Jazz Age Wednesdays 26 ― Hullaba Lulu

This is the project I’ve been working on with Teagan. She’s done a great job with the story!

Teagan's Books

Wednesday, March 21, 2018

Welcome back to Jazz Age Wednesdays.  As much as I love Pip and her friends, I was in the mood for a change of pace.  Today is the premier of a new mini-series.  It is not in the “Pip-verse” but it still takes place during the Roaring Twenties.  I hope my “voice” is different enough to distinguish this story from the ones featuring Pip. 

A while back Rob Goldstein offered to do some 1920s images for me, when one of my tales reminded him of stories his grandmother told him.  He mentioned a song his grandmother sang to him called “Don’t Bring Lulu.”  Right away I wanted to do a story related to it.  

Don’t Bring Lulu

For several weeks, Rob and I have had a great time playing with ideas for this story.  He quickly sent me several images for potential “Lulus,” and he created additional…

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Within us

from The Feathered Sleep



Love is a drowsy hand

held beneath quilt

and long after it has gone

you remember

the familiar warmth

and though the day is raw and filled with white clouds

you walk the dog through the uncut grass

remembering how it felt

to touch.

Love is a pain, sharp between your ribs

as if blunted knife has found purchase

to imagine one moment in this world, without you

and yet, so often

love is a terrible morning, waking in disbelief

you no longer walk beside me.

Then love is all you have

to hold onto, when the day swells and charges

emptiness spitting her spite in your face

your only recourse, to reclaim, that drowned memory

of when you were both without suffering

no worn streaks of tears tracing your jaw

nor the wink of life fitful, in the candle of your eyes

stillness, in yet unbroken reverie

stretching forever…

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The Old Guy … In My Opinion … #06

from geezer94


The Old Guy … In My Opinion

Old Man


Old man sitting alone in the dark.

What was just yesterday,

Now a long distant memory.

Oh, the past lurks behind all of us.


In silence, rocking endlessly,

Without direction,

Without purposeful intent,

Without a breath of protest.


Old man sitting in the dark,

Watching the parade,

Of unrealized hopes, denied ambitions,

Of dreams that withered and died.


The darkness hides so much,

And can be a Master speaking harshly.

But the light of day whispers promised truth,

To an old man sitting alone in the dark.


jem © 2018



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As Mary Was Here for God

Something in the way he moves, his grace, the
way he struts his stuff.

This I know, I want him, I want him in the worst
way; but my love for the Woman keeps me from
taking my man.

The Woman is here for me, as Mary was here for

I shall descend upon her tonight in a glittering
display of astral affection and leave her with
an ancient mystery;

I am the holy trinity in search of a womb.

  Image and Poem Rob Goldstein 1984-2018