Letting Go (Senryu)

Disordered Living

A struggle against lifes’ flow

Take His hand; let go

I have been in DBT therapy for Borderline Personality Disorder.  It is so very hard, but I am trying to let go.  With the help of God’s grace and faith and the Bible I hope to put on the “new man” as Paul describes it and be a model of Jesus in the future.

Senryu: same as Haiku structure but the theme is generally related to relationships or feelings while Haiku stresses nature

Ode to the Hair We Wear

Oh hair, individual and  follicular!

Though dead, you are a MANE attraction.

For we as humans are most particular

to positive or negative hair reactions.

Centuries long, you are ever evolving;

changing our human portrait anew.

Scientists, working long, still solving

how to keep more of you.

This chameleon changing image

(a transient gift to most)

leaves men  in a saving scrimmage

desperate to model  head as host.

The first change that many make

is to cut, curl, shine or color

if their image is to be replaced.

For hair changes, like no other

changes “the look” to those in haste.

Oh what men will try when hair is dying

the “comb over”, toupee (to name a few)

does not leave the women sighing

and wanting more of you.

The title “hunk” is often symbiotic

with great hair, along with other attractions.

Although styles are transient and quixotic

they are positively related to hair fraction.

Many image worshipers spend much time

on the current “creative” hairstyle craze.

Each Era thinks them quite fine

“What awesome hair” the worshiped phrase.

Hindsight twenty-twenty, generations next

find the hairstyles so adored quite ridiculous.

Of course their elders, tasteless and un-blessed

were sloppy, mundane and un-meticulous.

I fear our cultural worship of hair

(though silly, short-lived and vain)

will always be a-kin to  beauteous fair;

unless left out in the rain.  🙂

For a great style, if new and rare,

no matter the time or pain;

will achieve many a copy and stare;

And that is quite insane!


It’s amazing to me how an inanimate strand of protein-collagen complex can rock our world.  The glory of hair transforms self–esteem, gives iconic and succinct explanations of our day (as in “having a bad hair day”), crowns the world of fashion and Haute Couture, and supports a multi-billion dollar industry.  Before cancer I had great hair.  Long waves and curls, thick and cinnamon honey colored.  Now, I have a thin, somewhat curly, medium brown HOT MESS!  When I had great hair I did not understand the power of hair.  When I had no hair I was overwhelmed by the nakedness and loss of my only beauty.   Now I can sympathize with the ache of hair loss that so many men have to suffer through, even though my hair did return, though but a frail shade.  My hair will never be the same, and will always remind me of my body failures.  But my poem portfolio would not be complete without a nod to this ever changing obsession, set in a humorous style.  I hope you can laugh with me as I strip away the universal hair craze shared with humans throughout the centuries.

Rigid Thinking (Fibonacci)


Game On!

Inner moves,


colors our inner perspective.

Positive or negative thought patterns create moods.

Black pessimism or white optimism? Wise choices change the outcome of your game.

Fibonacci poems use the fibonacci sequence.  Each line contains the number of syllables in the sequence (1,2,3,5 etc

Odd poem you say?  Let me reframe it a bit.  I recently watched a thought-provoking documentary by BBC personality and journalist Michael Mosley called “Don’t Worry Be Happy”.  In it Michael explores the basic makeup of his personality and learns how to modify his naturally negative perspective.  Research into personalities has shown that persons with a natural bent toward optimism life on average 7 1/2 years longer than people who see ‘the glass half empty’.  Michael has chronic insomnia and anxiety and his personality testing showed that his right frontal cortex, where negative emotions are generated, was three times more active than his left.

Michael started a program to modify his negative thinking using two proven therapies. Cognitive Bias Modification is a simple process where one looks at mixed facial images and picks out the pleasant and happy faces for 10-15 minutes a day.  Mindfulness meditation is a process where one clears the mind and focus’ on deep abdominal breathing starting with a few minutes a day and working up to 20 minutes a day.

At the end of 8 weeks Michael  was sleeping better than he had in years and felt much more relaxed.  His re-testing showed that his right frontal cortex was only slightly more active than his left, a remarkable improvement.

Can depression and dark thinking lead to illness? It is known that persons with mental health disorders live shorter lives than the general population.  I believe in the mind-body connection, and I wonder whether some of my medical illnesses will some day be traced to my negative perspective.   I am the girl who, at age three, had two very interesting sentences to everything:  “I can’t like it” and “I can’t want to.”  While my family has laughed over that over the years, I wonder if I would have been healthier had I been given the skills to change my inner thinking.  To change what is so ingrained is a daunting task indeed.

Addendum:  I actually posted this a couple years ago in another blog. I did not know that I actually have Borderline Personality Disorder.  It is often misdiagnosed as Bipolar.

Ode to a Dust Mote


Floating tiny flakes of skin;

insidious, ghostly, an infinity within;

Combined, dust upon dust without end

you infiltrate every crevice and crack!

With futile attempts to catch and send

your army forces stick and stack

and drive our enthusiastic dusting friends

on ever aggressive dusting attacks

as we spend  our money, millions a year,

on expensive and exotic dusting gear

in futile attempts to hold you back.

Author of many allergy sneezes

you puff unknowing into our nose

and attack with sniffles and wheezes

just adding to our dust-laden woes.

Breathing in untold millions of dust

starts a cascade to dust unseen

as trapped in gooey mucus must

make them claustrophobic and mean.

Our bodies do not like you, not one bit!

Moist or dry, brown or green,

our ever vigilant cilia filters

clump and clog you as “bugger-shit”.

