MacQueen’s Quinterly-Happy to Have This Poem Chosen

MacQueen’s Quinterly, proud to have this poem chosen:

Throne of Leather

Sometimes the wisest advisor in the room

isn’t human at all.

Paula arrives looking sharp, as always. At seventy-two, she could pass for forty-two—those calves deserve their own fan club. I tease her about them, and she grins like a schoolgirl caught passing notes.

She sets her camel tote on the chair beside her, like it’s a guest of honor. The leather gleams—supple, worldly, almost smug. I pat it, lift it, even give it a little hug. Surely it came from a Cairo bazaar, bargained for over mint tea.

Two Capricorns, we talk numbers. Paula has guided me for decades. She and Robert spoke the same language; now I’m the novice, fumbling through what he once carried with ease. She studies a photo of Robert and me, back when I was still a glamour girl. “What a kind face,” she says. “Such a good man.”

I confess my fear: ending up a bag lady, rattling my life down the street in a cart.

Then—magic. Colby slips in, silent as mist, and climbs onto the camel tote. Seventeen pounds of ginger majesty, he kneads once, curls into the leather, and shuts his eyes as if the matter is settled.

We giggle until the numbers vanish.

If Colby could speak, he’d drop it clean:

This tote? Finally, a throne worthy of me.

I Keep Forgetting

"I Keep Forgetting (They Remember Me)"

I keep forgetting
that the dead don’t lose their number—
I reach for phones like portals,
thumb hovering over names
still saved, still sacred.

Mom, Aunt Mary, Uncles Fred and Bill—
your contact icons glow
like votive candles in my palm.
And your phone, love,
still sleeps on my nightstand
as if it might one day ring
with the memory of your voice.

It’s the last day of the year.
My cat watches quietly,
the only other witness
to this vigil of silent echoes.

I wish I could write Grandma
a postcard from the shore of Now,
tell her how her garden still blooms
in the shape of my longing—
how her hum still unwinds
the sting of lonely afternoons.

My friends are with their families.
This is my first new year
with only the stars
and your absence
for company.

And yet—strange grace—
you’re all here.
Not in body,
but in the way
the air holds the quiet
like a breath that hasn’t left.

If there were a zip code
for the in-between,
I’d mail you this ache
with a return address
on the edge of the pier
where I still wait
between waves.

Last Poem of 2025 (for Colby)

Last Poem of 2026 (for Colby)

Still dark—
Nestled in soft fur spirals
on the threadbare scratch pad by the window,
his breath slow as clockless time.

Yesterday:
I shuffled out the garbage
one hand clutched to my cane
the other to memory.
Back pain flaring like a dying star—
how long must this echo remain?

But when the lock clicked back
and the door opened its mouth,
there he was—
draped in plush velvet gravity,
amber eyes
fixed not on what I carried,
but on who had returned.

I came back—
not as the ones who left,
but as one who remembers
this is his home too.

Here, I can still:

pour kibble into the jade bowl,
crouch—slow, aching—to sweep his litter,
circle warmth through his fur
with my wrinkled hands,
fold back the covers
so he may claim
his rightful spot in bed—
his pulse beside mine,
his purr in the hollow
where grief used to wait .

You Can’t Con a Con

You Can’t Con a Con

(for Bobby Ray)

I’ve been to the dark side more than once—smuggled drugs into the country on a yacht. I knew a lot of the big players in government—many were drunkards like me. Years in prison turned out to be the best education I ever got. Now the garden is my teacher—she tells me where to plant the corn, the tomatoes, the poppies.

In predawn light
an iris called
Sin City

There’s a sunny spot where the trellised gourds hang. In late summer my girlfriend spreads them on the earth to dry. She later turns them into funeral urns that sell for a pretty penny. Everything she touches turns to beauty—the baskets she weaves, the way she keeps the rooms. Indian blankets on every chair. Rabbit skins on stools to soothe feet that have walked many miles.

Red hibiscus
in her hair, suckled by
a hummingbird

We painted the shack hot pink and blue. It stands out like a sore thumb—but we like it. A former drug buddy owns the place as well as the restaurant next door. We have an agreement: I grow vegetables for his kitchen, and we stay here rent-free—even though he won’t spring for termite control.

