40/40 Poetry Project · Poems · poetry

40/40: Summer Poem Slam-a-bam! – Day 12 – “Dappled Spectacle”

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“Dappled Spectacle”

We lived on the second floor growing up.

The sounds of neighborhood proximity danced through the screens and curtain sheers on sunny shadowed mornings.

The aliveness of the day pulled us out of our sweaty summer beds, and coaxed us out, out.

At times, our apartment felt like the sun, and we would need to escape outside to a Bunker Hill breeze.

There was one box fan for the whole apartment.

It toiled, satisfactory, but disappointing.

A dip in the Clougherty Pool, could take the sting off.

Then we’d play endless evening rituals, while our mothers squatted on park benches and smoked butts.

The Slush Guy would come ringing his bell.

Small 50¢, medium 75¢, large $1.00.

Lemon, Watermelon, Banana, or a Rainbow.

We’d haunt our mothers until they fidged quarters and moist dollar bills that smelled of tobacco from their change purses and cigarette cases.

My mother always kept her potential cigarettes in the refrigerator. She’d say, “it keeps them freshah.”

Summer nights lasted through orange-blue skies, that got further into shadow, just as the games of hide and seek would start to get good.

Then we’d hear the call.

Time to go back to the heat rising second floor walk-up.

Sweat the night, and be up all the earlier the next day, to get out into life.

A very special thank you, to the neighborhood of North Mead St. a great place to grow up, and share with so many great people. I truly miss them all, and dance with their ghosts as they wind their way through my head.

40/40: Summer Poem Slam-a-bam is a project in which people have joined me for 40 days and 40 nights of on-demand poetry. They have submitted the concepts, ideas, and subjects; I’ve done the rest.

Poems · poetry

“In anticipation of your death”

Photo Courtesy of Pixaby-Link Here



“In anticipation of your death”

In anticipation of your death,

I wanted you to know,

that we wasted so much time.

That, we barely scraped the surface of truth between us.

So much is left unsaid.

So much won’t be said.

The majority of this was done out of psychological survival.

As your weapons grade narcissism,

only allowed for one person to speak at a time.

You were always this person.

In anticipation of your death,

I rejoice at the notion, that your gravity will no longer influence my orbit.

Mistakes were made,

people hurt.

Squandered days and nights,

nothing put right.

The truth between us:

you took me for granted, and I enabled that in you.

I thread the needle of spite, with a spool of gradual disappointments.

I will sew the seams of our straitjacket life,

and desperately donate it to charity.

Hopefully, it gets caught in a wayward dumpster and tears beyond repair.

Once it’s gone, I will breathe again.

Once you are gone, I will breathe again.

Poems · poetry

“Hickarado Incorporated”

“Hickarado Incorporated”


Thirteen years of friendship.

Partnered by choice.

Three testaments to teamwork.

A dog, a girl, two boys.

pats fans

A house once, now a home.

A barking business in the wings.

School runs and droopy diapers.

Life’s marrow, these little things.


Regardless of the ledger,

and all that we’ve been through.

There is no other human,

I’d do it with, but you.

skys the limit


Thank you for your attention,

and continual support.

Life’s easier to weather,

With you, Lissette, I’m sure.


Top Ten Tuesdays

“Top Ten Tuesdays: Top Ten Ways to Procrastinate”

Here is a list of the Top Ten Ways to Procrastinate.


10. Asking your kids to find their shoes? – a surefire way to procrastinate is to ask your sock-clad children where their shoes might be? Nevermind trying to corner them with logic, they will never ever remember where they last left them. The look of blankness that comes over their pudgy little faces, if you are naïve enough to ask them about the location of their footwear, is unparalleled. Probably, something akin to the look Michael Cohen had when the FBI raided his office in search of a silver bullet. Be prepared to send out an expedition to find the shoes, sneakers, flip-flops, jellies, etc., because your children that can remember every promise that you’ve made and subsequently broke for a greater good, somehow can’t remember where their stinky little foot coverings are. They could be standing in the center of the room, with their shoes hanging from the ceiling on a fishing line right in front of their faces, and they would be unable to see them. It would be as if the Romulan Empire came back through time and space and put a cloaking device around their kicks, so that no one could ever find them, and there would be no possibility of a Neutral Zone infraction. In summary, looking for your kids shoes is one of the biggest time sucks in the universe.

