Invisible Ink

We reached the open water at dusk.
Marsh-ringed and pewter.
From behind the low clouds
descended annunciate
all the people we used to be.
“We shall go,” they sang, “into the dark water
and wash away all the ugly things written
on our bodies.”

-Copyright Kay Winter




A hurricane has taken you

I see, but I’m certain it’s not just me.

and I know nothing

of how it came to be

or how to clean it up

Yet here I sit



my unsaid will

My agnostic prayer

the superstition

in the savior complex of my own psyche

Could somehow send disaster relief




you see this tattered piece of a poem

Swift onto the shoreline

Take it as a sign

ask for help

call for assistance

Lay the foundation

you think was rubble

And then, maybe, you would see

That you were being seen.


The void wasn’t there.

She searched.

Her head. Not there.

Her nerves. Not there.

Her self. Not there.

She searched,



For the barren

Or anguish




Those toxic thoughts

Those dependable constants

So often lingering in her mind.

Certainly, there was always a void.

Something missing.

Not enough. Something. Someone. Herself.


And so she waited, expected.

But on this peculiarly unpeculiar regular day

This mundanely interesting period of her life


She felt no void.


Just warmth



Her own happy wrinkles


Her friends


A cat’s meow

Warm cushiony seats

A pen in hand

Waiting, expecting empty

But instead feeling full.


(The flirtatious soft pillow whispers)
The cacophony of fuzzy beeps bicker.
(The blankets embrace you provocatively)
The cold air flicks your ear disapprovingly.
(Flannel tickles your legs in the dark, taunting)
Sunlight spies from the window, judging.
(Gravity seduces, parenthetical, unwavering)
The beep resurrects, outspoken, reproachful.


(10 succulent minutes)

Sit up.



Like the Child I Was

When I was a child

Life was different

Worries were different

I roamed the neighborhood with freedom


Had little control of my life

As an adult

I still roam my neighborhood with freedom

My neighborhood is much larger

But I still have little control of my life


There is some illusion of control

But the big things

Seem to happen

No matter what

Tornados hit

Loved ones die

Floods come

Fires happen

People steal your money

You have no control of those things

But one thing

One thing I can control

Is my happiness

I can choose

How to perceive the World

My World

I can hate

Feel despair

Feel alone



Find anger


I can choose

To find happiness

To find love

To find compassion

To be at peace

To be like the child I was

And enjoy this life

Enjoy being alive

No matter what


Copyright Don MacLeod


You there.

Me here.


Look up.

Eye to eye.

Let the muscles turn as they may.

Facial recognition


Beyond that

What is?


Me here.

You over there.



How are you?

And don’t say fine.

I know you lie.


I’m here.

I exist.


It’s the Midwest.


The proper response is: “Fine.”


But what is fine?

It’s so nondescript.


I only know fine as a derogatory

She’s fine.

Her body is fine.

You are fiiiine.

Fine wine

Fine hair

She is fine

Fine. Object.


I’m fine.

Well maybe.

Just my body though.

I am fiiiiiine.

My glass of wine.

My hair.

I am fine.

Fine. Object.


But if you ask

I’m just too busy to…


(See, that’s already a lie

Busy is a myth

There is plenty of time

Busy is as worthless as fine

A cop out to avoid connection)


But if you ask

I don’t have the trust

That you will listen

Not judge


And want to hear something




than ”fine”.