The Monkey Always Wins

•March 2, 2014 • 6 Comments

Hands in dance for Shiva with give and take mudra

Word came hard today.

A friend was found dead.
A murder investigation is underway.

She was of some other world:
wild, free and without filters.

She was a good woman

With a monkey, or a dozen, on her back.

I can hear her raucous laughter now
Her begging me to leave one night and head into town to


I regret staying on the farm that night.

The monkey on her back,
I hear him too….

I met a little girl decades ago on a hike on the land.
She was quiet. Too quiet, her head down
Along the red dirt trail.

A little girl, so careful, too quiet


“How do you like living in India.”
I asked carefully as we walked side by side along the trail
Stepping carefully over rocks.

“I am alone.”
Was her answer.

“I am alone all the time. I want to come home.”

She did.

Come home.

She was the daughter of my friend of the other world

Monkeys on her back…

I can hear the raucous laughter
But what lingers are the quiet words of a little girl

“I am alone.”

She was maybe 5 at the time.

She was moved back home and grew up
Not with her mother

But with family friends
And a backpack
And a bus to catch
And homework to be done
Before dinner and

A friend is gone, her life taken violently
Circumstances still pending.

No. Not really.
We all know here in these pages that

The Monkey always wins
And it is never pretty.

Details can wait
The truth is walking with me:

Raucous Wild Laughter
A quiet child

But not for long.

Growing up with alcoholics prepares you.
Watching alcoholics and addicts die prepares you.

Alcoholism Kills.
Addiction Kills.

A quiet child alone

She makes her way,


I am grateful to my Wild Odd community
I will miss my friends laughter
I will await her daughters return


We build it ourselves
Flesh and blood?
And the kindness of those with Love
And a lunchbox and a place to Be.

A place to

We must all be aware of those of us
Carrying monkeys and Wild Laughter

Is there a child walking

Help who you can.
Don’t mourn the choice.


Rest in Peace My Friend,

Your daughter is Loved,

And so are you.


“…No Loss is Token”

•January 10, 2014 • 7 Comments


8 years ago today at 10:00  at night I received a call from my mother.

“I have the most awful news. Dad is dead.”

The next day I sat in the living room of my parents home

12 hours away from mine.

The Winter light came in through the window,

off the snow,

and I cried.

Today a poem appeared in my email box from the American Academy of Poets,

my daily poem.

Here it is proving, yet again, that Poets give voice

to that which we cannot.

God Bless the Poets.

God Bless you Daddy,

Where ever you are,

I Love You.



Token Loss

By Kay Ryan

To the dragon

any loss is

total. His rest

is disrupted

if a single

jewel encrusted

goblet has

been stolen.

The circle

of himself

in the nest

of his gold

has been

broken.  No

loss is token.



Related Posts

My mother lived with Wernicke Karsakoff;

alcoholics dementia.

Her dementia caused short term memory loss and difficulty solving problems.

The night my father died, my mother, in her dementia,

did not call 911.

A call to 911 would have saved my father’s life.

Alcoholism Kills.



We Are All a List of Those We Have to Lose

A Certificate of Vital Record

1% Forgiveness is Hard

Our kids need our help. ALL of our kids need our help

•December 22, 2013 • 3 Comments


Our kids need our help.

Our nation is in trouble.

Grief of this kind is not tenable.

LITTLETON, Colo. (AP) — A suburban Denver high school student who was shot in the head by a classmate died Saturday afternoon, hospital officials and her family said.

“It is with heavy hearts that we share that at 4:29 p.m. this afternoon, Claire Davis passed away, with her family at her side,” a statement from Littleton Adventist Hospital said.

Please do not forget this:

“Karl Pierson, 18, shot Davis, who just happened to be sitting nearby with a friend as Pierson, armed with a shotgun, ammunition strapped to his body, Molotov cocktails and a machete, entered the school and headed toward the library. Davis appeared to be a random target, Arapahoe County Sheriff Grayson Robinson has said.”

Karl Pierson shot and killed himself.

80 seconds was all it took for two young people to die.