“If The Shoe Fits” © Lissette Alvarado 2018

9. Taking a nap – opinions on this might vary, but a nap is a great way, if not the greatest way to procrastinate. Just imagine you have a laundry list of thing to do, well, wouldn’t they all be more easily accomplished with a good 1-2 hours of rest to put you in the proper state of mind. Naps are the greatest thing since, well, naps. Children generally don’t have the capacity to understand the importance of a nap. Once they pass through pre-school and into kindergarten, the nap is eliminated from their repertoire. They actually bring that behavior home, and expect to stay awake for the entire day, helping to send Mommy and Daddy to the asylum. All parents know that no-nappers are crank-yankers. As Ricardo Cortes so eloquently put it in his book of the same name “Go the Fuck to Sleep”!  When our children reach adult life, only then will they have a true grasp of the value of a nap. Then we can laugh in their faces and tell them to buck up. They must learn for themselves the tragedy that naps can’t be banked, and are totally underrated. I can think of no finer way to put off the inevitable, than by stretching out on a divan and getting unconscious for a spell. Whatever needs to get done, will eventually get done, and hopefully by someone else that is disgusted with your inability to get it done in the first place. I like to dream about these folks while I’m napping.

“Sleeping Beaut” © C.P. Hickey 2018

8. Doing the dishes – this is my Go-to subterfuge in the domestic realm. If you don’t believe me, ask my domestic partner. She’ll go on record just to shame me for my aversion to most forms of housework and all of the diversions I create to get out of having to do them. I could wash dishes all day long, most especially if it means that by doing them I can get out of having to do laundry, washing floors, dusting, etc. Just give me some dish soap and a sponge and I’m a happy guy. My domestic partner and I play a game called “Fill Sink/Empty Sink”. Her objective is to cook an omelette, but to use 9 dirty pots and dishes to fill the sink. The play then passes to me, where I empty the sink onto the sideboard. Then in the ultimate of strategic moves, she makes a dessert with another 6 pots and dishes where she fills up the sink again. Stalemating not only happens in chess, but in Democratic National Conventions and in dishwashing. Nothing like dirty stagnant bilge water circling the drain.

“Drained” © C.P. Hickey 2018

7. Looking in the fridge for something to eat – I’ve spent countless hours of my life opening refrigerator doors and staring deep into the void. There is no Alchemy that can brighten and enhance the juxtaposed vessels populating the inner universe of any fridge I’ve encountered. To my mind, a refrigerator is a place where food goes to die, and then subsequently is a place that needs to be freed of spoiling encumbrances. So, the fridge is really a twofer: a good place to stare endlessly with indecision as well as a place to curate organic waste that could do harm.

“Re-frigged” © C.P. Hickey 2018

6. Suggesting to your spouse that it might be a good time to have sex? – a huge time bandit; suggesting to your partner that you should indulge in the pleasures of the flesh. You got married, forget it. You got kids, forget it. The great irony of having kids is in having sex to get them, and then they become instrumental in you being unable to ever have sex again. Trying to convince your poor partner to put a little steam in your stride after they have taken care of a mob of littles for 12 hours, has all the appeal of waterboarding. The amount of time you spend trying to convince someone to allow you to play patty cake is amazingly large. The actual act itself, not so much.


5. Facebooking – Unprecedented in wasting frivolous amounts of time, social media is the antithesis of being social, and quite clearly is the biggest and greatest waste of time in our current age.  Moments are precious and few. Getting a daily dose of your conservative friends calling your liberal friends snowflakes and vice versa just melts my patience. Facebook is full of opinions, and people who hold opinions are monstrous assholes. A little humility is what the Dr. Ordered, drink up. A new app is being developed called SavingFacebook. It will help people regain their dignity once Facebook fails, and you also gain an additional swath of time. Facebook = time-suck.


