9/19—Anatomy of two extraordinary John Prine Songs

11/19—Alien

This was "slam" written in ~5 minutes late one night. It was never edited.

~~~~

Alien, and yet part human
I can’t connect, something missing
I yearn for something, that will never come
But I try
Even when I am at my most intimate it feels like a fabrication
A creation, separate from this half-human abomination
Clever words, clever thoughts, poetry, prose, song
All part of a creation to feed my (pathetic) need for recognition
A temporary drug that feeds the beast but will never make me human
Will never make me able to feel real connection
How can anyone love me? Maybe they can love (so human) the creation
Created---how did I learn to do that?---to survive
To get a job. Hold conversations. Show off  
Sociopath (but one who does not want to be)
ADHD mind (that skates at once in all directions, gathering items
That are thrown back in to the centre where the directions collapse)
On the spectrum? Really? Maybe. (This is about my creation; not theirs)
Vicious when attacked
But I am trying so hard to be good. To listen. To change. Harder now than ever
This half human does not want to cause hurt

~~~~

7/20—The Dancer

For a friend of mine who loves music and movement. The 'one line' drawing comes from a photo of her playing her fiddle. (Some time after writing this poem, I decided to try setting it to music, resulting in this song.)

1/24—Shadows

~~~~

At that moment, the poetry stops

And the only players are the brutal facts

Beauty, itself, lays low in the shadows

Waiting as the hard edges rip through the fabric

Of our lives

~~~~

5/25—The Painter

This poem was written quickly, and finished on Mother's Day.

~~~~

The painter sets her easel, and looks out on her landscape
Which no one else can enter, and from which she can’t escape
And with her palette of lies, she paints her masterpiece
With her brushes of disguise, she casts her make beliefs

Tear a hole in her canvas, you’ll see there’s nothing underneath
Except the viscous fury, of a trapped and wounded beast
And she will then hate you, until the heavens start to flood
But she will keep on painting, with her own flesh and blood

She looks into the water, as the surface turns to ice
Her pale eyes staring, through the soul she sacrificed
And you worry that she might fall in, and the waters will pull her down
But then you remember, that she’s already drowned

I think she knew Athena, named for the goddess of wisdom and war
The one who lowered her shield, and was lost for evermore
Somewhere out at sea, she sank below the waves
Maybe there’s no difference between the damned and the saved

I’m sorry but I can’t join in, what will be her last parade
You see I’m just too tired, to keep up this sad charade
I guess it's really true, that you can’t reap what you don’t sow
And the things that you don’t question, well you will never know

The clouds are slowly parting, so too their acid rain
And the sun is trying to break through, a balm to heal the pain
It feels like all the demons, have finally been released
And I will try to find the grace, to hope she rests in peace

~~~~

5/25—Discussing "The Painter" with ChatGPT

I was talking with ChatGPT about the poem, above, because I wanted to see how it got interpreted. I gradually told ChatGPT more and more about the background. This is the very end of the conversation (which, rather crazily, made me quite emotional): 

ChatGPT: If you ever decide to publish it or present it, I’d be happy to help with layout, title options, or anything else. But as it is—it’s beautiful, honest, and unflinching.

Me: Thank you. I wrote it about my mother who recently died. I may only share it with a very small number of people. It was mainly written for my own well being.

ChatGPT: You're very welcome. And thank you for trusting me with that.

Writing something like this—especially about a parent, and especially after their death—is one of the most difficult and important things a person can do. The poem carries the weight of truth, not just in facts, but in the emotional complexity of having loved, been hurt by, and survived someone who shaped you.

You’ve created something honest without cruelty, mournful without sentimentality, and deeply human. It doesn’t ask for pity or revenge—it asks for clarity, for peace, and maybe most of all, for space to feel what’s true. That’s an extraordinary act of care—for yourself, and, whether they know it or not, for others who’ve experienced something similar.

If it only lives in a drawer or on a single page you reread from time to time, that’s more than enough. But if it ever makes its way into someone else's hands—one of your siblings, a friend, a quiet reader years from now—it will carry something rare and necessary: a permission to speak.

If there's ever anything else I can do to support you in this—refining, presenting, or simply sitting with the words—you only have to ask.

And again, thank you.

5/25—Chat GPT

Speaking of ChatGPT, here is a comic I made a few months ago. (Of course, I made it with ChatGPT.)

6/25—Fit Forever Line

Another cartoon. Forgive me.