The obvious isn’t so when something’s off.  I would know.  The poem by RJ Clarken captures the feeling of the past few weeks.  I have been missing the point.  Give that lady a “BLOOM!”

Missing the Point by RJ Clarken

I wandered into the middle of a joke.
You know how that can be.
Everyone is laughing; you’re the only one
who doesn’t get the punchline.

So then I remembered an old line
about puberty – about the time in life when
you laugh at dirty jokes you don’t understand.

But that’s not me. I’m way past that era.

I figured it all was because I missed the beginning
of the story…something about a tragic headline.
You know there will be jokes
but how can that be funny?
Then I thought, even if I did come in at the start,
would it really make me want to laugh?

I mean, here’s the point:
do you
ever hear different music
than everyone else hears?
I do.
I don’t feel lonely about it
since it’s all I know,
but I didn’t want to bring down the party
so I laughed with great gusto and energy
just like everyone else.

Does that mean I’m still at puberty?


It may sound redundant and smack of insincerity to say that I had a terrible time choosing just one poem to highlight (again), but it is the truth. Can you blame me? After much enjoyable contemplation, I settled in on one single bloom.

Marilyn’s “A Heart-to-Heart” begins with a thought-provoking connection:

“If home is where the heart is,
then is a heartless man homeless,
and a homeless man heartless.”

Her ensuing narrative places me on the scene, and literally evokes tears for this homeless gentleman.

She concludes in yet another thought-provoking manner that ties perfectly to her opening:

“If home is where the heart is,
Then have a heart for this man.”


A Heart-to-Heart by Marilyn Braendeholm (“Misk Mask”)

If home is where the heart is,
then is a heartless man homeless,
and a homeless man heartless.

And so, I asked him

this homeless man who was cold
and lonely, sleeping in a foetal curl
below a slatted bench. Was this man
heartless from lack of home and hearth.

Does his heart wander through dark
leaf-strewn paths, searching bushes,
seeking shelter, a home, picking
at food discarded, bits of crusts, crinkled
pickles, a suggestion of meat, anything
to restore his energy for another
night. He walks the shadows behind
the mission’s cafe where music

bounces into the alley along
with tattered drunks from the tavern
next door. Another night under a bench,
newspapers tucked down his shirt

and a double layer over his chest.
The broadsheet headlines facing him
so he can read what he calls the comics.
He loves a good joke.

And so, he replied

If home is where the heart is,
Then have a heart for this man.