4. Working hard to make it look like you are working while at work? – if you put as much work as you did into doing the actual work, rather than working twice as hard to make it look like you are working, then maybe you would get some of that to-do list done. Wasting valuable work-time by giving counterfeit efforts as an end to a ruse just might make you a professional procrastinator. The downside is that you always need to look busy,  the upside is that they pay you for it. Procrastinators of the world unite and takeover.


3. Looking for something to watch on cable television? – going through all the channels, all 999+ of them, and there is still nothing on. Trying to find something to watch on Cable Television is akin to finding something edible in your fridge. You have zero to little chance of finding anything to watch but network singing contests and brainless fodder. In addition, there are way too many channels, and too many of those channels are in other languages you can’t understand. For instance, the BBC Network is impossible to watch without subtitles. I really wish they would speak English. You can spend days surfing through channels looking for something to watch, days. I can’t believe I pay for this shit.

“Control” © C.P. Hickey 2018

2. Cleaning one room to avoid cleaning another – Popeye’s pal Wimpy would gladly pay you Tuesday, for a hamburger he could eat today. I am Wimpy to my wife’s Popeye, only my idea of paying you on Tuesday for a hamburger today is to clean rooms that don’t need to be cleaned, rather than the ones that actually do need to be cleaned. So far the strategy has confused only me, and left my wife in a state of consternation. I suppose I will be sleeping in a different room, rather than the room I should  be sleeping in.


1. Marathon pooping – The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants? Not quite, more like The Brotherhood of the Dropped Drawers. There are many ways in which men and women are different animals, but I’m not here to enumerate on all of those differences, save one. Potty Time! Men and women log toilet time differently. Women are precision drones that hover over their target for the minimum amount of time required to deploy their payload. Once that is done, they leave the target site under the radar, and it is very likely that no one will ever know that they were ever there in the first place. Quick, clandestine, secretive. On the other hand, Men approach Potty Time like a fortress siege. Provisions are stocked up, the walls are secured, and they settle in and wait for the bombardment to commence. This is simply one of the greatest ways to procrastinate. The bathroom is theoretically the only place where privacy still matters. That is of course unless you have children. Naturally, they can’t find the shoes they are looking for, but if you were huddled in one of the hundreds of bathrooms of the Mirage Hotel in Vegas, trying to read the Fiction piece of the latest New Yorker, it is virtually guaranteed that they will be able to find you before you can get half way through the first sentence of the piece. Children are great siege enders, and along with hating naps, hate the boundary of a bathroom door. All bets are off on procrastination if your kids are home, and you are looking to peruse poetry and prose while marathon pooping.

“Stalling” © C.P. Hickey 2018


0. Reading a self-help book on how to mitigate procrastination -the Mobius Strip of Procrastination: procrastinating a behavioral change by reading a book about the best books that can be read to change your procrastinating behavior. Speaks for itself.


-1. Helping a friend with a task that needed to absolutely get done this very minute – this might be the oldest trick in the book. Whenever something needs to be done at home, and you want to avoid it, you need to find a friend that needs help moving, fixing something unfixable, or just needs company in avoiding whatever they are trying to avoid. This is procrastination in harmony. Why waste time by yourself, team up and let that synergy create waves of wasted time. You know how they say that misery loves company, well so does procrastination.

General Musing · Writing

“Wholly Thursday”


Yesterday, while lost in the drudgery of work, I started to make free associations in my mind. These associations set my flux capacitor in motion, and allowed me to traverse to my distant past. Such flights of nostalgia are a regular occurrence for me when I need to escape the current landscape and its inhabitants.

Where did this journey take me?

It brought me to the wilds of my youth in Charlestown, MA, circa 1983. I was a third grader at St. Francis de Sales Parochial School, and I had just affirmed my “Catholic Card Carrying  Status” a year prior by becoming a novitiate in the sacraments of Penance and First Holy Communion. 


These developments were significant, because it allowed for me to participate in the fellowship of Altar Servers.


