Today is my lovely friend Jane’s birthday. I wanted to celebrate her life with a poem. Don’t worry. I celebrated it with gfts too. Do you not know me at all? Ha! In all seriousness, Jane is one of the strongest people I know and worth more than Gucci and Versace put together. She battles MS daily, and no matter how many obstacles this world throws at her, she never gives up. She fights each battle with style, grace, and an unwavering sense of humor. I’m in awe of her. You’ll never meet anyone more real or resilient. There’s no pretense with Jane, although she is a skilled and talented actress. She has some wonderful and funny stories of times spent on movie sets. She’s also brilliant with the camera. Her photography is out of this world. She’s truly a fascinating woman, blessed with the allure of charm and complexity. I’m honored to call her one of my best friends.
Jane, if you’re reading this, and you better be,(ha), thanks for being a constant in my life for the last 14 years. Your friendship means so much to me, even when we get on each other’s nerves, or clash over who’s hotter Larry David or Jon Stewart. Clearly, the latter. Duh!. Ha’. Drink every time you see “ha”. 😜 Just make sure to raise a glass to Jane. I know I am, a toast to my beautiful Philadelphia buddy, I love you. Stay classy, stylish, bohemian, artsy, and fierce. Happy day of YOU!
And now a poem 💕
Cloaked with depth and shades
of autumn. She’s sometimes
more scrambled numbers,
than transparency’s friend.
She’s walked many moonless
paths guided by light of her
Red leaves brushed by the winds
of adversity fall at her feet.
She well versed in archery,
a modern day Artemis,
each arrow a talismans of
resiliency and grace, even
in the dark, she knows the
art of letting go.
I think Jimmy Kimmel is my new favorite Jimmy. Sorry Fallon. I love his friendship with Sarah Silverman. They’re the cutest ex couple ever, I swear Sarah is aging backwards. 47 and she looks bettet than ever. Anyway, this clip just makes me happy. I’m so easy to please at times, The “woke Jimmy” part cracks me up, Have a wonderful Saturday. 💕
There are those people
who don’t need to look at you
to really see you.
They see you as you are.
Your lesser than moments
The sadness that is opulent
They’ll love you whether you’re
noteless or the feature story
written in the best of you,
whether your feet are sinking
in quicksand, or lost among dandelions
and slippery grass.
They’ll love your voice when it
deepens with life’s desire
or breaks with the frost of despair.
These are the ones who will
revive you when you’re barely alive.
When the sky loses it’s luster,
they’ll eat the clouds for you.
They’ll never be just a drifting
wind. or a splintering shadow,
a stray unimpressed with your
offering wandering off.
These people are your constants,
leaves that don’t flinch in the bitter air.
Forever entwined in your heart.
Immovable, no matter how much the branches
of your soul may shutter.
There are those people who
don’t need to look at you to
really see you.
They see you in the darkest
ravine or the midday sunlight of the pines.
These people are the backdrop
of your life, the stars who crown
you on your long walk home.
These are those you
sing the song of yourself too.
The ones who hear the potential
in every note.
And remind you of the words
when you forget how the
The cold, transparent, frozen, hand of Winter
with its heavy, shivering, fingers
and sharp yet fragile claws,
touches all it can see,
covering three season’s worth of nature
with its web of glass,
and the haunting words it uses
confirms its work has been done.
Spring’s hand gently yet forcefully
pushes Winter aside
with its leafy green, smooth, steady fingers,
and removes all of Winter’s trace
with a few brief touches
that have been rehearsed for so long,
concluding with a lovely melody
that it sings quietly with perfect rhythm.
Summer’s decorated, dextrous, talented hand
waving goodbye to spring,
while at the same time
summoning the rest of the animal kingdom,
who are attracted,
by the infinite shades of yellow,
and the hypnotically enchanting
wordless song sung with such happiness.
Autumn’s hand gives a quiet signal
to the ever rejoicing Summer,
before the ever different creatures
To paint the day in joy, a birthday poem for Tosha Michelle by Tracy Diane Miller
If I were an artist
Do you know what I would do
I would paint the day in joy
All to celebrate you
What color is a smile
To decide may be tough
To capture the vibrancy of laughter
What color is enough
Could I call upon a Renoir
Might a Monet know the hue
A masterpiece of emotion
Leaves work for a heart to do
Maybe the heavens know the answer
I could ask the clouds to speak
The wonders framed in nature
Surely must know these colors my heart would seek
To paint the day in joy
A poet writes the words
For poetry holds no judgment
In the love that is often heard
A Muse may be tired
A Muse will not rest
To journey through my soul For the words…
I watered the grudge with a
fervent devotion of a priest
giving communion. I watered
it with the determination of
a drunk on his fourth glass
of gin. The destructive
clockwork of a not so
The cactus in my heart
erupting. I watered it everyday
with a can of venom. My hands
blistering over from the hate.
The fluid and its dark nutrients
taking root, until the petals
bloomed over and clotted my
brain, until there was nothing
left but arid air, laced with
regret, and the silence of
time wasted. The stale
taste of a garden grown
on the wreckage of malice
Gone. The long reign of
bitterness. The tight reign
of hurt feelings. The shards
of anger, shaken from my
eyes. I finally see the sterile
One of my best friends is celebrating his birthday soon and I wanted to do something special for him. Niles and I go way back and we’ve been seen some (insert curse word here) Twelve years of friendship and our bond just grows stronger.
This is my tribute to a gentleman with a lovely creative soul. Niles, thanks for being you and always getting me. Love, respect and snark always.
“The Gentleman Writer”
Seemingly readable and uncomplicated
Underneath he burns like the red sun.
Unruly ghosts tapdance in his head
He orders them in poetic verse
Laying claim to a writer’s vocation
Here his imploded dreams come to fruition
He spins his hope into a July moon
Ink becomes his salvation.
as he basks in the white heat
moments of no sound.
Knowing words are a gift
His fingers loosen the bow.
It’s been awhile. I come waving a
flag of peace and unarmed.
My arsenal is depleted.
I have no time for hate or malice
I imagine like me
you want to live in peace without
the threat of guns and
claws. To awaken to the sound
of serenity, not bombs going off
in the distance.
I hope hearing from me doesn’t cause you pain.
Frankly, I miss you. Your theatrical ways,
always leaning toward a Shakespearean tragedy.
No time for much ado about nothing.
Although, everything had to be as you like it.
How you were
a master at parlor games and word play.
Your eyes a depletion
of fallen leaves and green tea.
Hair as dark as a grackle.
Arch so charming, fencing with
unseen stars. Little boy blue,
and Mary. Mary, oh, so contrary.
How our garden did grow.
Shells that pelted the ground,
causing wreckage and carnage.
It wasn’t all welts and hell.
There were days when light swelled
and sliver bells grew.
But i digress, as I climb a slide of memories,
backwards with slippery hands.
My legs lose traction,
my lungs clog with dust.
I end up on the ground negotiating
with my untapped toe.
Trying to reclaim the beat with
half recounted facts
and nostalgia’s false sense of rhythm.
Holding a few cards in the hand you deftly dealt me.
Beside me lies a map, marred
that reads let it go. Let it go.
I stand up, and realizes there’s a
tear in my heart, that I
mistook for my sleeve. I walk through the open gate,
ignoring the stained alleyways,
and street lights shaped like a question marks.
The scent of orchids lingers in
the tired air.
My soul fighting off bees and
the counter winds.
You, dear past, will always sting.