My Mind

Personal website of M.G. Daniel. Sharing poetry, my writings, snippets from my life and whatever's on my mind.

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You have a right to be here

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Whatever happened to the Desiderata – ever so popular in a time back then.  I saw the title line of this post in another context and it reminded me of the days when there were Desiderata posters prominently displayed for sale in just about every bookstore you went into and, it seemed, on the walls of every friend’s home or apartment you visited.



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I gave up blogging for Lent

So what am I doing here?  I’m so fallen. Oh, I’m not really blogging, just testing how strong I have become since Ash Wednesday. I think this post has something to do with that previous post and my old article first published on a site that has since been taken down.


Anyways, you know, I’m rather strong. Yeah. I never cry, I just shred tears – things like that. I am here because I was actually looking again at a couple of recent Telegraph articles, hoping to find more things to give up, from the 45 suggested (I AM STRONG) and from British prime minister Theresa May’s example. Will I succeed? Or will I decide to sit back, relax and let things give me up?


Something borrowed, with a touch of something blue

A little extract from Larry Levis’ After the Blue Note Closes.


Suddenly a downpour, a late

Summer storm. I thought of you, alone or

Not alone in that distant city,

And at that hour when the punk musicians’ bars,

And the carpeted bars,

With their well-coiffed, careful clienteles,

Are closing—

Those strangers pairing off at last & each desiring

What little mercy the other can



Who’s a prodigal wanderer?

I find nothing helps me see the flaws I need to fix or weak spots to work on in my poems like having them published, anywhere. Nothing like hanging the garment up on the public clothes line and stepping back to be able to see that stain the wash missed. So this one here is an oldie, long in the making poem. Or more correctly, never really put through significant revision, which I am trying to do now. Do tell me what you think – comments indicated for my eyes only are treated with utmost privacy.wanderer-1471454_960_720


By Melania Daniel


Returning home,

What do we hope to find

Between eternities of visits

Or since that time we left –

Can we fit in the moults, sloughed

By the tearful parting?


We approach, laden with gifts,

And doubts, and feeble knees,

Wobbling through this hometown.

The corridor between the eyes and memory

Is crammed with tears, nostalgia flutters through the stomach.

Mobbed by airy hellos rushing out of ever-opened windows

We break down in claustrophobia, some withered face is gawking

Vague reminders of yesterday’s camaraderie, names

Dart across the memory, eluding capture for the familiarity

Our greetings lack, our childhood monikers so well-remembered.


A grimy tot sails paper boats on the high tide of a gutter and

Beneath the eyelids school days float by in fuzz, we barefoot

On the melting tar of the only street, still one-way like a sock,

Life in this place a dead-end

Daze of splashing toes in steamy puddles

After copious midday showers, when the hot street’s breath

Clouded on the mirror of a humid day, in night’s slow

Recurring dreams of certain city fortune,

We could not see ourselves in the hazy future of this village.


And there it is, unchanging – home, you squeal,

Eavesdropping echoes question softly, home?

A family reunion awaits you, fumbling

Through initial moments of clumsiness

For what’s right to say, sibling togetherness and laughter

Delicate as the cake baking in the oven, one loose remark

A harmless howl could send this spirit slumping flat.

Concern for the progeny a new flavor

Mother’s fussing over again,

Did she mix the right ingredients? She’s sure

Something unsaid is missing.


Soon we get up to leave,

Regretting to all we have to go so soon

And leave behind the best day of our lives,

But we’ve got to work tomorrow.

I’m thinking with the final wave

It’s no better out there,

Still no comfort here

The voices mutter

And I understand why

Prodigals are wanderers.

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Spring Cleaning

by Melania Daniel


Stretching on a tottering stool

Of trepidation, you peer inside your memory,

In this attic of the brain moth-eaten dreams

May still be found. From the dank of cramped recesses

Mildewed hopes leap out like spooks

And disturb you for a burst of spring cleaning.


The days that all turn yellow in the evenings

Are falling off the calendar like autumn leaves.

In your yard, chocking with too many seasons shed,

You rake a pile of years scrawled over with your schemes

Of youth and burn all obsolete thoughts. Despair reinvents

In smoke to the escalator of your longings.


Frazzled as the time that’s growing senile

You slouch next to a window to mend some threadbare drapes

And find that you are staring at the journal of your life.

Glancing through the chapters of your face, now creased

And fading pages, you read some dreary lines

Of stalled beginnings; maybe a little dye

Of rouge and blush will make this tale more colorful.


Is there any joy in reading a familiar bedtime story

When the children have all flown?

And only the mocking laughter of echoes find humor

In this fable of fulfillment? Shuffle back into the attic,

Perhaps the other version can still be found. More fanciful,

That one lies buried in the clutter of homemaking.


Where all along discontent laid grubs to furrow

In the contours of your face, and nurture

In the cracks of your skin. While carving grooves inside your teeth

You hear their jeering chatter; it’s fall, they’re saying

Fall, you’re affirming, it’s never too late for spring cleaning.