We call our home “The Shaman Shack.” It’s a retreat for AA folks and others seeking spiritual support. Sunday morning, people come from all over—for healing. Women on chemo who’ve lost their hair. Men on their last legs trying to make it right with their Maker.

People coming together
just to be
together

Cancer is a spiritual journey, no matter the kind. Someone donated a huge quartz crystal that hums with good energy. The sage smoke is thick as pea soup on Sunday mornings when my girlfriend and I ring the crystal bowls. A young man joins in with his didgeridoo. Some say they astral travel. And really—who can’t use time away from a body full of knots and aches?

This place is an oasis in a suburban stretch where every house looks like the next. But out back? There’s a tipi nestled among the flower gardens including fruit and nut trees.

The only one left in the county
an old persimmon
still turns heads

Last year, a hurricane blew in a fat red hen who now cuddles with our tomcat under a bench. She lays an egg a day—her way of paying rent.

In a forgotten
pile of brush—
rhapsody of blackbirds

I know I can’t live here forever. I’d be homeless if it weren’t for my buddy. I take it one day at a time. The coffee pot is always on—no telling who’ll drop by. But damn, I wish someone would help in the garden. My rotator cuff is killing me.

(Contemporary Haibun Online 21:23)

TRUE

Every time I wear the green velvet dress with lace collar, Mom says, This is the dress your father gave you.

After taking it off at night, I hang it over the chair, say to myself, This dress is from my father, but I don’t ever remember his hands passing it from his to mine. I only remember the soft green dress appearing in my closet and my mother repeating, Your father gave you this.

Leaves down
crickets switch
to a minor key

(Contemporary Haibun 21:21)
Nominated for a Touchstone Award by the editors/Dec. 26/25 with gratitude

The Shadow of Immortality

The Shadow of Immortality–Dracula, Jung and the Archetype of Vitality Theft

(I tried to get this published on national media but no one is biting so here goes)


How the Archetype of Vitality Theft Haunts Culture, Masculinity, and the Feminine

Introduction
Across epochs and civilizations, a troubling pattern emerges—older men attempting to siphon vitality, youth, or life force from young girls. Though often dismissed or masked in contemporary dialogue, this phenomenon is neither recent nor isolated. Beneath the veils of cultural taboo and scandal lies a deeper archetypal pattern—one that blends alchemical distortion, esoteric inversion, and symbolic misappropriation. This exploration is not a political commentary. It is a psycho-spiritual archaeology of power, life force, and the broken bond between masculine and feminine.

1. The Archetype of the Thief-King
The pursuit of vitality by aging men is encoded in mythologies across the world—from the vampiric aristocrat draining virgins, to Taoist masters who believed that sexual union with young maidens preserved their essence. These are not simply tales of lust; they are narratives of extraction. Of belief in a cosmos where one’s survival requires another’s sacrifice.

In these stories, power becomes synonymous with consumption. The “Thief-King” archetype seeks to delay his decay by taking what is not freely given—innocence, trust, youth. Over time, these stories shaped cultural attitudes, normalizing imbalances and shrouding violation in ritual, religion, and even romance.

2. Distortions of Sacred Energy Exchange
In many ancient traditions, sexuality was understood not as conquest but as communion. A sacred exchange between polarities meant to amplify life. But when this principle was distorted, especially in male-dominant hierarchies, it became something else: a means to harvest rather than harmonize.

When older men target the feminine not as partner but as resource, they act out of fear of their own mortality. Youth becomes currency. Virginity becomes commodity. And the act becomes an energetic theft—one that wounds the feminine deeply while ultimately leaving the masculine hollow.

3. Misreading the Alchemical Texts
The alchemical traditions speak often of purity, transformation, and the elixir of life. But these terms were never meant to refer to literal girls or bodily fluids. They spoke of states of consciousness. “Virgin” was code for undivided awareness, not age or sexual inexperience.

Yet some literalized the metaphor. They believed that by merging with physical purity, they could reclaim lost power. This belief seeded dark rituals across many ages and cultures—from secret societies to exploitative spiritual lineages. What began as symbolic became predatory.

