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Eleven Eleven Ninety Nine,

the day this comfortable house became mine.

It matches, first glance, all others round the block

Same roof, same shutters, same initial plant stock.

I should be ashamed, as a child of sixties fame.

They ARE made of ticky tacky; they all DO look the same.

Tho’ they’ve  changed o’er these years as we’ve lived, loved, and lost.

I’ve added, for instance, more  flowers than most.

More daisies, more lilies, more iris, more roses.

Bright poppies seeded for great June poses.

Even my tree, my poor suffering ash

grows against all odds ’round its cruel looking gash

where we cut out the blight caused by dastardly bugs.

The pesticide worked, ‘long with frequent tree hugs.

Yes, the yard, front and back, is chaotic, small splendor,

Like the kind you would get putting all in a blender.

Not the neat, fine order of my neighbors’ straight bricks,

rather,  here a plot, there a pot, grape ivy ’round sticks.

A prickly, old rose from the ancient prairie (I did not plant it)

crowds the bargain lilac near the Hansa quite hairy (I do like it).

I planted six strawberries, back in two thousand two,

which now reach the  hundreds growing just where they want to.

Inside my small castle, things are not much finer

by the standards of any highly paid designer.

I know hardwood floors are the dream of most.

I chose commercial carpet; the color of toast.

It’s dark like a floor, and comfy, and soft,

and though a bit tailored, would look great in a loft.

My walls? well they’re sad, with colors galore.

I paint was high as I can reach, then I am loath to do more.

It makes me tired, my arm hurt, that’s all I will say

It’ll all get done some fine day.

My furniture suits me…my long, green leather couch,

my Eastlake setee, where my Grands like to slouch.

The turntable ready to give the Allmans a spin.

The trolls, and the books, and the crucifix – thin.

From the cross hangs a dearskin medicine bag,

hand beaded for me, a gift from a dear hag.

(Forgive me, dear Margaret Forster, wherever you are,

it’s just that hag rhymed.  YOU are truly a star).

I shall continue this analysis at a later date.

There’s work to do that simply cannot wait.

Time to head to the front “office,” with its red IKEA chair

and the bed with the red quilt.  Emil Catt is always there.



Spam! Spam! Spam for lunch!

If you try it, I have a hunch

you will love it a whole bunch!

You can fry it for some crunch!

You can eat it with pink punch!

Smoke some weed with canned Spam munch!

Tie your hair back with a scrunch,

then fix yourself some Spam for lunch!

Spam! Spam! Spam! Spam!

How I love my Spam for lunch!



Blast this gift

It calls me from the living room

Spread out in bits and pieces

Initially heaped and piled

Now beginning to fall in place

Driving me mad

Usurping my time

My sleep


and days

And nights

It grabs me on my way to the coffee maker

Pulls my eyes to that notched edge I sought for hours last evening


It was right there


How could I have missed it


This does not match the image on the box




Its colors trick the eye

Changing nobs to points

Clouds to puddles

Depending on  light and shadows

From back  windows

And pole lamps

It feeds my foibles






Back pats

Silent cheers


Finally total satisfaction at tearing it completely apart

And sending it to the next junkie




He actually thinks
I placed this stool
in front of my computer
so he can jump up
and sit on it looking at me…
He keeps looking at me…
What do you want?!
No treats for you
until you get off my stool!


Drove up I-70 to Georgetown

where I lived in ’85

the air was crisp,

the shops were filled,

the hills were still alive.

I shuffled through Ophelia’s

craved bone china white and blue

old books loved

toys well played

and dragon puppets, new.

The Shoppe Internationale

beckoned as of old…

Swedish toys,

Norwegian trolls,

Bright blue glass trimmed with gold.

Crossed the street to use the lew

in the warm and toasty library,

Intriguing book

of sailor’s yarns,

and others made me tarry.

Drove back ‘longside the deep cold lake,

thinking of thirty years past…

but,  does no good

to think too much,

can bring you down too fast.

So just there, ’round ’bout Downieville,

I turned off the frontage road

and joined the traffic

sailing past;

put down my punishing load.

Turned on the great new stereo

in my great new true blue Mini,

turned up the tunes

and sang along,

Made it home with smiles a plenty.

and a Fond Farewell

Thirty years ago I met a man who needed a loan from the bank where I was manager…we became true and fast friends, hiking the hills in the valleys ’round Glenwood and Aspen, cross country skiing wherever we stopped the car, eating and laughing at all “the valley” spots, even camping up past Crystal City…then he fell for a rich gal with whom he built a luxe cabin high up Four Mile… I could not stand her, though I tried, so our friendship stopped, and I married a good guy, which marriage did not last long, so I returned to Denver to live where men shine their shoes and work is plentiful…through the years he popped in when he was in town, shoveled my walks when I was recovering from surgery, celebrated a birthday now and then, held my grandbabies when they were tiny…my Jules and I watched his first parachute jump, and he and I celebrated Y2K at Julie’s house head bobbing to Prince like it was 1999…His beloved screwed around on him, forced the sale of the dream cabin, took his money, and when she couldn’t/wouldn’t find work, she’d show up on his doorstep and he’d give her a bed…the mother of his children, donchyaknow… she’s just a disgusting, skinny-assed skank, Rox… these past six months or so, he’s lived in Denver, and we’ve once again hiked the hills, explored new restaurants, attended museum openings, seen great flicks, and solved all the problems of the world and family in long, hilarious talks… I can’t say I was ever in love with him, but we get each other, y’know? which is better, to my way of thinking… and it has been lovely to have someone who knows me from way back just hangin’ ’round… until yesterday, when he off handedly mentioned that when his lease is up in December, he’ll be moving back to Glenwood, back to the house he owns up there, where she, the harpy he “detests,” lives with his 20 year old son…back to his family… they need him…
I need no one, I suppose, or so I told him when I said I’d just as soon stop seeing and talking to him while the Summer is still upon us, and the sun is still high… I’ll miss him now or later, so I’d just as soon start while I have beaucoups distractions, holidays to plan and work to do, rather than mid Winter when things are slow and lend themselves to gloom… Fare thee well, Christopher Zoot Brules Anderson Sims…has been grand, as always…we shall both be fine and well, and better for having known each other… but we’re both way too old to keep doing this, so I’m done now…and finally glad to say it….


I am kept ever humble…

whilst tearing out  errant vinca vines from out the front garden, I reached down to pull up my sagging socks, only to realize ’twas the skin round my ankles drooping there



as smooth as

as clear as

as fragile as

and delicate as

and graceful as

but strong,

and leak proof,

thank God,

lest one drop o’ Dalwhinnie be lost


Blasted purple eye!

I meant only to arrive,

not fly up the steps




Maxwell Gavin Phinneas John

went to bed with his Nikes on

and his Monsters Inc tee, and his Comicon cap

he set his chess board on his lap

squinted and pondered  and stroked his chin

touched his nose, gave a very wide grin

then made a move ne’er before seen

in any chess game in any known scene

he jumped his knight up two over one

then moved very quickly until he was done

check mating the queen across the board

so smoothly he moved, oh my sweet Lord,

in just two more moves, yes, check mate in three

he threw out his arms and laughed with glee

Max made major history that day weeks ago

and now he is planning another great show

…stay tuned for more from our Max!


Granma  6/22/16