I love a clean slate
an empty journal
a list of dreams

I love the kiss at midnight
the toast with champagne
waking to waffles and fruit  

I love the ritual
a fresh spiral notebook
a box of colored pens

I am ready for a new year
ready for the next chapter
in the story that is us

no wonder there is confetti everywhere

snowman • lost mitten 
that crunching sound underfoot
frigid winter walk

There’s no goals where I live now
just play

there’s no struggle past 70  
just yes and more yes 

there’s no sorrow to wish away
just joy

there’s no resolutions I have to write
just peace

I hope someday
you inhabit this place of old age
to see all of life with new eyes
ever grateful for this gift

but be prepared
new eyes are never dry

He argued that AI can never
create real music
write real literature
paint real art

without a human mind, 
there is no real vision he said
there is no real communication 

an algorithm is not an artist  

it made me wonder
must art always happen 
between an artist and an audience?

for me, art is available at any moment
from any source
art is not an object
but merely the artistic value
a human assigns to it
art is a belief

defining art as human seems as outdated
as defining intelligence as human
perhaps some mental constructs are too small 
for this evolving new world

for my part, art happens  
between the art and the audience

I offer proof
the language of birds 
the tapestry of the night sky
the music of a rushing river
the dance of cranes

maybe a new definition will include
art as anything from any source which
elicits our experience of the transcendent

The branches and leaves are lovely
and the trunk is quite impressive 
but my heart wishes 
I could see beneath to marvel at
the roots
the magic source beneath this glory
that transforms sunlight, dirt, and water
to this masterpiece called tree

There was no location tracking when you were young
there was no mobile phone to call you
no apps to send you a message
so we waited 
watching the clock
watching the sleet glaze the roads
watching the snow blow into drifts
the agony was unbearable

Now at last
your daughter holds the trifecta in her purse
the phone, the apps, the location tracking
but we wait still
watching the little dot that is our granddaughter
move slowly across the digital map

I don’t check the sleet
the snow
or the fierce winds

I don’t dare take my eyes off the dot 
lest it disappears
the agony is still unbearable

there is no peace in knowing 
when and where she might die
knowing does nothing to keep her safer

I cherish my burning red cheeks
shivering blue lips
icy fingers 
that won’t bend

I revere winter’s cold
my uncontrollable shudders
numb toes
clouds of frigid breath 

the piercing cold
and biting wind
remind me I am a small speck 
on a tenuous planet
plummeting through merciless space

I am the daughter of David
I am Viking
all I need to warm me is love

 There is an obscured mess
swirling in darkness
stabbing and cutting me
I write to forgive

there is unremitting heartache
and nothing can be done
but break under its weight
I write to surrender


there is an interlude of life
infused with passion
and possibility
I write to remember love


there is a discovery
a revelation
when something incandescent
enters my soul
I write to catch this spilling gratitude   


there is overwhelming awe
at the splendor of the cricket
the clock
the child
the moon
my poems are my prayers 

I share the ancients’ fixation with fate
there is either a pantheon of gods to please
in hopes of being spared
or a mustering of deep courage 
to face the bludgeoning of random circumstance

I can’t resist inquiring
into the fickle nature of my own fate
rife with its horrors and sorrows  
and equal measure 
of solace and redemption

to give myself a reason
I followed the lead of the wise ones
I chose transmutation
to attend to life with loving care
finding purpose in chaos
making beauty from suffering
transmuting bludgeons to blessings

on that path
I am moored to this great unfolding
without expectation or complaint
I rest in joy

By Ugly Bugly The Witch Poet

Don’t ask Granny
She’ll tell you lies
About my famous
Elf Pus Pies

I don’t kill the elves
Just a bacteria bath
And wait thirty hours
You do the math

Then all my monkeys
Elf pimples they’ll pop
They scoop up the pus 
With my red Christmas mop

I use my best magic
To make them a tart
Granny can’t do it
She isn’t that smart

I add in some lemon
And say magic words
Then put it outside
To test on my birds

If the crows die
From eating my treat
I promise I would have
Replaced it with meat

Don’t worry at all 
When you take your first bite
Merry Christmas to all
And to all a good night

You may have noticed, as the grandkids get older, my recipes get increasingly more disgusting. I assure you this is with forethought. The children are gradually developing a tolerance for revolting food, so it takes much more to gross them out. I do not apologize for my Christmas treat invention, the vile Elf Pus Pie. You’re an adult. Suck it up,— Ugly Bugly the Witch Poet

If you’re wondering what got me started writing poems, you’ll find the story here. Or, if you’re wondering why this collection is called Slender Stalk, click here. If you’re wondering where you can read the past issues of Slender Stalk, click here. If you’re wondering where you can read more of my poems, check out my website: Life at 240.

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