I, Sheherezade, I

“Function, sweetheart.”
A line in code,
Bogart, feeling the burnt calamity,
The sweat of cities,
And the hearts all pretty.

Served with new orders, realizing
She flinched dramatically yet faintly,
Rudely chortled, then crossed her “i”s.
He barely escaped a double, a body,
The usual. She’s pretty, toiling for trouble.
Yet Who’s the true Scheherazade?
Telling, her bruised cheeks and frozen eyes.
You down a frown waltz the promenade,
Long, dark obelisks hiding Rosicrucian spies.
Pinching and squeezing, the blues of your eyes,
Cover the exit doors, clues etched
Deep into jaundiced old parchment.

Film from a milk glass half full of greed,
Checking your pockets for cents.
Emptied at once and in the morass
Future opportunities. Past prominent.

Throwing queens and kings in with the cards,
Escalating the fight that night he sang,
He heard the door slam, hard.
The story left for another in chains
The first rights of refusal
And Persia called him Methuselah.


Female. East coast transplant living in the Bay Area of California. Living with Stage IV breast cancer. Married to the coolest guy in the universe who occasionally suffers from serious depression. Love my stepsons, although I never thought I'd have that thankless job - ever! And my best friend Simon is also my cat. How I have survived with stage IV: treatments including chemo and surgery; palliative oncology; tenacity; a dark sense of humor; support groups; and my newly reinvented career as a vintage and antiques maven. Some days I miss the old me who led a well respected and well paid life as a business strategist in high tech. So much for that. I blog to simply share my experiences and my poetic approach with others who have cancer of any kind or with their care givers and those who love them. If one person at the very least finds a little commonality or a friend out in the ether tor a smile, a common nod about this experience, or even a link to assistance, then I have accomplished a small but extraordinarily meaningful goal. Go team.

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