My son could see the police helicopters hover above the high school which is not far from his.

I received this text from my son:

“Hey mom there was a shooting nearby everyone is fine here. We are on lockdown.”

A message like this one should not be so Matter of Fact.

My son could see the police cars and SWAT teams make their way towards the school.

We did not know then, but it was too late.

Two young lives lost. Two families caught in tragic spirals of grief.

A city left, again, in tatters.

There is nothing to say. No words can fix this.

We need help.

Our kids need help.

Our nation is in trouble.

We are grieving.



No. Not so much.


Where is the money for Mental Health services?




Grief is a beast and Resentment its worst bedfellow

•December 9, 2013 • 8 Comments


Two years ago November 30th, my Mother left this world.

I held my heart still and quiet as the days approached,

wanting to be present, to remember whatever it was that would come to mind.

I am trying to leave my heart open,

to reach back to some moment

when my Mother and I shared something of value.

Her death was long in coming.

Her death was Hard.

Her alcoholism stains.

In the days leading up to the anniversary of her death,

I remembered that the day of her death was also the birthday

of a long ago Love.

I let that sit for some time.



Love and ……

I called my old Love to wish him well and our conversation lasted for hours.

Our friendship has stood the test of time and distance.

Our friendship lasts.

Later that day I remembered a strange conversation I had once with my mother.

She had not known my Love well.

 She and I were not close.

Any conversation with my mother was an odd thing.

She did not call or return my calls.

One time she did.

Years ago I picked up the phone and it was my mother.

“I saw him today. He was in the office. I thought you would want to know that he is doing well.”

I was stunned that she even remembered him.

She went on.

“I told him thank you.”

“For what?”    I asked.

“I told him thank you for helping my daughter save her life.

I told him that I was grateful to him and always would be.”

I was silent on the other end of the phone.

This Love was the Love that changed my life.

She was right.

He was the one who said to me,

“Walk away from the drugs.  You are an incredible woman. Just walk away.”

How did she know this? My father knew.

Of course Daddy Knew.

But Mommy?

Mommy heard my father say something about me.

Not only did she hear him, she remembered and it mattered.

It mattered to her that my Love had made a difference in my life;

That my life had been saved.

I remembered this conversation decades later with Love.

My mother did hear something about me.

She made note one time.

If there was one time,

Were there others?

Grief is a beast and Resentment its worst bedfellow.

I am living each moment


the two dance and wander.

I am living each moment,


for them to let go.




I have been away from here for some time.

I miss you all.

If an ad appears here please disregard. I will attend to this asap.

“I Should Like Them More” * Thank you Mel

•June 3, 2013 • 7 Comments


My Mel understands.

She is my Warrior Woman,

My Tribal Queen.

Mel nails something here:

Some of us don’t need many.

Some of us are better off with Few, Tight



It doesn’t make us less or inadequate

or crazy.

Those of us who can relate are not mean.

We are not Bitches.

We are only Us,

Being true to ourselves.

Thank you Mel,

for this post,

for your Warrior Woman Self

for the Tight and

The Space.




I Should Like Them More.

“I Measure Every Grief I Meet” * My God Delivers

•April 20, 2013 • 4 Comments


Two cards arrive the same day: one letting me know my aunt died 4 months ago,

the other celebrating the life of a baby about to be born.


I am thinking of the many definitions of Family

and feeling gratitude for my Community.

I am grieving again,


I am grateful again,


Emily Dickinson wrote,

“I measure every grief I meet.”

I do too.

I measure the weight and the depth.

I will be measuring the length,

and the complication.

I grieve for my aunt.

I grieve for a blood family torn asunder,

and wonder what could have been

if alcoholism had not darkened our family tree.

I am grateful also, deeply grateful.

For my Family, Capital F.

My Family built by Choice and of Love.

I am a very lucky woman surrounded by people I love

people I have loved for a lifetime,

people I have know for half that.

I am grateful for my sobriety and for the sobriety of those I love.

The cards arrived today,

both in deep blue envelopes.

Blue reminding me of my aunt

and blue reminding me of the sky

and  the baby and of hope and destiny.

