Blue and Gold

Cold the color of the chill

Out the window

Two dark fluffy Blues

Surrounds a peach like Gold

That is separated once more

By a light Blue


Blue Blue always cold

But no, this time Gold

Stands clear

Bright, welcoming

Shows a heat, warmth

Lost to that of the Blue clouds


Neither Snow nor rain would fall

Fall through that Golden light

But it fades away

Days light setting in the evening

Now the color of the cold takes the night


A sound of concentration and the fast pace of the beating of the needle on fabric.  A silent sound of wants and accomplishments.

How eerie the thump thump thump can be when knowing the diligent seamstress pours her heart out onto the fabric, in colors that bleed into the seems like paint. Such a hard task. Laboring away.

No one knows the pain of heart beats. No one can hear the throb of the machine and the body. No one but the seamstress.

Midnight Sessions

Long nights

Converse over hard work

In small kitchen

Concrete lined ceiling

Linoleum floors of white




No fake food or cook utensils

Small width tables

Made of plastic and metal

Long enough for all

When pushed together





Easily filled

Friends pile in

Spread out with labor

Sit next to helpers

Online and written work




Play Disney music

Blare as we sing

“Be Prepared”

Advice unheeded

Distract from the important




Yet we rage quite

Pour our frustrations into

Detailed heartfelt conversations

We fight back rage and sorrow

Another road block hit



Sex Ed

Desperate to finish

We wait till its midnight

Till sleep filled eyes

Says enough for one day

Complete the Midnight Session


Oh meatball,

how you disappoint

those who think you are meat!

How could you deceive such

innocent youth who await your savior?

No instead they find green slime

inside, reveal pieces that are not red meat.

The ooze drips in slow motion

mimicking drips of maple syrup.

Your outside, meatball, is too dark.

Six on a plate imitates charcoal for fires.

I bet you would work well for a fire.


As you get pushed to the side, oh meatball,

how do you feel uneaten on the plate.

But you are a trickster aren’t you

holding fast to the fork when almost tossed,

your unsuspecting victim panic’s.

Forced to stuff such vile creation in their mouth.

How indigestible you are,

prey keeps mouth shut in struggle

not daring to swallow.