The cerebral rules

gut absent, missing

core connection


use the core, they say,

and I think, how?


there is that nagging voice

small and muffled

judging and preachy

right, mostly. right.

I tend to ignore her,

douse her in wine

just let me get on with this

– I don’t care what you think-

how has that gone?

it’s autumn

I’ve got no winter destination

I’ve got no peaches canned in the pantry

I’ve got no retirement plan.

only the roof leaking

and endless leaves to rake

and rodents scuttling

in my crumbs


I haven’t listened


Thanksgiving and I am thanking, and giving, giving thanks for a bloody long weekend and a break from it all, a chance to breathe sweet, cool, autumn air and crisp, dying leaves that fall, fall.  It’s fall, after all, and I am thinking of thanking, thanking my family, my good parents for giving, giving, loving so deep and solid.  Thank you.  Thanksgiving, and oh – crikey – the gravy.  Lordy, what a feast.  And the loon will be calling on the lake – a call that asks – why, and when, and demands to be heard now, hear me now, yes, and a sky that only quits when the stars have gone to bed and there isn’t anything left to thank today.  Thanksgiving, giving thanks for this body, this life, this breath, belly rising and belly falling, and spine bending backwards in supplication for it all, and yes – there is anger to breathe through and pain, there is sadness – so much sadness.  We ride it, like the breathe, and we break it up with laughter, sometimes improper, but shit – damn – we do what we have to – we live, we fight, we struggle to accept our faults and to love our weaknesses, we know we will only truly love others when we succeed in this plight and still the days tick by, paycheque by paycheque, and the lady in the cafeteria says I get a free coffee tomorrow, and there is some hope for tomorrow and the next day, and in two days time a sweet long road trip with the kids and I singing along and daydreaming and moving away, beyond, toward, thankful.  Giving.  Giving thanks.

OK Cupid Found Poem

I am helplessly fixed to the charm of your look

Do I really want my hands in your hair as much as I think I do?

I’m not a great cook

Definitely into a late night chat, a bag of chips and bottle of wine


You look amazing…

Can I ask how recent this pic is?

The deep emotions mirrored in your eye

I’m new on here and looking for a long- term relationship


I know this is going to sound maybe forward and possibly weird and I don’t mean to offend you but would you pretend to be my mom?


I come to Vancouver pretty often on business

Your beauty is incomparable just like your smile is so bright like the dew

I guess my future love won’t give me her number

I love your hair. *blush*


You are so pretty and feminine

You could help me physically and sexually

I wish I had a special female friend to have dinner with, laugh with, or walk with.

Maybe someone who would take me to go look at pretty clothes?


I’m a goat header

Goat header?

Goat herder.



Hey there, so you’re extremely sexy

I was wondering if you would like to maybe get together with a younger guy?

Sup mama. Your pics really attract me

I love being a man

I love being a man


I love being a man.








Bridget Jones – again

Bridget Jones.  Again.  A third movie is never a good idea, but here we go.  The first two times, Bridget was bashed for being fat.  This was laughable, as the woman was only a size 10 or 12.  In the 90’s, a woman could only play a fat person in a movie if in fact she was not the least bit fat.  And then she was still berated for being too fat.  Things have progressed some thanks to female comedians who pound at these stereotypes.  Amy Schumer, for example, proudly announced “I’m probably 160 pounds right now and I can catch a dick anytime I want.”  Yes.  Sexy isn’t about size – it never has been.  Nor is it about age.  And this time Bridget is being bashed for being too old.  She’s 47. She’s the same age as I am.  Yes, 47 is old to have a baby.  I personally have no interest in attempting such a feat.  But older men in movies play new dads ALL THE TIME and nobody bats an eye. The double standard at play here is so old it went out with the Playboy mansion.  It went out with the 8 track.  It went out with avocado coloured bathroom fixtures.  Don’t know what those are?  That’s because I’m old.  And fabulous.  Get over it.


Identity – a place you go –white walls and stiff-backed chairs -a break – an absence, a lull


Identity – a cat arranged across an outstretched arm – softly purring – how to let a man take that place – if it ever happens again – after so long with just you and the cat.


Identity – meeting a new man – his eyes take you in – all such a façade – he will find you out – feel the soft beneath your solid.


Identity – watching your face and body age -things shifting, sliding – inside, you are twenty five -your lips still full and red – not that pale, washed out lip that now meets you in the mirror.


Identity- young folks act like you are of another generation -which you are – but they out you. They notice. They make you feel it.


Identity – a place you go at 3:00 am – awake, on fire, needing air, alone, searching wide-eyed,