I was very fortunate in my experience of being raised Catholic. I can thankfully say I was not involved in the surrounding controversy that overshadowed the Archdiocese of Boston, or the entirety of the Roman Catholic Church in those days. To my knowledge, none of those atrocities occurred in my parish over those years in which I or my contemporaries participated.

We were allowed to explore the tenants of our imaginations as directed by learning within the framework of a parochial education and the insularity of a community that had suffered significant economic (the closing of the Charlestown Navy Yard in 1974) and educational (Boston Busing Desegregation) changes in the decade prior to this period. We were children of a generation that followed in the footsteps of our parents, taking the long walk to the top of Bunker Hill to attend St. Francis de Sales. We learned about God and life.

My trip down memory lane was entirely apropos, as it focused on the importance of Holy Week. Holy Week,  is significant in the Catholic Church because it marks the culmination of the Lenten Season, which is typically a time spent in prayer and introspection, in which we choose to make a small behavioral sacrifice to symbolically honor the sacrifices Jesus had reportedly made in the period prior to his death.

My inner clock must be finely attuned to the past as all memory and subliminal forces converged to help me to remember these things during the current Holy Week of this Liturgical Year.

I recall with fond feelings all the wonderful things that would transpire during this most holy of weeks. Being an altar boy gave me a bird’s-eye view of the rites and pageantry of the celebrations that took place from Palm Sunday through Easter Sunday. Our parish Pastor, Fr. Daniel J. Mahoney, was the Master of Ceremony,  and he deftly brought the production to the standard of an upper echelon Broadway show. Albeit, with more precision and a lot more solemnity.

The first year as an altar boy was mostly a year of passivity. You learned the ropes and patiently waited in the wings for the older altar boys to hand down the duties as they advanced. When I started altar boys in 1983 we had upwards of 225 altar boys on the roster. Each boy was assigned a numerical position on the list. It denoted hierarchy and respect. If someone was above you on the list, you were compelled to follow their leadership.

As beginners on our altar boy journey, we quickly learned of the advantages of membership. The vast undertaking that we came to know as Holy Week, stole us away from classes and our school responsibilities. It placed us in the upper church  and downstairs chapel for mass and  processional practice. We would enter the darkened church in those early AM mornings with sparse rays of light shining through the stained glass windows and the singular flame of the “God” candle sitting atop the altar in a red receptacle. The “God” candle is the indicator that God himself is present in the church, and it must never go out. Ever!


We would trudge through the dimly lit church, a legion of lads, with just barely enough space for a yawn between us and the people in front of us. We’d be paired up, reminded to fold our hands appropriately in the praying position, and to above all else, remember our place in the queue. We would practice the procession out of the sacristy, onto the altar, down the side aisles of the church, up the middle aisle, and finally with uniform precision split off and genuflect before entering into the appropriate benches. We were then tasked with uplifting our thoughts and voices in prayer in order to lead by example, or more accurately to inspire  the parishioners to attempt their hands at gaining God’s Grace.

DSC_0092 Portrait

My best friend at the time was Tommy Macneil, he and I were a pair of gigglers. We laughed at almost anything that happened. We pretended that the rice bowls that were relegated for money donations at the back of the church, were puke buckets. Naturally, we would exaggerate our motions and make grand gestures of faux sickness as we passed by. We also made fun of others in our class, in other classes, as well as the stable of aging priests. Tommy and I had become fast friends during out time together in grades 1-3, but the new adventures at church further cemented our friendship. It allowed for us to share new experiences and fashion the few blocks between our apartment homes on North Mead and Belmont Streets as a universe of which we believed ourselves masters. I’m quite certain that there was a song making the rounds back then, sung by classmates. It went along to the G.I. Joe cartoon theme song, and it also involved our friend Jeff McCabe. It went something like:

G.I. Jeff, Chris, and Tommy, fighting to save the day!

Those were the “Stand By Me” days, and being altar boys, we got to see plenty of dead bodies at funerals. As for that, I digress. My main aim here is to talk about the period of time that celebrates the triumph of Jesus over death, Holy Week.

