where the writers are

September 11







Consolidating fuzz into yarn makes me a friend to sheep everywhere.   Spinning the filaments of truth into cables of life does not impress the mutton in anyway, but sure does my mental health a world of good.  Free floating fiber is bad for my lungs and piles lint all around.  Giving things a firm twist pulls together what used to be fluff and keeps me warm and dry.






Jones for candor






I cry the waterworks so necessary to the healing of my heart.

I explode with the fireworks required

For anger to set living boundaries.


I sleep the sleep of angels, as I link to dream works

Allowing mental maintenance to occur,

Slip into my political face, making time for public works.


I return to my abode, call the pie maker and order “the works”.

Have it delivered so I can face the homework

Waiting for me and bearing my name.