A rose is a rose. The wine is rosé. On the question of accents, Writers seem so blasé. Why skip the accent that belongs on café? Should the bride’s gown be called lame, When the fabric’s lamé? And don’t get me started on resume for résumé. Webster’s is nuts to call that lapse [...]
Back in the day when I was still young, Nobody called me Young Lady Any more than they called me Shorty or Slim of Kind of Afraidy. But old men now seem to think that they ought To call me Young Lady when I clearly am not. Do they think I like this backhanded [...]
Like all great writers, I keep a journal. I might write like them too, if mine were diurnal.
Though I like to believe I’m perfectly sane, Something I do makes me question this brain. I bite my lip or my inner cheek Munching an apple or nuts, though rarely a leek. I do it accidently, and not just once, But for days on end in a maddening streak. One day, who knows [...]
Sometimes I worry what the future will bring With coral reefs dying, And rivers drying, And toxic liquids going down our drains, And bigger and wetter hurricanes, With entire species disappearing While California forests keep on searing. But the news these days my fears allay With a governor telling teachers, “Don’t say gay,” And [...]
If you see me cross my knees Just as I’m about to sneeze I’m grateful you can’t read my mind. But if you could, then you would find This old mom’s little patter: Mind over bladder, mind over bladder, mind over bladder…
If ever in a poem, story or book, To be sure my readers grasp my outlook, Be it tongue-in-cheek Or sadly bleak, I throw in an emoji, Then, I fear, It’s perfectly clear I’ve lost my writing mojo-i.
I sat down to write, But I couldn’t just yet. I first had to call my old roommate Annette. Then I dusted the bedroom, the den and the hall And tore down the spiderwebs in the guest shower stall. Then I gave the porch an overdue sweep. It was covered in oak leaves six inches [...]
Yes, I know, I’m a bloody mess But please don’t panic; I’m fine. I haven’t been speared or punched or shot Or attacked by a pack of wild swine. Only my pride is wounded. And I wish I had an excuse For being such a klutzy slob With a glass of fresh beet juice.
The dishes are chipped, The glasses mismatched. Our napkins are worn to shreds. We’d been in a funk Over ugly old junk When an idea popped into our heads. Let’s get married, I said, Thinking ahead, Of crystal and china and brass. We’ll get great gifts galore, Live like Zsa Zsa Gabor. [...]