Monthly Archives: December 2019

Orcas ISland

Ode to Orcas Island Sisters

They’ve hiked a long way from a fashion model’s runway stride.
These women in their knit hats, leggings, cotton dress,
mud boots to visit the flip bags at low tide
in Judd Cove. They climb Mount Constitution,
up and down with new baby on their backs, no less.
Hearts full of love, so full it does not hide;
Everyone they see, they smile and bless.
They own the bookstore, gift shop, hotel, rent kayaks bay-side.
Local lambs they call by name as they gently pick field greens;
Dressed to perfection with fresh salmon on the side.
They are living their simple organic paradisiacal dreams.
The amazing women of Orcas Island will abide;
These ladies are. I hereby profess,
Strong examples of being happy with less.


Black Friday

How could so much mass hang on one side of a human frame?
Can that poor man sit down? Stand up? Who does he have to blame
Unable to bend over and touch his or even see his feet?
He can’t be hungry. 100 pounds of flab at least; yet he continues to eat.
It’s disgusting, ugly, an affront to the miracle of humanity.
He avoids mirrors, hates portraits; embarasses his loving family.
Tsk-tsk, in denial he shovels it in with awkward abandon
Spilling stain spots on the few shirts that still button.

Princess Linn refused to let her Science Officer
Wear a stained Blue Shirt.
Yellow Klingon bird droppings may befit a Red Shirt
They don’t show on the Captain’s officer-class Gold.
Blue stands across from yellow on the wheel of color.
Princess Linn could not let this spot grow old.
Acting quickly, she armed her stain-erasing Phasor,
Set to Sodium Hypochlorite; warp-speed thrusters reverse!
She obliterated the ugly alien dirt,
Leaving behind a faint map of the known Universe.
Illogical? Does not compute?
Is this blue shirt worth all that and more?
Yes, to one who boldly goes
Where no woman has gone before.

Little Yellow Spot

My long-sleeved Oxford cloth, pressed, cotton,
button-down collar, light blue dress shirt
Has a little yellow spot.
It’s spice stain from mussels in curry
with French bread dipped and sauce dripped.
I ate very carefully in the upscale restaurant
in Portland Maine’s converted textile factory
with an urbanized view of the Fore River once dammed
to drive the spinning and weaving machinery,
operated by lower class, underpaid young women,
new immigrants, long before Me Too.
All gone now, gone overseas to other farm girls
now living in New Delhi or Keqiao,
Oxford cloth made in places where coriander cumin
and turmeric are not exotics
and yellow drip spots don’t show on old fat men’s
brightly colored tunics.