4. Dracula and the Gothic Legacy
The vampire myth—most famously embodied in Bram Stoker’s Dracula—encapsulates this predatory pattern. Dracula is ancient, decaying, yet desirous of vitality. His victims are often young, beautiful women. The bite, a thinly veiled metaphor for sexual violation, renders them pale, weakened, and bound to his will.

Dracula is not just a monster. He is a metaphor for the unintegrated shadow—the masculine unwilling to confront death, turning instead to domination. He feeds, but is never fulfilled.

5. Case Study: A Pattern in Plain Sight
Consider the historical record of elite circles—political, spiritual, and royal—where rituals involving underage girls have been whispered about or exposed. The Jeffrey Epstein case is not an anomaly; it is a modern echo of an ancient pattern. The island, the secrecy, the power imbalance—all echo the ritualistic energy of vitality extraction.

In such cases, the girls are not seen as people, but as symbolic keys to power—a dangerous conflation of myth, power, and unresolved shadow.

6. The Jungian Shadow and the Devouring Father
Carl Jung described the “shadow” as the repressed, denied, or unacknowledged parts of the self. When the masculine disowns vulnerability, mortality, and emotional truth, these aspects form a shadow that seeks compensation.

The older man who violates the young girl is often acting out a devouring father archetype—a perversion of paternal care into consumption. He seeks to ingest what he has not earned, believing it will restore him. But it never does. Instead, it fuels inner decay.

7. The Fallout: Broken Lives, Fractured Cultures
This theft of innocence is not just an individual trauma. It spreads. It poisons families, communities, and nations. Survivors often carry shame not of their making. Relationships fracture. Creative and spiritual energies stagnate. Societies that allow such patterns to continue often suffer cultural decline, where the arts, justice, and even memory become distorted or silenced.

8. The Lie of Longevity Through Exploitation
The deeper tragedy is that vitality cannot be stolen. The youthful essence these men chase is not transferable through domination. What is taken in violation cannot nourish the soul. It degrades it. Real longevity—emotional, spiritual, even biological—comes from integrity, not conquest.

9. Restoring the Sacred Masculine
To heal this wound, we must look beyond punishment. We must restore meaning. The true masculine does not seek to feed on the feminine. He protects it, honors it, co-creates with it. He understands that to receive love, he must become loveable. To hold life, he must stop taking it.

Conclusion: A Collective Reckoning
We live in a moment where these buried truths are surfacing. They emerge in headlines, in confessions, in movements, in memoirs. But for healing to take root, we must go deeper. We must ask why power fears death—and why it turns to innocence to avoid it.

This is not a moral lesson. It is a survival imperative. Because when we restore the sacred balance between giving and receiving, between protection and trust, we don’t just heal individuals. We heal cultures. And we remember: real power gives life. It does not take it.

Blackbird Pie

Blackbird Pie

     Plump like Grandma’s hands
            the tooth fairy bites the moon–
            no milk left for baby stars

Just before dusk, he emerges
from berry-thick woods, sap-laced and ashen,
his coat stitched from ravenous rumors.
Coal dust clings to his breath
like a second skin.

Only the whites of his eyes show.
No iris, no soul. Only the void peeking back.

Children say he smells of burnt pie crust.
Whistle-quiet, like wind through hollow bones.
Some say he is Time’s forgotten brother.
Others–the baker of midnight sins.

Don’t take his candy, the orchard girl whispers,
cider on her tongue, terror in her freckles.
He eats children for breakfast
along with scrambled eggs and syllables.

His pockets are always full–
licorice roots coiled like worms,
jawbreakers older than dinosaur eggs,
lollipops that sing. in seven tones at once.

He collects baby teeth, strings them
around his neck from thread spun from
crow feathers.
Each tooth a story never told,
each molar a memory devoured.

In his satchel he carries a pie–
always warm, never bitten.
Crust braided with regret,
steam rising in the shape
of forgotten lullabies.
Some say the pie has eyes–
twenty four of them blinking in perfect rhythm,
hynpotizing passersby
so they forget the village has children.

They say if you meet him at the crossroads,
you must offer your name spelled backward,
or risk being remembered by no one.

He leaves as dusk devours itself,
returning to the blackbird woods–
not walking, not fading,
just un-happening.

And the pie?
Still warm,
still watching.

published WATG Journal, October 2024

Falling as Initiation

Women Who Fall

The safe place to be—a retirement home with bars in the shower, a button around your neck in case you fall.