So, our Padawan Altar Boy training began in earnest on Holy Week, with a sharp focus on the series opener, Holy Thursday Mass.

Fr. Mahoney embraced the baseball metaphor in likening our five masses in four days to a World Series of sorts. This metaphor was wholly embraced by the collective, it was easy to grasp, most if not all of us were in little league, and were ardent fans of George Brett, Wade Boggs, and Jim Rice. Fr. Mahoney would even walk along the periphery of the church pews with a clipboard in hand with all of his signals and master plans. We never saw what was on it, but now when I think of it, I like to think it was blank, and that Fr. Mahoney just kept all the information in his head, using the clipboard as a prop for effect. On time in a Fitbit anger he smashed the clip board into half a dozen pieces. Lifelong friend Joseph Walter Krol was near enough to pick up the pieces and hand them back to Fr. Mahoney.

We practiced, and practiced, and practiced, until we had it down. We were as precise as the Drum Corp of Majestic Knights marching through the streets of Charlestown in the Bunker Hill Day Parade.

All we had to do was show up to church, in our black cassock, and white surplice, ready for the show.

Such a time…such a life… we held little or no responsibility, and the world seemed an  ordered place that was overseen by an omnipotent being, whom we were readily appeasing with our preparation, prayers, and actions. The celebration of the holiest week of the liturgical year became an event that was looked forward to annually for me from 1983-1988.

While sitting at my desk in work yesterday, this mountain of memory washed over me. I was electric, paralyzed. I immediately called the parish rectory at St. Francis, and inquired if there was a Holy Thursday Celebration scheduled for the evening? To my delight an answer came, “Yes, starts at 7pm.”

I texted my wife to beg her to take on all of the night-time responsibilities of my house: putting the kids to bed, walking dogs, etc.

I explained. She agreed. I soon found myself traveling to Charlestown on the 93 Bus. It became another time machine for me, as many things remained the same, but a lot had changed. I was in the present, in the past, and in the future all at once.


I rolled off the bus at the corner of Pearl Street and Bunker Hill Street. It wanted to walk to St. Francis by going up Bunker Hill Street, as my parents had done, as their parents had done, as I had done all those years ago. The streets seemed more narrow, the houses smaller. The audacity of my youth allowed for the space of Charlestown to measure a world. Living outside of Charlestown for a number of years, humbled my perspective, and afforded me a deeper appreciation for just how precious the confined space of the one square mile truly was.

I continued on up the hill, sidewalk panel after sidewalk panel. It started to mist, and then rain. I was coming home to a flood of emotions, and the sky shed tears for my boldness. I approached the top of Bunker Hill Street and held St. Francis in my view, as if it were the first and the last time I would ever see it.

I had to experience it, and know it was real, as if that action would constitute a line of connection to all of the shadows of the past, that quite frankly to my recent mind of interminable doubt seemed an illusion.

Did all of that really happen?


I crossed the street, and ascended the stairs to look inside the well-lit church. I felt a tug of a spirit, and noticed movement in my periphery. A hatted figure strolled by and took notice of me, he wasn’t a ghost, and neither was I…



My lifelong friend, Dan Marcella, as chance would have it, was walking by the very spot I had just been standing on prior to crossing the street.

I went back across the street and we shook hands and embraced. Dan, a well-timed messenger sent to validate the life I left behind, a life I treasured for its foundational importance to me.

Dan and I parted with a promise to get together at a later time to swap storied memories of mischief and meaning from our formative years. After all, a rambling stone gathers no moss.

I returned to the entrance of the church and then the inner foyer:

Then I used the holy water in the wall dishes to bless myself, and proceeded through the swiveled doors. The sound of which is so unique to me, that I would be able to identify it blindfolded.

Before me, rolling out from back to front, was a familiar sight.

My church.

Despite a few superficial changes, it seemed as if time stood still. I recognized the space, and at once understood the importance of having such a space.

I started to see other parishioners trickle into the church pews. Some I didn’t know, many I did. Community giants of my youth appeared loyally in the benches familiar to them. Looking perhaps a bit more frail, and with a little more white on top. I could see my future in their forms.