On rare moments we cease the fight

to view your beauty, your free-floating form,

visible in unstirred filtered light;

unfettered, your graceful circular flight

temporarily stops our dusting storm.

And on a more serious note,

you remind us of the Biblical quote,

“Ashes to ashes and dust to dust”

as in death our bodies must

return to a simpler, easier form.

I am allergic to dust (or more likely, dust mites), so I have air filters in all the bedrooms.  But with four cats, four litter boxes and four people, dust is an enemy never conquered.  The only time I have real allergy issues is when I “dust”, and since I hate to dust  because I hate to sniffle and sneeze, it collects and coats every surface before I give up and remove it. Of course, removing it is really just a joke, all I am doing is swirling it around a bit and getting my immune system all riled up.  But it looks better, which is the goal of housekeeping, so I keep at it when my dust threshold is hit.  But there are times when it is achingly beautiful, and it was in contemplation of a moment of silent filtered light that inspired this poem.

Ode to the Air We Share


 I never hear persons with germ scares

fear the “healthy” air they share.

For all the air that we breathe,

is blown out from other lungs indeed!

Respect for air that moves here and there

should be our primary creed;

sharing air should also be nasally fair

and gas should be carefully freed.

For I do care as I sniff from there

and my lungs do deeply breathe,

the malodorous scents and body vents

that constantly assault my bronchial tree.

 As children we are frequently taught:

“the tissue is our nostril’s best reprieve”.

For some reason we prioritize nose blows

and covering our faces when we sneeze.

But the simple fact is that ANY breathing act

is recycled refuse,  an unfortunate lot!

And that is an air sharing fact.

It does gross me out that I am breathing in what you just expelled.  We are all really just one big organism.  As  I write this at the start of yet another epidemic (Chinese coronavirus), it is a pertinent reminder that we are but a sneeze or cough away from the Big One.

Ode to the Nose that Flows

Our day quickly becomes distracting

when we have a nose that flows.

For we cannot help reacting

when our smeller becomes our foe.

There is nothing so subtracting

as when its color turns red as a rose.

And red noses are certainly detracting–

for in the toilet our looks go.


Whether an from allergy or cold

our sniffling, snorting woes

make us push up tissues to hold

the mucosal waterfall hose.

Most people take whiny issue

when sneezes shake their toes.

When people throw their tissues

selfishly here, there and down below,

sides are drawn and  friends become foes.


But ahh, a benefit to a snotty nose;

some days are meant for these mean lows.

For now and then we are meant to rest

and a flowing nose is an obvious show

and an excuse that is just the best!

My tongue-in-cheek homage to winter colds……

Ode to Newly Fallen Snow

Night, star-sparkled world of white,

bright as new moon-lit glow;

secretly blanketed through the night,

a smooth-scaped uncrevassed show.

This white-hued world blinds my sight;

this fragile beauty, though transient,

forces mankind to slow-manic rush.

 In this untainted frail-frozen landscape, lovers’ lament

as children play and cars quickly crush,

and life slows, captive to  the whirling torrent.

White canvas transforms to dull, dirt-blackened slush.

Beauty, like new formed snow, endures but a moment.

Star-bright eyes, unwrinkled smooth brow, youth’s first blush;

there must be more to slow, sagging, life aging torment.

Like faces, love for this transient beauty turns to mush

An “18 incher” was just part of winter life growing up in Pennsylvania.  There was nothing more amazing as a kid then to wake up to mom yelling, “School is closed today!” and then feeling that glorious, hyper-screaming, jumping-up-and-down moment, relived far and wide. There was a set of unspoken “rules” to the day. Get on my  snow suit and regalia.  Get a shovel.  Fall into (then) thigh high snow.  Play with my brother (who always shoved me face-first in it).  I would come in cherry red and get hot chocolate, dead tired but satisfied.

Missouri is quite disappointing in the winter.  It rarely snows, preferring ice storms to their softer cousins.  Now as an adult, either of these weather messes bring a very different view, mainly stress and aggravation.  But when one has nowhere to go, plenty of food, a great fire and time, virgin snow still is a beautiful gift.

Ode to Saggy Baggy Pants


Who could think that fashion  would sink

to wearing pants under your bum.

This drives most  rational dressers to drink;

while this is quite “swag “ to some.

Teens these days with butt showing ways

are immune to eye rolling stares.

Don’t they know that the low pant craze

is not something people want them to share?

As usual they think that their “shit don’t stink”

otherwise they simply don’t care.

I cant imagine why holding up  their pants

does not drive them insane!

If they knew how silly the wiggle dance

looked, Im sure they would refrain.

And who wants to see their underwear

that often is nothing to brag about?

I certainly have no desire to “see down there”;

some bums are simply not meant to hang out.

I have threatened to lower my own pants in protest

(although the poor souls in my rear view

would not appreciate my mid-life jest)

just to offend this generation’s teenage crew.

But as my butt is saggy, dimpled and fat,

I shall refrain from  embarrassing you.

Some day their child’s teenage craze

will make teens today scream and shout.

Until then, we smarter persons must bend

to suffering this embarrassing craze out.


I love this poem!  While I am a passionate poet, and often have my best stuff when I am in gripped in an emotional upheaval, my favorite poems by far are my silly “ODES”!

I am DEVOUTLY hopeful that the decrease in “bum-swag” is suggesting that this awful phase is on the outs.  I wrote this earlier at a time when all I saw was the penguin walk from young men with an aversion to belts or decency.  But fashion never stays around for very long.  I hope that I will never have to see another pair of peek-a-boo underwear again.  But as this is pretty humorous, I hope you can grin and maybe show it to someone still clinging to this silliness.