eleventh hour

within the promise of a blue morning sky

label this day stolen

broken by our own wings

and forced to watch

no one can change this

just as no one can change that

they held hands in flight

in final kindness and strength

when everything was lost

remembering what is left behind

is to be lifted again

from underneath a blue, mourning sky.


Editor's Note: Scott doesn't like poems, and thinks I'm a mushy girl. Dammit. I hate it when he's right.


Hey, rumor has it that Ringo Starr just bought a house here in Memphis.

Move over Cybill Shepherd.

He may have; he plays the nearby casinos every year. Ringo was my least favorite Beatle. Like he cares. But I did like the movie "Caveman" because it was so horrible.

Maybe this house isn't the one. But I-know-a-guy-who-knows-a-realtor who said he Ringo did buy a house. And he also said,"Yeah, and it's so big that his garage has a separate address."

I had a great aunt like that once. Big woman. Loved Doritos.

Maybe I'll go over one night and wait for him to hop in the ole Aston Martin for his trip over to the local Piggly Wiggly craving a pint of Ben & Jerry's Karamel Sutra. And then, I'll jump out from behind a big bush, squeal, point, and throw a pair of panties in his hair.

And then he'll just stand there stunned and motionless, with some pink satin underwear hanging from his left ear, and he'll just look at me through his sunglasses until I get embarrassed and walk away, crunching off down the gravel driveway. Wondering why he's wearing sunglasses at night. And I'll think about how much I miss John and George. And how I still can't stand that uncooked biscuit Yoko who ruined everything, just everything.

Either that or I'll be ripped into several meaty pieces by two large Rottweilers with pinching testical clips.

Even though I wish it were Suggs from Madness instead, I still think it's cool that Ringo may or may not have bought a house here. It is a nice place to live. And if you ever come to visit, come hungry and bring your stretchy pants.