I took great solace in their participation. It was active, yet of a comfortable grace that belied any doubts. Actually, no doubts. Just a fierce love of the experience.

Prior to the service, Joan Rae passed by my pew and gave me a wonderful welcoming smile and hug. She is one of the church giants, always a fixture in the community and serving for years as the parish liaison and primary assistant to Fr. Mahoney.

It was exactly what I had been looking to find. A bridge between the nostalgia of youthful experience and acceptance of the adult reality that weighs heavily on youthful imagination.

The grace of it seemed certain to me. I felt changed, but unchanged. The world can do with me what it will, but when in Rome…

The familiarity of the mass was reassuring. Most of the rites were the same. I remembered all the readings.

An added bonus, Fr. Mahoney was still there.

A miracle of age and faith. Probably, the greatest Giant of my youth, outside of my Parents and Uncles. He was still presiding over Holy Week. I got there early enough to watch him give guidance to the current batch of altar servers, not quite 225 strong, but a modest retinue wholly devoted to insuring that the services came off well.

I didn’t spy a clipboard, but I imagined one to be there.

The mass went well, they hit all the points.

Two points of particular note:

1. During the Eucharistic prayer there are intervals when the main celebrant offers the gifts up to God for consecration. During these intervals, outside of Holy Week, a tree of handbells are rung to indicate the gesture and the transubstantiation of the gifts of bread and wine into the body and blood of Jesus Christ. On Holy Thursday, this ringing of bells does not happen, but is marked in substitution by the clapping of two wooden boards (imagine two cribbage boards laid out together and then a hinge affixed to them so they could loudly clap together). In respect to being a man-child, I recalled all those years ago, in 1983, when Tommy Macneil and I kneeled side by side in our respective pews and this event was fresh to us. Naturally, we giggled, and not the kind of giggle that leaves shortly after it begins, but rather the kind of giggle that turns into a loop of giggles during what can seriously be argued the most important part of the mass. Well, I would be remiss in not telling you the reason behind our giggles. What Tommy and I would do, prior to the loud board clap, we would suppose the bare ass of any of our friends or perhaps the bare ass of Fr. Coakley or Fr. Duffy being caught in between the clapping pieces of wood and their subsequent reactions. It was too much to handle for 9-year-old boys. And Tommy, if you’re reading this, it was too much for a 44-year-old man child last night. I giggled for both of us, you were there in spirit, Brother.

2. At the culmination of the Holy Thursday service, the transubstantiated host is taken from the main altar, and placed in a satellite altar, for a period of adoration. This occurred last night with the main celebrant bringing the chalice containing the transubstantiated host from one altar to the other, while walking under a special awning, carried by four parishioners. This abbreviated action struck me as bittersweet, as it was in the past the main feature of the night (to my mind) as all 250 altar boys moved in procession around all the aisles of the church do all parishioners would be able to share proximity to the body of Christ. When the main celebrant grabs the chalice containing the transubstantiated Christ, he does so with the aid of a garment that when worn gives the priest the appearance of a bird of prey with a substantial wingspan. Which he securely wraps around the chalice for safe transportation.

Last night I made a pilgrimage to a fixed point in time. Along with the ghosts of my past, a giant of a man, and the embrace of a community, I discovered that they had not forgotten their prodigal son, I can now say with great faith, that what I thought was interminable doubt, ended up being a heart that needed to remember that you can always find a sacred space to return home to.

General Musing · Uncategorized

“Two Uncle Mikes Walk into a Bar…”


bachmr-dooleysThe year was 1995, and I turned 21 that year. It was an auspicious time, filled with many misadventures and many happy circumstances. I was blessed with a great deal of luck and privilege, and my guardian angel surely deserved an award for guiding me past any and all adversities that came my way.

On Thursday, March 16,  I crossed the threshold at 77 Broad Street, around 5pm, wearing my Tartan Scally Hat. I was to meet my Da there, for an after work birthday pint. To those not in the know 77 Broad Street, Boston, is one of the finest drinking establishments in town, Mr. Dooley’s Tavern. It is a place that is both small and large, and contains the kind of charm that a wide-eyed late teen/early twenty-something would covet from afar when starting to desire and plan to drink legally.

