I believe in being prepared for any given situation. It isn't because I'm a pessimistic person; I think it is just good common sense. Hence, I've entitled my blog "Even Nothing is Something."

This covers my butt in any event. On any given day I can feel great exaltation that I have done something grand. I can scribble fiercely when my thoughts are leaping across the meadows of my mind like a happy little colt in the month of May, or my mind and writing can be as dry and arid, as cold and without life, as the Gobi desert - because even Nothing is Something.

I want to thank all of my fellow artists who work through other means and forms and who sell their work on the wonderful artist's site "Etsy," a place to buy and sell all things handmade, along with vintage items and supplies for their craft. They are a great group of people.

Those who have links to their site on my blog represent only a few of those whom I wish to include. Just click on one of those links and join the Etsy community. It is free. They are a great group of artists who have relieved me of my money in the most delightful of ways. If it weren't for their encouragement, I would have never shared my work through this blog.

Thank you my darling friends!

Enjoy my blog - The Poet or Not - More or Less

Sunday, January 31, 2010

I was privileged to have this poem published in a chapbook of poems written by cancer survivors.

Defying Death Gives a Gift
To Celebrate Life

In their puberty, I never
thought of their life sustaining
powers, their syrup for a child.
They were pears beginning to
ripen, buds bursting outward to
bloom, femininity gone wild. I
chose for them garments white,
bedecked with ribbons and lace,
clean, sterile and new. With pride,
in innocence, they were taken
for granted, it being presumed that
all had two. I looked down upon
my cleavage thrilled because
beneath my sweaters of Angora
hair they made pleasant little mounds.
Then the mirror was my friend
inasmuch as both were there.
Until a day when one witnessed
the carnage of its sister. Where poise
and symmetry had been before,
the glorious proclamation of
womanhood, I found instead a
slashing scar, the memory of
war. Yet, another battle has been
fought and the lonely, bereaved,
she is no more. Hellish cancer made
behest. her fate, too, became a
slashing scar, but balance she restored
and marked a badge of courage on my
chest. I survived the betrayal of
that which life can give, through
sustenance of milk, that which
my lover did caress. I celebrate
these wounds. To them I raise
a toast, because to Celebrate Life
is what I wanted most.

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