Here's one place to share your Napo offerings if you want.

Started by Gyppo, April 01, 2021, 10:37:13 AM

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Alone on the porch swing
as the mist lifts and swirls around
my head, at the break of dawn
while the sun undresses the mountains.

Mockingbirds sound off and repeat
with the morning chorus of life.
The world wakes up to
the dew's fading kiss.

"Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read." -Groucho Marx

A child's life is like a piece of paper on which every passerby leaves a mark. -Chinese proverb

Blondesplosion! ~Deb




Beloved art teacher, John Brothers' old house
on Cliff Avenue overlooking
the sleepy town of Fillmore
in the Santa Clarita Valley.

They greet me on my daily walk.
Three sets of big brown eyes,
satin brown coats, behind white noses,
and twelve feathered hooves.

It's obvious to me
they are a family of high breeds -
a mare, an adolescent colt
and a younger filly.

Sometimes the mare greets me with a nicker.
I respond with, "Hey pretty baby."
They gather at the edge of their pen
to watch, follow me along their confines.

I long to pet their noses and greet them
but it is considered poor etiquette
to pet someone's horse without permission.
The urge to break protocol intense.

The barriers of a drainage ditch
and strategically placed cacti
make an approach impossible.
We resign to become curious friends from afar.

In an exchange of unspoken kindness,
and peaceful agreements that transcend
the ability to physically connect. Our third eyes
meet an undercurrent of interconnectedness.

"Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read." -Groucho Marx

A child's life is like a piece of paper on which every passerby leaves a mark. -Chinese proverb

Blondesplosion! ~Deb


April 28 (late again)

Count Down

Life expectancy: female living in California,
eighty-three years. Four more to go
and I'll be living on borrowed time.
Borrowed from where, certainly not the future.
I get it--it has to be paid in advance.
A red tailed hawk sails from low over my roof
down the canyon. Never flaps its wings once
the whole trip. How much time: knowing
this might be my last memory of hawk flight,
that pain, how much now do I owe?

Does the soul fly away and forget this wonder?

USA Life Expectancy (


Napo 30 - 2021 - Cripple?

Back when 'cripple' was just a  medical diagnosis,
not a pejorative label or insult,
I went to visit Dad at the respite care home.

Twice a year he spent a week there,
giving Mum a break from full-time caring.
She didn't want it, but it was good for both.

His shared room was empty,
his wheelchair missing.
They'd paired him with 'Mr Dennis',
having decided they had a lot in common.
Dennis could move, slowly, with a pair of sticks.

"He's a whining bastard,"
Dad privately confided.
"But maybe he's got a good reason,
his wife walked out on him."

Dad was paralysed down his left side,
following a motorbike crash.
Needed help to get in and out of bed

But in wide corridors he could get around. 
Kicking himself along with his good leg,
braking one wheel with his good hand
and spinning around to back in through doors,
all designed to be wheelchair friendly,
or shouldered open by a nurse with filled hands.

I headed for the lounge, found him in the corridor.
Charging along, barging doors open,
then spinning away to the next one
after a quick look.

His face white and set, a rare but known sign.
His Viking-red beard bristling.
Way, way beyond mere anger.
Something, or someone,
had pressed his Northern Berserker button.

But when he saw me he stopped,
spoke very calmly, another warning sign.
"Hello, Son.  I'm looking for that bloody Dennis.
I'll swing for the bastard if I can find him."

I never doubted it for even a heartbeat.
He was a gentle man, good with his family.
But a willing warrior if necessary.
I saw much bigger men back down,
faced with that cold determination.
His 'protector' gene was strong.

A nurse appeared, flustered,
grabbed the wheelchair handles,
spoke soothingly, pushed him back to his room.
"We've moved him to a different home, Ginger.
You'll never have to see him again.
Matron promises this."

Dad looked doubtful,
but his face relaxed a little.

I found out later Dennis was still there,
cowering in the nurses' room,
one of the few with a lockable door,
up a few wheelchair proof steps.
But 'Patient Transport' was coming.

As another nurse bustled in,
and bagged up Dennis's possessions,
Dad started to believe them.

When we were alone I asked what happened.
"I won't speak his filthy words,
but he said bad things about your Mother."

Later I got the full story.
Dennis, to cheer his own dark life,
had 'cast doubts on Mum's morals'.

Overall, I'm glad Dad didn't reach Dennis.
But I wouldn't have stood in his way.



As I relaxed today, outside the pressure cooker world of Napo's relentless 'one a day schedule'...

One more sneaked in...


In the creative vacuum,
the silent hollow,
where Napo reigned
like Brigadoon for thirty days,
my Muse straddles her motorbike
and goes off for a short break.

"See you soon, Big Fella.

"Give the keyboard a break.
Use your fingers to make bread.
Make a Mayday Votive offering,
twisted from freshly harvested branches
and blossoms.
Hang it for all to see,
an unashamed pagan.

"Dance the slow ritual steps
to welcome the Summer.
Balance is restored."


Here's the tune...


I've been writing ever since I realised I could.  Storytelling since I started talking.  Poetry however comes and goes  ;-)