Somehow, the word got around to my Uncle Mikes (I have two Uncle Mikes, a paternal and a maternal ) that I was meeting my Da for a pint at Dooley’s. If there is a crossroads of time, or an alternate universe where I could re-experience this night again, I would do so. The magic of it is well remembered and cherished.

I sat and waited for my Da to come, and in walked my first Uncle Mike.


He was also wearing a Scally Cap. He sat and we shared a drink. A moment later, my second Uncle Mike walked into Dooley’s.

100_0814  He was also wearing a Scally Cap.

Last but not least, in walked Da, and you guessed it, he was wearing his Scally Cap too.

The mood was convivial, and I felt as if I had been baptized, brought into the club, as if I was one of the guys. It felt great. It still feels great.

On this, the 23 anniversary of that event. I thank the universe for such a gift.

Although, Da has moved on to Broader Streets,


I still have my Uncle Mikes, and when I lift a pint, I think back to that night, huddled in a booth,


sipping pints, four huge Irish-American heads covered in Scally Caps, welcoming a young lad into the fold.







“Roaming” © Lissette Alvarado 2018






The furniture is worn.

The toilet is clogged.

The countertop is sticky.

Children live here.


Chocolate fingerprints on the couch cushions won’t come out.

It sounds like a busy bus terminal most of the time.

There is the dreadful quiet moment when a realization occurs, it is the sudden realization of being within the “they’re up to no good” moment.

Children live here.


The wood floors have scratches.

The door hinges are loose.

There are teeny tiny LEGO stalagmites left for dead.

Children live here.


I found a jelly bean, a piece of popcorn and a fork inside the couch cushions.

The toothpaste cap is missing.

There’s a pair of mittens over there, full of potential.

Children live here.


There are sleeping toddlers.

A sleeping baby.

Mommy and Daddy awake.

Children are loved here.

Poems · Poemvember-November 2017

“My Body Is My Home”

Please enjoy Poem 7 for the ProCrasstheNation Poemvember Poetry Project. Inspired by Maliha M, this poem reflects the intermingling of my body, soul, and mind within the place I spend most of my time.

“Hogar Dulce Hogar”


“My Body is My Home”


My body is my home.

A homebody.

Bodies within a house, called home.

Soul home.

A temple.

Quiet and noisy with the business of life.

A confederacy of lifers.

Full of squeaky pumpkin pine floorboards.

Poorly painted white door-frames,

grimed with greasy fingerprints around the knobs.

Ivory light-switch panels,

darkened by working hands over time.

That one light that lights every time,

despite, the bulb not being changed for a score of years.

The jiggle of the toilet flusher,

that is familiar to constipated conscience.

Thanksgiving Turkey-Dinner aromaville,

a lulling hypnotic smell ensnaring.

Ripped elbows in all of my shirts,

because a screw from the screen door rubs against the material,

as I hold the door for others.

The third floor landing giving views obtainable.

The creaky, clanking, metallic pings of rigid radiators finding all the hiding spots,

hissing, snarkily at my rising chill.

The basement door locked lazily by a latch that toddlers can’t reach, yet.

A weathered post it note asking comers to knock because the bell no longer works.

Cape Cod mats collect the world at the doors,

most of the time.

A little gets in.

An aging home,

full of love, and laughter, and tears, and dreams, and scared of the dark.

What ghosts mirror our passage through this space-time?

Windows open in the Fall and Spring,

Allowing the breeze to soothe the anxiety pressing outward and inward.

A sweater provides portable comfort.

Vanilla cupcakes baking in the kitchen.

Bacon gurgling and popping past the toast, as coffee punches through the morning dread.

Nowhere else can harbor the heavy heart and head quite like, this place.

A confederacy of lifers.

Quiet and noisy with the business of life.

A temple.

Soul home.

Bodies within a house, called home.

A homebody.

My body is my home.