If you don’t fall before you arrive, chances are you’ll fall once you’re here. I did. And I’m careful. I watch my steps. I move like a snail.

That day I was carrying my cat in his carrier. I opened the heavy garage door. There it was—a rock on the walkway that hadn’t been there before. I tripped and fell, knees first into a bush. I managed to stand, brushed myself off, and made it to the vet.

When I arrived, I was a sight—twigs in my hair, limping, leaves clinging to my clothes like I’d been out wrestling nature.

Later I learned the rock is where some of the staff snuff out cigarettes. It sits near their smoking spot, casually misplaced, casually dangerous. I’m scheduled for hip surgery in five days.

I visited the rehab center where I’ll recover. In one bed, a woman lay bruised from forehead to chin. “Did you fall?” I asked. She nodded. Her face looked like it had absorbed every color in the pain spectrum.

Another woman I saw returning from lunch was even more vivid—purple, magenta, blue, black. “It’s Halloween,” she joked. “I took a tumble.”

The halls are filled with the soft clicks of walkers and wheelchairs. I didn’t want to come here—to this place deemed safer than the sprawling house I got lost in.

But even here, with all the safety bars, the shower whispers risk. I hear it again and again: “Did you know so-and-so slipped while washing her hair?”

When I ask how long I’ll be here, a nurse shrugs: “It depends. Some stay two or three weeks.” Yet everyone I meet who’s had a hip replaced was back home in just days.

Everyone is different. Yes, I know.

They tell me to think of it as an adventure. These dim hallways, these stuffy rooms. So I order five blank notebooks. What else can I do?

When the body is still, the mind can wander. And when the page is blank, I can go anywhere.

Just because we fall doesn’t mean we are broken. Sometimes falling is a rite of passage. A descent not into despair, but into a deeper study—of ourselves, of the people who tend to us. Some offer kindness without effort. Others clock in, waiting for their shift to end.

Still, we rise. Not always gracefully. Not always without bruises. But each fall reminds us—we are still here. Still learning how to walk in the world, one careful step at a time.

Where You are Now

A conversation with my beloved across the veil

I meant to ask you last time…
Where exactly do you live?
Do you have an apartment?

No, nothing like that.
I have no fixed place.
Sometimes I sleep in a garden,
or lie by the ocean, listening.
Waves wash over me,
and I dissolve into their rhythm.
You’ll see when you arrive—
It’s not a place in the way you understand.
I think of where I want to be,
and I am there.

Is there always light where you are?
Always, yes—
unless I crave the stars.
Then the veil dims,
and I wander through galaxies
like a wind without weight.

What have you been doing with yourself?

I walk a long hallway lined with voices.
Chairs on either side, people murmuring—
soft like water.
It leads to a library that disappears into sky.
Books without end.
A great window where birds pass through glass
like breath through mist.
It’s beautiful.
Poetic.

Maps still? You always loved your maps.

Yes, ancient cartography still calls me.
I spend hours tracing forgotten lines.
I settle into a corner,
and the books come to me.
I don’t have to read—
I absorb.

What else do you study now?
Last time, you spoke of sacred geometry—
how everything begins with math and light.

That still holds true.
But now I’m drawn to language older than language—
Hebrew, Aramaic—
where art was once the breath of words,
and symbols sang before sound had a name
.

It’s been a year.
I’ve cried a thousand tears.

So have I.
There’s a hollow space I carry
where you used to be.
I still whisper to you.


Keep writing.
Keep listening.


Soon—
new stories will rise from human hearts.
Not machine-made echoes,
but soul-born songs.
The darkness will lift.
You’ll see.

Do you want to return?

No. Not at all.
But if it were needed…
If I were asked…
I would consider.
But let’s hope that’s never necessary.

I love you. I miss you.
All the time.

Me too. Me too.
Don’t cry.
Have fun.
While you’re there, let joy be your ritual.
There’s so much I want to show you,
but it’s not your time.

And in the quiet after,
I light a candle not to summon,
but to remember
how love does not end—
it only changes shape.


A hallway becomes a page.
A tide becomes a tear.
A map folds into a memory.
And you,
you become the space
between the words.