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SWW 23 salted and on the rocks, garbed in coddy fishnet sees sunset over Half Moon Bay, seeks good man who will never leave her, good-enough job; asks which god died, who directs the choir. Jehosaphat Jeezel and those deaf to struggle or lemon pheromones need not apply. Fears helicopters and war machines. Ability to see a theater raging in a fireplace and why a good woman might feed a bra to flames a plus.

MWW 30 seeks baby after bloody loss of two in moon-sucked tides. Her chorus mimes ruddy roses and sun salutes. Distraction dreams of sasquatch, coyote howls, and end-of-days environmental chaos muddies waters and shakes otherwise healthy apples out of limbs. Needs a hug and help digging a plot for tomatoes and beans as well as rehanging garden gate to keep dog out.

Early-rising DW mom/landlady 45 with extended family of fur and fins and long half-life for adventure seeks renters with more questions than answers. Likes 4-wheel drive, tidy garden, a good growl, grand coffee, embroidered handkerchiefs, things that roll on the beach, books that crack, candle making in season and crow calls. No use for TV antennas on high cliffs, nitpicking about narrow views, or fleas. Moon lost, possibly buried. Flotsam vs. jetsam pays the court fees.

DWEL (Dawn-worshipping, experienced x 2 lady) 58 with geriatric Jeep hopes for relief in answers. Prefers non-fat decaf lattes, lush kisses, smooth stones, library books, blue asters, and homegrown tomatoes. Knits striped hats, sways in conscious circles, prays with uncertainty, and sleeps with red splotchy dog. No use for right-wingers, high cliffs (with or without antennas), spam, or venomous creatures that sting. Hopes for One-fourth more of Life Beyond.

MWF 63 found moon, lost shine, seeks irreverence mixed with reverence. Watches for kindred soul in moon shadow who understands furry things. Appreciates loud dancing and planting trees. Seeks to wash and polish this new boy up, realizes the futility.

MWM (mother) 64 of gone-away child digs with dirty fingernails. Practices gray hair and pretends wind blows it brown. Conscious rotations: hula hooping, rocking chairs, running around the block, and been-there-befores. Envies goat eyes, roots’ relationships with mychorrhizae, and eagle feathers. Plants pumpkin seeds in June waving tai chi hands of thanksgiving. Wonders if the puppy on the porch will outlive her, discovers January’s hellebore in bloom, and lifts skybrows to an ice-rimed moon.

LOL (not lots of laughs) 92 with artificially thin blood outlived the dog on the deck and the love of her life. Sees moon through narrow window; adores waves as screen savers and salt smells in deep dreams, seizes dawn with humming. Rescues worn-out cats to warm her bed. Pays dues one day at a time. Accepts gifts of ripe tomatoes, striped rocks and good chocolate. Keeps one vintage cloud-swirl marble on her beside table.


Tricia Knoll is a little old lady (LOL) poet in Vermont who is nowhere near 92 yet but can imagine it. Her work is widely published in journals and anthologies. Her recent How I Learned To Be White (Antrim House) received the 2018 Indie Book Award for Motivational Poetry. Website: 

© 2020, Tricia Knoll

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