For my daughter.

I could have written much better if maybe, I had been interrupted much less.

I should have proved a more effective person if I had not been obliged to spend time and energy learning to believe in myself, and my purposes, regardless of overwhelmingly inspiring times I have had the privilege to live through.

That you, who, hopefully, have been spared this particular battle, will live to heightened achievements, till now undreamed of, will make your own contribution to the future, is a constant and hopeful joy for me,

your mother…

Time and Eternity

“I felt a funeral in my brain, and mourners to and fro kept treading, treading till I felt that sense was breaking through. And when they all were seated, a service, like a drum, kept beating, beating, till I felt my mind was going numb. And then I heard them lift a box and creak across my soul with those same boots of lead again, then space began to toll, as if the heavens were a bell and being were an ear, and I, and silence, some strange race wrecked, solitary, here. Just then, a plank in reason broke, and I fell down and down and hit a world at every plunge, and finished knowing then.”

Emily Dickinson


The world looks different now,

From where I stand today.

It used to shine a vibrant yellow

Now casts a silent shadow grey

Beyond fantastic journeys,

Towards a cruel decay

And yet, somewhere,

Not, much too far away…

A tired wary child

Sits secretly at play

As a single star,

Shoots silently

Beyond the closing night.


Drowning bodies sigh wearily
Through interminable hours.
Empty, heavy thoughts
Echo time’s fragile fissures,
As dripping forms
Steal silently towards                                                                                                                                            Inaccessible slumber.
Clawing, pink and stained
The shadows of the day
Pierces the shrouded veil
As, like liquid chocolate
Night continues to pour forth                                                                                                                            And melting midnight lullabies
Sweetly scorch,
As the still breeze silently stalls
And tender, weary eyes stare
Restlessly awaiting…

Blame It On Jamie Lee Curtis

Silver in the Barn

Why I would imagine that the color of my hair would hold an iota of interest to you, dear reader, cannot be explained other than to say I learned the hard way that it’s a subject that can ignite opinion, solicited or not.


I was serving as parliamentarian for a civic organization a few years ago and during a meeting, one of the members, henna-tressed, suddenly blurted out “What are you doing to your hair?”

“Nothing, really. I’ve just decided to stop coloring it.”

Stunned silence. Or as the hipsters say, “Crickets.” Just like that I was able to stop the proceedings of our monthly meeting. What power.

The president of the group, a woman in her mid-70s with expensively highlighted blonde hair, then offered this little gem: “But Barbara! You’re much too young to go gray!”

Tell that to the melanin levels in my hair follicles, please.

And as I looked out at the women around…

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