Progressive and slightly tilted

vibrations from the Internet buzzily compound to

confuse the nanoparticles of my eye and float the

free liquid of my spine to melt my intentions

and let them drain away.


Today and yesterday on the web are the same. 

I find nothing different from the day or week before

and only hold to expectations of more horror, more sweetness,

more photos of good and evil littering the screen and bleeding into my sinuses.


Exhorting to action, pleading poverty and asking to be recognized--

all the people here are flat and grainy.

They need, call, argue, harangue and try persuading me to be

and do and spend. Spend and spend the days and money

I don’t have too many or too much of

but plenty of for this day. In this way. In these things.

For these people.


To click it off, that is the question. I can. I may. I don’t, not yet.

I watch and stare and click deeper and deeper into the space that

has no end and offers the chance of surprises and

information untold. Click deeper. The next and next of it.

Try here and there and maybe you will go back but not.


My green eyes burn with the brightness of it. My heart is hardened to

what I’ve seen and cares no more deeply than it did before. Too much

is there and not enough to make me able to connect with

one and not the other of the thousands of things I might and could find.


So here a cat, there a cat, and there a lion mauling its keeper.

War and casualties of war and clean war with drones. Gas or

starvation and rape. All dead. All suffered. All are punished.


I click off and my world seems dull. Dull and lifeless.

The dog needs fed. I guess I need to eat. Colorless chicken

on a plain white plate. I miss terribly what I could eat as shown on

screen with scenes of dinner in three courses and a cloth napkin.

I pick instead so as not to notice the taste. Now to watch TV.




A Poem For Me

by Janice A. Farringer


More pop than sass, more sass than flash, the leopard gloves of Paris

hang along the pegged wall with a coat from Eden…North Carolina. In

times of crisis there are boats and trains and lots of walking. And

here around the corner of Kenya, I find what I have sought in the

colors of my slides without the greens to override the reality of predators.


At once I recognize the loden and take it to swim in the Aegean,

place of the gods so warm and white and off again to fly above the

mountains and the snow aboard a glider that makes my hands tingle with

gripping. And so to war. Across a Germany so like itself and up to

Scandinavia for the summer, and then around the foot of Italy to see the



Serenity so prolonged and soft comes in Shinto shrines filled with

flying paper prayers and lost in ten million cities of ten million,

dotted with fire tender’s pots of lucky smoke, who cannot read my face

and think me tall in red wedding kimono I try on for a trick.

And then to Hong Kong and up off the rim to pick the labels off

the floor and paste them on anything at all in Seoul. I run to Edinburgh

for wrapping in a woolen and hiding in old parts where people are red and orange

and love to laugh and don’t think my hair too loose.


At the end are tulips. Not Keukenhof's but mine. Around in the grass

and up into the pots along the porch. Off again to Bald Head Island

where there are no flowers, only pelicans, gray and weary against the

spit of sand, Cape Fear.


Woods Song

In the morning I walk in my pajamas to the perimeter of the woods.

No one hears these birds but me.

Singing. Calling.

I stand still. Take it in. 

My birds. God's birds.


Remember the notes and trills. Stay this moment.



In the evening I walk the path to the creek.

Down hill through the weeds and poison ivy.

Canopy overhead. Fewer songs.

Trees whisper. Squirrels still.

I try to hear the deer.


Remember the forest sounds at end of day. Breathe it.



At night I sit on the porch.

Frog calls at the creek give a bass note to the quiet.

Cicadas sing.

The owl may hunt tonight. She'll wake me.

I'll know when she eats.


Too soft the passing of time. Too short to waste this glory.



In the dark I rest inside.


I hear what I am tuned to hear.


The folds of sleepy air curl around and rock all but the night hunters.

I hear the owl, then nothing. 



First published online in the Bijou Poetry Review March 2012

Comfort Zone

We have our spot.

Each night she waits for my

"Say-up," flying weightless

Into a clump of soft hair

Warming my feet up on the couch.

Slipping into the comfort of

Old marrieds, content with

Nearness and routine.

I reach down and squeeze her foot

In our secret shake. She eyes me,

flops over, sighs.

God is nigh.


double orange daylilies

The forgotten skirt in prairie print

hangs limply from the peg in the cabin

where we come to live without the

finery we crave.

Here the weeds are flowers, the birds our

sirens and the brook our music. Here we

lie in bed piled with quilts. The light goes fast

and the fire dies down with the sighing of the


Talking in hushed tones not to compete with the stars,

we slow to the rhythms of our breathing. Asleep

in the cradle of God..