Chop chop

Gloves on

black rubber,

hands protected

splitter rumbles

feed me, feed me.

Logs lifted,  Herculean effort

Man hands strong

girl hands not so much.

chop chop, hurry up

the snow will be here soon enough,

stack it higher, up up up.

eyes searching warily for spiders and bugs,

no snakes yet I sigh relieved ,

only fifteen more cord to go before I sleep.

Log pile grows one more on, then one falls,

not much of an artist where wood logs concerned,

tumbling, falling , dogs running away,

hey bring that back here,

I need that to make the rest stay.

So I’m not good at stacking this I know well,

you can’t fire me

labor is free,

I’m just here to help so just let it be,

you can move it all later,

I won’t notice at all

just be careful while lifting

it may just all fall.

Post note….this is not the stack I made ever!!! Too pretty. Too embarrassed to take photo of my artwork through stacking.

Smoke in the box

Smoke on the water a cool tune

smoke gets in your eyes another beauty too,

smoking is bad for you we all knew,

but no one saw this coming….

unless you own a cat of course.

Nothing sacred

whats mine is yours

what’s a little cat hair

for lunch?

Up on the table

the bucket sits empty

waiting to be filled

with Mondays work day lunch,

what do our wondering eyes do appear?

But a smoke in the box

curled up so dear.

Were you searching for mice,

or a chipmunk perhaps?

Tired of hunting curled up in there

a morning siesta for huntress Smokey,

Pa’s lunchbox a perfect lair,

but now you’ve found me sleeping there,

so outside she goes to places unknown,

perhaps the beer cooler or recycle bin,

you’ll never know the places she’s been,

smokey the wandering cat of mystery.


Falling into chains

The magnificence

thunderous roar filling ears

the depth and speed to behold

wondrous to the eye.

He walked these shores

lost and entranced by what he found

a world wanderer

no place to lay his head

taken away in chains instead.

Thirty days in a hole

moving from beauty to brutality

fodder for future words

disconcerting I have heard.

For the simple crime of vagrancy

he slept in a concrete house of horrors

so close to my home

facts I had not known.

To know you through pages

I search for antique finds

to hold you in my hands

books of yesterday held by others before me.

Why was I drawn into your life

lessons from teachers or was it simply

a look in your eyes that said

That you too understand the workings

of a writer telling tales

spinning webs to be lost within

letting the soul bleed out

the only way it knew how.


1876-1916) Writer, novelist. London wrote in “The Road” (1907) of his experiences as a drifter coming to Niagara Falls in 1894, being enthralled for hours by the falls, but then (having no money for a hotel room) being arrested for vagrancy and sentenced to a month in the Erie County Penitentiary.