The Reason for Rain

There must be some reason that I always run into D when tired or emotionally exhausted, usually on the T after a long evening turned night at the library. Most Saturday mornings I rush to my writers’ group before zooming toward errands then to the library or bookstore to write, edit, or perform other necessary computing and research.  Today, I slowed down, casually called a friend to join me for tea later, then set out to do absolutely nothing for a while simply because I felt like walking alone in the rain instead of ticking off a whole list of other things I ought to be doing.  I rushed out into the rain…to be by myself, strolling under an umbrella.

Although I generally see him on the train and at night, there was D, in broad daylight, sauntering down Mass Ave.  There I was, feeling vaguely guilty for enjoying the task of doing absolutely nothing, when this friend from high school—the one with the voice, the sound of which calms a person’s nerves even when he is only speaking to her in human tones, not singing as angels must with his baritone gift from God—echoes my usual inner voice.  It’s okay, said that heavenly voice, to go walking in the rain without knowing why.


September Poems

Chilling with Longfellow

If a body meet a body
in Mount Auburn Cemetery,
that’s probably not a good thing.

But coyotes aren’t a big threat
regardless of the springing dash
of a tan jackrabbit into bushy cover,

making a break right before
Longfellow’s crypt looms up to the left
of the leafy-lined Indian Ridge Path.

Dead men don’t care what I wear
or how much I weigh the pros and cons
of coupling over this blissful solitude.

I’m sorta hoping Emerson drops by to shoot
the breeze. Melville might bring flowers with
Hawthorne, wrinkling his handsome brow.

I love you still, no matter what they say
about you now. Still born, still dead,
you do indeed tell many tales.


The Lot of Us

Oh, man, if Hemingway were here

there wouldn’t be

enough booze for everybody, but we

wouldn’t mind sharing.

A few more ice cubes

would probably do the lot of us a world of good.

When were nachos invented? 

No matter, historical accuracy isn’t

all it’s cracked-up to be. That wasn’t

a Fitzgerald joke, poor chap.


For that story alone—

the one about a solitary traveler

putting his shoes out

in the hotel hallway to be polished,

noting all the other rooms

had two pair of shoes outside:

a big square male duo

and a smaller, pumped female



that story alone

makes me forgive ol’ Ernest for shooting

all those lovely tigers.

Man, at a pub I do not want to hear writers

whining about being

screwed-up by mothers who stopped

breastfeeding  too soon

or made them do too many chores.

Oh, God, if Hemingway were here!

Drink up, writers.  Talk about the war on love.



Literary Trail


Removed for publication–will post the link when it’s up!


Open Manse


Tim told me not to drink the water

’til after, but, hell, it was about a hundred

degrees in Salem’s Athenaeum. Poor Nathaniel

was practically running off the painting

in the well-shelved tiny room where

I read Raggedy books while Tim


checked out the snazzy old “washroom.”

The raspberry water was cold and yummy.

Besides, I didn’t look through books

for famous signatures while the author

was reading. That would be rude, indeed.  

But some people will rifle through stuff

while listening to a story, if left unchecked.



Lo’s No Witch


Salem’s famous for witches, so Lo’s

gonna have a poetry reading there

in October.  Now that came out wrong.


–Don’t mean Lo’s a witch. She’s a musician-

poet who can’t sit still at readings, like me,

when Mike plays his drum, hum, hum.


I’ll be there too, in a Salem cafe

keeping score with Dracula of all

the necks I’ve nibbled.  We’ll try not


to act too batty, this ol’ gang of poets,

blending right in with various spooks,

just children of rhythms and the night.



Featured Reader Next Tuesday

I will be reading as part of the feature next Tuesday in Cambridge from Bagels with the Bards No. 3.  This is my writing community’s anthology, and there will be approximately 25 of us 50 Bards, each reading his or her own poem and possibly that of a missing comrade in pens.  If our Saturday mornings together are any indication, it’ll be a blast!  

“Following the reading you are invited to mingle with the Bards at a wine and cheese reception. (A donation of $3 is requested to help with the cost.) The reading is held in the living room in front of the Fireplace of Cambridge Co-Housing at 175 Richdale Ave, Cambridge, MA 02140.  CCH is 3 blocks from the Redline at Porter Square. A parking consideration was requested from the City of Cambridge from 6:30-10:30 pm permitting visitors may park in resident only permit spaces. Call Molly Lynn Watt, at 617-354-8242 or Jenise Aminoff, at 617-576-2994 for more information or check out the website at”  

—Molly Lynn Watt, Editor, Bagelbard anthologies