Author of the novel WHEN YOU LOSE CONTROL

I'm not of my generation I was born 50 in 1987 I grew up in love with Greg Brady I desperately wanted to be friends with Marcia Brady and The Monkees I just found out that Rob Zombie did a Munsters remake My elderly heart is full Netflix and chill

New Dawn Art Center Ashburnham, MA Tuesday nights Coming 10-18-22 All writers, all levels! All are welcome!

Idyllic She peered into  the second story  gable window of the old white  farmhouse at the tall boy penny pencil in hand bent over  his words, his world. Gold rimmed glasses framed his  handsome face as a dreamy smile graced his lips. He seemed to glow brighter than the afternoon sun shining down  on Virginia. She longed  To feel the way he must feel. To create and story tell the way he did To have what he did To enjoy the love and richness he was blessed with She wanted to escape into his world to love and live and experience what happiness could be. This writer had it all, a welcoming farm with kindly Blueridge people The lovely mother who sang and baked The strong father who provided Six brothers and sisters with the most enviable red hair and  A vulpine grandpa and ironing grandma It seemed so perfect even it wasn't.  The Depression, the war.  The uncertainty of the time but even still, even still they had each other.  They had ...

Writers retreat! Four days of glamping. Cabins and pinecones and critiques and ponds and fireplaces and sharing. Creating and editing. Bundling up and exploring and trying new things. Meeting and fellowship. Fun.

Spooning, "I miss you." Turning around, face to face. That's much better, smooch.

Polydactyl cat With the ocean colored eyes Sleeping in a sink 

I fell to the wayside  on the brick patio in the cast iron bistro chair when I saw your incredibly handsome  and beautiful  face. Wait not among the cobblestone,  nor the honey, nor tavern with colonial chairs and pewter mugs. Nor at the saltbox or old red school. Here is not for you. You were, are, meant for more and greater. Go out, sally forth,  be the model. Your tattooed arm and pierced ear and perfect beard belong out, in, and to,  the world. Open neptunic eyes of galaxies. There is much and more for you. Under umbrellas when you should be under stars, or in them, or one of them! Go, with all you have, go! Leave the black and white and storm the world.  

Big fences make good dog yards A safe place for  Two silly doggies To run in circles  And play canine WWE To sit in the sun And nap in the flower bed Good fences make  Happy dogs

It hurts All day Every day More so Now And that's A good problem In that I'm writing And Editing Constantly  And getting So much Closer

To whom it may concern.  To whoever is in charge. If you're even there, In the skies and clouds And divinely invested in Football.  Please, hear my  Plea May Mac be swift and accurate, Everything we know he can be.  Guide him, our captain, our captain. May the offensive line protect him. May he have many targets. May the defense stop and intercept. May special teams be special. May the whole team come together as one to dominate and win. May we win at least 11, though 17 would be better.  May the season be fun and eventful, with no injuries and few penalties. Please hear this plea and make this New England Patriots season the best ever.

Sunday night and you're still hangin' around Tired of listening to your dumb ass critics You'd like to find a little hole in the defense, For yardage So you went to the gym, got new swol arms And you read Bills playbook and stopped ice cream It's like some prolific change for the better And you smile Captain Mac will get you through tonight And take you to your special W Captain Mac will get you by tonight Just a little pass, and we'll be smilin' Oh yeah, ... So you stand behind the center in your New England clothes And you look so polished from your hair down to your toes Ah but still you're going to show all the non-believers  After all,  Captain Mac will get you a win tonight And take you to your special victory Captain Mac will get you points tonight Just a little rush, and he'll be smilin' (To The Tune of Billy Joel's 1973 song 'Captain Jack')

Religious abuse of the past never really leaves us, does it? The anti-women rhetoric. The hypocrisy. The anti LGBTQIA+ hate speech. Child abuse. Mental torment. Anti accepting. Anti love. I could go on for pages.  I haven't been in that school or that church for decades. It must be close to thirty years by now. I still think about the torment. The loneliness. How cold the building was literally and figuratively. Seeing churches now with openly LGBTQIA+ leaders, churches flying Pride flags...it's great to see, but there are still decades, centuries, of abuse. It's so scary to fear when these old demons will come back to haunt.  I came across a picture someone posted of some graffiti they walked by, and it read, 'religion is a great way to hide from god.'

All at once, everything happens. Dreams and cousins growing up and things getting started and putting yourself out there and allowing yourself to hope and take-up space without apology. It's dizzying and scary and fun and thrilling and exhausting all mixed in one beautiful jumble. 

I slide one purple harness  Over a catahoula And a red harness Over a beagle Click in place Click in place Wrap the leashes  Around my  Aching wrists We walk outside Walk through chirps Squeaky squawks  Flapping Leather wings The bats are out They fly in  Wobbly patterns They must live In the trees out back But we cannot see where I wonder if the dogs Care the bats Are there What do they think Of the sounds Do they see And hear Maybe chase A strange bird?

At my sign post. What's up ahead? What's my next stop? It seems this is reality now. It seems like this is happening. I want to say, I've done it. And I think, soon, I really can.