In My Next Life

Come and read Claudia’s fun piece – “In My Next Life”

Humoring the Goddess

In my next life I’m going to very smart…high IQ and all, tall, thin, pretty, funny, bright, popular yet grounded, excelling in Math, Science and Witchcraft. I will cook like Bobby Flay, dance like Ginger Rogers, and chat like Ellen DeGeneres. I will work out, travel around the world, and be a best selling writer.

Oh — and I will make pigs fly.

I think it would be fun to see how the other life lives. Not that my life is bad — no way, But I think it would be a little easier if I were all of the above, instead of short, pudgy, flat hair, boring job, achy body, the only one to think I’m funny, and a non-published author who is not the sharpest tool in the shed. I cook like the Swedish Chef, dance like a bowl of jelly, and I suffer from Italktoomuchitis.     

I’d…

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I Had a Dream

Come read this wistful and fun piece – “I Had A Dream”

Moonlighting Scrivener

I danced in the rain again yesterday,

Without you there to tell me it was silly.

I let down my hair and set myself free.

Shouting in joy, willy nilly.

As each drop streamed down,

Tracing it’s path along me,

From head to toe,

I felt alive again,

Devoid of sorrow and all woe.

I even drank coffee at night!

Followed by a glass of wine,.

Because, why not,

There were no more rules,

Since I am no longer thine.

And then,

I took a book with me to bed

Without you dictating the words I read.

And after I exhausted myself

Doing everything I used to love,

No longer on the rack,

I went to sleep, long and deep.

(Not before gorging on a midnight snack)

But what do you think happened next?

Because I still cannot possibly believe.

For, wonder of all wonders can be,

I’m quite sure…

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Loss of a Poet

Come read TL Cummings wonderful tribute to Maya Angelou

TLC'S VIRTUAL EXPRESS: A Train of Poetry Visits this Station

shutterstock_303645452

The teakettle sings,

toast springs,

I sit with a pen,

stare through the window.

A possum appears

from under the fence.

Two dogs bark.

A rainbow arcs over

strings of houses

like beads on a chain.

A headline above the fold,

like a row of ballerinas on a stage,

lures my eyes.

 

Poet Maya Angelou Dead at 86

She believed dance

is the closest form of art to poetry –

balance, precision, pirouettes.

My thoughts slope

on a page, words

stumble, fall. So I

lift a cup of tea,

go outside, watch

the clouds, imagine

Angelou’s words

pulling me apart,

forming lines of metaphors,

balanced in the blue.

— t. l. cummings

Shutterstock image.

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