A quick shout out to my friends to let you know that I changed the title of my blog to Chalk Lines. All the posts, likes and comments that appeared in My Tangerine Days are here. Sorry to have been a stranger for most of April but my life got very busy. I plan to post about it all as soon as I get a moment to myself. Love you guys. Cheers.



A very favorite poem of mine.

Originally posted on Chalk Lines:

It is eventide over my head, like old bourbon in a glass, straight up.
We have come shyly as mosquitoes near still water,
Our flashlights adrift over dark girls in their secret boxes;
Their nights belong to the wind.

The lake loves me in secret.
In my boat I am an enigma from the shore.
I am carved from a young girl sleeping beneath the inward sky,
My left hand is black and white, my right hand is shadowless.
My eyes are wide open but closed to the lurkers behind dawn’s door.

The south wind blows scampering ghosts across a lonely lake,
Delicate creatures fall wild on my forehead and ask to see my brain;
There is no tomb to rise dead from…
No apples to bleed from…
No dragon and knight to claim as my own.

My old man limps away,
Stumbles to a blind horse amidst last year’s…

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Car Hysteria

Today, shopkeepers seduced pot-bellied old men
with brand-new cars, sleek and fast,
with shiny chrome that rubbed their trousers
and kissed them romantically
and guaranteed to stop lonesomeness.
Erstwhile minds backpedaled on leather seats.
Stale memories surfaced and breathed new air.
Deals were struck in brown cubicles
under the breath of fresh coffee.

What she feared most kicked and scratched in the backseat
of a yellow Pantera,
wanting to grow big enough to crawl out
and seduce her all over again
while her husband and she waited
for his father to sign the lease
as wordy as Shakespeare but lacking any color.

She stayed away from the thing of her past
that once bit her crotch for the taste of her sex.
Some memories are the turmoil
of a soul knotted like hair in vomit
where forlornness and tumultuousness sting.

Some of My Life In Photos

I don’t spend as much time online as many of my colleagues, friends and family do. Many of them are bold and brave and post a lot about themselves at Facebook and Twitter and other social sites. They have hundreds of friends and followers and perhaps a handful of stalkers who read their blogs and like everything they post. They have pictures of their homes, family and pets that they show off daily. They are the brilliant and courageous people in life who color the internet interesting.

Then there’s me.

I don’t spend much time online. I don’t have pictures of my home, family and pets that I show off. I’m not brilliant and courageous who colors the internet interesting. I’m quiet, thoughtful, and shy to the point that I rarely start conversations. And when I do, I rarely talk about myself.

When I posted vacation photos at my website years ago, viewers were upset because there were no photos of me. I’m not a selfie person, though I do occasionally point my camera or phone at my face … and cringe every time I do. I don’t give out private information either. For that, I’ve been accused of not being real. I’ve even been accused of being a man posing as a woman. The internet is full of crazies, and a lot of them spend plenty of time finger pointing.

Which leads to the purpose of this post.

Photos. Me. From childhood to adulthood. A few with family and old friends. Some of vacations. No explanations. Just 23 photos of me.

Maybe next week I’ll post photos of my children and our dogs. We’ll see.

1981 fam-02 dad-me 1983 fam-04 me 1987 me06-1 1995 me14 1997 me16-2 jessi nikki heather 1997 me16-3 jessi 1999 me19-1 2000 me19-2 2002 me22 angie 2005 me25-1 2006 me25-2 2007 me26-2 sara 2008 fam-12 me 2008 fam-14 alex-me 2008 me27 2009 me28-1 2009 me28-2 2009 me28-3 candi 2009 me29-1 joey 2009 me29-2 2010 me29-3 2010 me29-4 2012 me-31

To the Peeper Who Lurks at My Window at Night

You rub against me
beyond your knitted walls
Then run from the drum of my heart
and hide your empty stares

You are wingless
in your world of mocking corpses
You bleed broken knuckles against the door to empty stairs
Your shoelaces are the noose of a hanged man
whose soles are almost dead

You break the eggs of the future
with your fists of dead flowers
You watch me paralyzed until you take me
to the past of faded worlds

Vanished courage
in your halls of feeble footsteps
You hide from the echoes of a life you’ve never lived
Your fingers bleed to open empty cameras
and nail me to the windows of your eyes

Our Differences


Busy with work the past week; I did not write anything new for my blog today. Here is a reblogged favorite poem:

Originally posted on Chalk Lines:

You will see that I have changed the look of my site. Since the recent move to my new home, I have been decorating every chance I get. So when I took a tea break and came to my blog today, I could not resist sprucing my page. I chose an elegant look because my blog is my quiet place where I do a lot of thinking. Outside, the country is abuzz with the Olympics and the days and nights are electrified with curious foreigners like me. No one rests and moods are high right now. Now is a time for accomplishments. Now is a time to redecorate and unwind.

The poem below was featured at my old WordPress blog, one I shared with Candi Sweet, my dearest cousin and soul sister. The poem received an award from Tom Baker (see the award below) and was featured at his blog…

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When I, a Child


My busy schedule has kept me from writing anything new, so here is an old poem that means the world to me. I hope you like it.

Originally posted on Chalk Lines:

This is a poem about the solitude of winter, my father going hunting for deer during our November visits to his childhood farm, and I as a child surrounded by woods that seemed larger than our planet. It is also (near the end) about visiting those woods during the summer when I was older and remembering being with a boy in those woods and falling in love.

When I, a child, when I could,
I voyaged out into your cool company—
the coldness of boots pulled on at the doorstep
before walking that large solitude
of no cricket, no owl;
walking with silent snow feet among birdless woods
tossed among the taste of echoed blood
at such a time, invisible and dull by the snow.

My secret ice-making ice-haiku poems
driving me on,
letting me dream them written at twilight by fire
in the hidden garden of no ordinary lovers,

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