Well Off Better Off

The privileged…

The privileged rarely recognize

That they are privileged;

And we’re all privileged

To somebody.


There are those who think

We should be more grateful,

And they

Are probably right.

Photo Credit: © Sjm1123 | Dreamstime.com – Sitting And Watching Photo

Days of Magic and Illusion

… Way back when …

I’d love to be a fly on the wall
Way back when
We first met

I’d like to see if I could tell now
That you never really loved me

I want to see how I missed it
How I believed your lies
Hell, if you believed your lies

Falling in love like I did
Is a kind of mental and emotional illness
That blocks out reality
In place of something made from imagination

And while I can’t go back and change it
Maybe if I could go back and see it

I could forgive myself

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Fly on the Wall.”

His Name

This happens to some fathers.

The truth is, no one wants his name.
His wife chose to keep hers the same:
Saying, that’s who she’d always been
And asking him to not require it
For them to get married

What’s wrong with it – he thought – my name?
Does it somehow bring guilt or shame?
And yet he knew ’twas not her point
And didn’t change the way he felt,
But marred the hopes he’d carried

That she, unlike his ex, would feel
A love for him so strong and real
She’d not pretend in public that
She had no one at home at all,
But carry his name gladly –

Alas. His son’s now told him that
He’ll change his last name, too, and stat:
Of his three children, two are step
The son’s the only one who had
His name. Now that’s done. Sadly –

The truth is, no one wants his name:
They’ll take what he gives all the same,
For he is nothing in the end
But just some sort of

Photo credit: © Jimboudreaux | Dreamstime.com – Sad Man On A Bench Photo


Even the gentlest reproofs make one think.

I’ve been told I shouldn’t like my own posts.
This does sound like the right thing not to do —
Since one assumes I liked it in the first place
If I inflicted it on all of you

But that’s not strictly true. I find, rereading
I don’t agree with much of what I say;
But when I write, I let thoughts wander freely
And save critiquing for another day

To me then, what’s remarkable is not that
I’ve clicked on “like” for some stray word or mote;
But that, with fifteen hundred posts, I have not
Liked much of anything of what I wrote

But yet, I write: for it is my obsession.
I seek to justify why I am here —
But find, too often, all my words seem empty
The futile capering of
A puppeteer

Melatonin-Flavored Ice Cream

They don’t make that?

To me
A blog prompt is like
A drive in the country

It might be amazing or banal
Someplace familiar or
Someplace I’ve never even imagined seeing

But it is interaction
It is life
It is blogging

And after a long country drive
Out in the sun or storm
I get back home
To a nice cool dessert
And fresh sheets in bed

For my favorite flavors
All maintain a delicate balance
Of new and old
Novel and familiar

Exploration and rest

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “32 Flavors.”


To my friend.

A life is not a collection of facts
It’s real people
With real pains and real joys

When all the joys were gone
And the pain constant
She went searching

To find… something,
Something she’d lost

And on shores something like those
She’d walked in childhood
She found it