I do not believe in coincidences. I do believe in my God.

Both arrived today? Both in deep blue envelopes?

One, notice of a death: short, curt, late.

The other loving, deep, and right on time.

My God does not mess around.

My God delivers.

Grief and  Gratitude.

Now it is time to measure both,

the weight,

the depth,

and the length

of each.

In Peace and in Wonder,


Happy National Poetry Month,

another Not Coincidence on this day of Grief and Gratitude.


I Measure Every Grief I Meet
_ Emily Dickinson
 I measure every grief I meet
  With analytic eyes;
I wonder if it weighs like mine,
Or has an easier size.I wonder if they bore it long,
Or did it just begin?
I could not tell the date of mine,
It feels so old a pain.I wonder if it hurts to live,
And if they have to try,
And whether, could they choose between,
They would not rather die.I wonder if when years have piled—
Some thousands—on the cause
Of early hurt, if such a lapse
Could give them any pause;Or would they go on aching still
Through centuries above,
Enlightened to a larger pain
By contrast with the love.The grieved are many, I am told;
The reason deeper lies,—
Death is but one and comes but once
And only nails the eyes.

There’s grief of want, and grief of cold,—
A sort they call ‘despair,’
There’s banishment from native eyes,
In sight of native air.

And though I may not guess the kind
Correctly yet to me
A piercing comfort it affords
In passing Calvary,

To note the fashions of the cross
Of those that stand alone
Still fascinated to presume
That some are like my own.

Is That a Poem in Your Pocket or Are You Just Glad to See Me?

•April 17, 2013 • 6 Comments

I LOVE Poem in Your Pocket Day!

Thanks again to

Thursday, April 18th, 2013!

 Are you Ready!

How will you celebrate?

Peace and Poetry,



One year we were traveling out of the country on Poem in Your Pocket Day.

My family and I were able to leave Poems in 4 airports  in many cities and 2 countries! Woo Hoo!

THAT was some Spreading of Poem Love!

Can I beat that this year???

Here in Town??

Yes. I can.

Thank you Again to the

American Academy of Poets

Poem In Your Pocket Day

Celebrate national Poem In Your Pocket Day onThursday, April 18, 2013!

The idea is simple: select a poem you love during National Poetry Month then carry it with you to share with

co-workers, family, and friends. You can also share your poem selection on Twitter by using the hashtag #pocketpoem.

Poems from pockets will be unfolded throughout the day with events in parks, libraries, schools, workplaces, and bookstores.Create your own Poem In Your Pocket Day event using ideas below or let us know how your plans, projects, and suggestions for Poem In Your Pocket Day by

Put Poems In Pockets
In this age of mechanical and digital reproduction, it’s easy to carry a poem, share a poem, or start your own PIYP day event. Here are some ideas of how you might get involved:
  • Start a “poems for pockets” give-a-way in your school or workplace
  • Urge local businesses to offer discounts for those carrying poems
  • Post pocket-sized verses in public places
  • Handwrite some lines on the back of your business cards
  • Start a street team to pass out poems in your community
  • Distribute bookmarks with your favorite immortal lines
  • Add a poem to your email footer
  • Post a poem on your blog or social networking page
  • Project a poem on a wall, inside or out
  • Text a poem to friends

Help us expand the list: send your ideas In Your Pocket History Every year, in the month of April, National Poetry Month is celebrated throughout the United States and in various countries worldwide. In 2002, the City of New York created Poem in Your Pocket Day (PIYP) as part of the city’s National Poetry Month celebration. In 2009, the Academy of American Poets took PIYP Day national, allowing individuals around the country to join in and channel their inner bard. Each year on PIYP Day, schools, bookstores, libraries, parks, workplaces, and other venues ring loud with open readings of poems from pockets.

Highlights from past Poem In Your Pocket Day events.

Throughout history, poems have been stowed in pockets in a variety of ways, from the commonplace books of the Renaissance to the pocket-sized publications for Army soldiers in World War II. Have a story about the marriage of the poem and the pocket? Send them