read or studied or quoted. And, that’s perfectly okay.
I don’t write to be famous or to be remembered.
I write to remember.
Writing, especially poetry, is how I access memories and the emotions tangled in those memories. They need to be sorted, unknotted, filed in an appropriate box of yesterday, or discarded like useless garbage. I feel lighter after writing a poem.
Poetry came to me at the age of nine. I wrote my first ten poems in one afternoon and read them to my older sister, who claimed I stole them from a published poet. …
Medium saved me after the 2016 U.S. presidential election. I don’t recall how I found this community. Perhaps, it found me. When all felt desperately hopeless, this became my home and refuge.
Nearly four years later, I own two publications: Weeds & Wildflowers and R.E.A.D.I.N.G. WAR. Weeds & Wildflowers has been the recipient of my attention while R.E.A.D.I.N.G. WAR has languished, but I plan to change that soon. I’m also an editor for SnapShots and House of Haiku.
By trade, I am a contract bookkeeper, a career that serves me well but is losing its luster. …
Before anything else, I want to thank Farah Egby for this month’s banner photo. I held onto this one for a long time. An interesting composition of nature and industry with a holiday-ish red glow. I like the contrasts and thought it would be a provocative alternative to obviously festive photos.
Now, on to guilty pleasures . . .
We all have them — guilty pleasures. Those secret obsessions that you don’t share with anyone but perhaps a dear friend or loving partner, someone who will overlook that oddity in your personality because they love you or because they have a guilty pleasure, too. …
So often we take our world for granted. In this year of unbelievable heartache and challenges, it may take true effort to find beauty and gratitude.
I asked my lens to find what could spark gratitude during this American Thanksgiving week and she found these images:
I loved you like my Mama,
she’s sweet and sour, too.
I loved you like my Daddy,
his wrinkles look like you.
Take those peaches
and all their fuzz.
Not an apple or a pear,
they ain’t what you was.
Sometimes of a hot evenin’
I’d sit under the night sky
and sip you mixed with bourbon,
never thinkin’ I’d say good-bye.
But, you turned agin me,
makin’ me sick as a dog.
How could you be so cruel? …
where’s your gratitude
for that free food?
I’m the Prez so no donation
for Thanksgiving in this nation
’cause I don’t like taxation and
don’t care ‘bout starvation.
© Dennett 2020
Like Harper Thorpe’s, my response to Sherry Kappel’s Gratitude prompt has a tragic undertone. People are unemployed, hungry, homeless, and many more will soon be homeless, but Trump and the Republican Senate do nothing. Trump doesn’t even address the problems in news briefings. He whines, stews, whimpers, blames, and sues about the election, but doesn’t care if Americans are going to bed hungry. …
After an uncharacteristically gray autumn in the Sunshine State, hurricane season finally seems to be in the review mirror and the sun is back.
This is our Thanksgiving morning in photos. At this time of year, natural light and colors are extraordinary in their brilliance, particularly, between 8 am and 10 am and in the evening, 30 to 60 minutes before sunset.
As I play with photos, Captain Argentina is preparing our very nontraditional Thanksgiving dinner. No disgusting turkey and jello salad in this house! …
I was twelve, back when twelve-year-old girls only knew the barest facts of sexuality and never spoke them out loud.
My girlfriend in another state learned about the deed from an older, experienced foster sister. We were nine when my friend told me in whispers about what boys do to girls. I didn’t believe her at first. Who could believe such a thing? But, knowing that the disturbing information originated with Dreama, a teenager we revered as knowing everything, I believed what my friend said. But, I never spoke about it to anyone. …
We walk with you
but you’re not here.
Your collar hangs on
the bag I carry —
I touch it often
leading the way
when you were healthy,
lagging behind when
Your sister’s in front now
that you aren’t.
Does she still miss you?
I don’t know.
For a week, she did,
crying at night,
walking through rooms
looking for you in corners and
At the door,
she looked behind
hoping you were there,
that you’d run ahead
as you always did
to be first to pee
in the garden.
I let her smell your collar,
a simple gesture of desperation —
anything to stop her sorrow —
and it worked. …