Sloan M Coll



My Stupid Cat

My stupid cat sits on my head when I would rather be napping Relentless paws kneading my face make me a claim she is mapping She purrs I sigh Stupid cat  


SMC 3/25/2K11

Seven of Cups Waste  



She dreamed and she dreamed    

She would write a great book    

She dreamed of the life     

She would buy     

She dreamed and she dreamed    

But she never did write     

So she dreamed and she dreamed

Then she died


She dreamed and she dreamed    

She would write a great book    

She dreamed of the life     

She would buy     

She dreamed and she dreamed    

Till she dreamed the right words    

To give wings to her dream    

Watch them fly!                           

SMC 2008

"Something there is that doesn't love"...a power grid...

And I think her name is Mother Nature

- among others.  From time to time a reminder is in order - we are nothing before the force of the world's processes, and for that my poetic soul rejoices.

Technological arrogance, gadgets, computer programs eternal; all fall down in the absence of the juice.

I am dichotomy, a contradiction in terms, for as much as I love the Earth Mother, with all her quirks and tantrums - I still love my creature comforts.

Thunderstorms are so soothing that, beginning once I am abed and sleeping, I am not roused, but in the morning I awaken refreshed and clear as the sky. I love a good storm, gray/black clouds crashing across the sky, sheets of rain, blankets of snow....the afternath, not so much.

Connectivity driven creature that I am, I do so love my internet! Yet, here I sit, patiently filling my fountain pen with gray flannel ink, so that I can scribble my fleeting musings.    


SMC 8/29/2K11

"Robert Frost, Mending Wall"

On the Actor who recently Died

I did not know her,

the actor who died.

No crazed fanatic am I.

Mere movement, makeup, lines was she to my appraising eye.

But I can not accept at all that she is gone today,

tomorrow, now, and evermore, yet lives in yesterday.

It stays within my mind, it preys,

it gnaws deep in my bones,

why I should be so harshly touched by a soul to me unknown.

Because she was.

Because she did.

Because she graced the earth.

And each of us who saw that grace must also feel its dearth.

Unknown we watch and think and feel our version of her days,

and quietly aspire to earn such passion, love, and praise as she who's passed into the haze,

where loving souls do go until their mark is needed not by grieving hearts grown whole.

The earthbound intellect can see

it is our work to make of our existence what we will, or will ourselves to take.

And by example give the rest fair evidence that we are worthwhile souls who grace this earth and quite as loved as she.

   SMC 3/23/2K9