January 1984

All my writing in the garbage can,
Deodorant sent from someone else’s mother,
Christmas gifts from strangers.

Packing to leave the psych ward
For a mental hospital in Westchester
Where, they’ll say, an old woman,
Heir to Gilded Age money,
Spends her last days.

I imagine she has a whole floor to herself,
Muffled and dark with thick carpets,
While below her,
Removed from the current of life,
We try to convince them
That we are fine
And the world is wrong.

mossnleavesnsnow

Emerald and snow

rocksnmoss

The way in.

Mote and Beam II

It doesn’t matter what others think of you–it matters what you think of others.

It doesn’t matter what others think of you–it matters what you think of yourself.

This is the crux of the admonition: “Judge not that ye be not judged.”

Fine-Feathered Friend

Poetry by Eubie Blake. I drew this for my nature- and bird-loving friend Eileen, who is every bit as beautiful and fiesty as a blue jay.