A Mildly Sad and Desperate Idea from the Front

I have a love/hate relationship with social media, especially twitter, and the hate side keeps gaining ground. It’s not just the usual: the ugly politics, the righteous opinionated rants, the stupidity and falsehoods. The endless gifs and memes (ok, fine, I like those!)

A screenshot from the author’s private facebook page…

For a writer, it’s the goddamned comparison.

And, every day, there it is, right in my face:

The Thief of Joy.

The comparison.

The comparison to other artists, other writers, that I can take. That is bearable. I’m always wishing for their success.

The comparison to — or within — the industry — from my very publishing…

(Villanelle #5*, with luck and love on your first LA release)

In the hospital, the day you were born. Photo credit, author’s own.

My baby boy, a breath — now taken off on wing

3000 miles, a far, far way to go

I miss him so, but man, that kid can sing.

The least I can do is write you a poem

photo credit: Polisner (image is the author’s own)

I find myself in the city,

in my building (in this particular


I have the keys,

don’t have to ask for them, use the

a small one to collect mail that



take the elevator up (which I rarely did)

let myself in the apartment door

but inside are all



Still, I make myself

at home.

Inside my Mind Lives Kafka on the Shore

How We Let Nostalgia Fool Us

credit: Polisner, author‘s own

Remember when we roamed till darkness fell

The clouds blue-gray against dusk’s deep relief

No texts to bring us home, just sky and bell

The World is Broke (Poppy’s Bloom)

The world is broke — the rest, we all pretend

Some days believe it’s lost for ever more

The poppy’s bloom, it builds me up again

A stab at a Villanelle

Photo credit: Rick Kopstein

If I were a poet, I’d spin you a Villanelle

stare down its scheme that smacks too much of math

Offering words so pretty they’re sure to cast a spell

Sleepless in a Pandemic

I am trying to practice

radical acceptance,

to banish the word should from my


to fully internalize that the world has never been as it

should be,

only as it ever


credit: Polisner

In the mornings, I walk through my sleepy house

admiring the new couches

their calming blue gray hues draped with

cozy knit blankets, pompoms dangling


smacking of


the carved wood tray bought at a

discount store, boasting

scented candles and glass bottles

now trailing roots from cut herbs,

(Upon waking early to a text from my son newly in LA)

With the kid, circa the year 2000

I’ve been working too hard at

letting go

here, at the edge of this




convincing myself it’s


(mentally unwrapping the memory of

your small fingers

clutching my neck,

even as

my heart argues not to).

gae polisner

Just another writer trying to stay afloat in a sea of words. Author of several novels. Wannabe mermaid. Mother. Trying to age gracefully with no grace in sight.

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