Purple's Platitudes

nothing but words …

last words

22 February 2014


(for mom)



I don’t remember

what we talked about,

alone in her room,

her and I.


I just remember

the last words we said,

were “I love you” and




22 February, 2014 Posted by | Poetry | , | Leave a comment

in my own way

22 February 2014



In my own way, I was trying to say …



I was terrorized, traumatized, abandoned and alone. I wet the bed and sucked my thumb until the summer I turned 12


In my own way, I was trying to say …



I wanted to believe, to find forgiveness, love, to be accepted just as I am, to know I had a purpose and direction for my life, so God/Church became the family I never had, and I learned to please.


In my own way, I was trying to say …



Still empty, still searching, still reaching for something more, love/sex made promises it never kept. Twenty-four years of dialogue, and another seven years until I reached the point of listening no more.


In my own way, I was trying to say …



Journeys have a way of coming full circle, bringing us back, again and again, to where it all began. Sometimes, the greatest truth we learn, is after all we’ve reached for, after all we’ve grown through our experiences, through everything we’ve learned, we still have to discover ourselves.


In my own way, I am still trying to say …



22 February, 2014 Posted by | Poetry | , | Leave a comment

once pursued, twice remembered

16 February 2014


“I want you, I want you so bad … ” (Beatles)


 (for Kathie)



I felt like prey,

hunted and pursued,

only you weren’t looking for a kill.

You were an offering,

a willing sacrifice.

And I wasn’t interested.

We barely talked at all,

childishly passing notes through friends, masquerading as matchmakers.

Despite one moment of weakness,

on my part, not yours,

I guess I finally won.

You gave up, stopped trying,

and faded into a memory.

But old memories can sometimes be

stronger than …



16 February, 2014 Posted by | Poetry | , | Leave a comment

she had feet of clay

16 February 2014


(for Robin)



You were my first (and last)


Naively, I groveled and tried

to faithfully worship you,

to earn your favor.

Indiscriminately, you took pleasure

In being cruel,

as often punishing as showing favor,

based on whim, on mood.

It was always your game,

your rules,

with only one possible winner or outcome.

But, at sixteen,

I still believed

without the doubt and apostasy of later years.

At sixteen, I bled out the pain

of discovering how fickle the gods can be,

especially when it came to love.

For that, I thank you.

Despite the years of wandering

in this wilderness,

I never gave up

on finding the Promised Land,

I just had a clearer idea of

who would be making the journey with me.



16 February, 2014 Posted by | Poetry | , | Leave a comment

blame Miss Lou

Visiting the blog of a new recent Follower revealed this get to know me quiz, which I enjoyed filling out and thought I would share my answers to on my own blog. Enjoy.


Male, Female, Bot, Alien or Other?

Can I be an androgynous Alien/Other? If not, I suppose a Male.


What do you prefer to be called, in the blogging community?

For years I was just known as Purple, but I have unveiled the super hero mask and become Michael.


So where are you from?

NY, small city, not the big one.


What is your favorite thing to do?

Write, read, and write some more …


If you could play me a song that would describe where you are at in your life right now, what would it be and why? (Perhaps provide a You Tube Link)

Blinded by the light – Manfred Mann (can’t do YouTube, sorry)


Android or IPhone? Why?

Android, because it was a gift


Favorite Television Program, or if you don’t watch TV, your favorite book?

M*A*S*H and Duncton Wood by William Horwood


Last time you cursed or spoke in anger and why?

“Profanity is the mark of a weak mind trying to express itself forcibly” so I do not curse (out loud anyway LOL) but there are certain blog posts that should be avoided on my blog. Anger I either turn inward or transform into satirical wit.


Dog , Cat or Fish?

Depends, for lunch or dinner? OK, I am a cat person, or rather a person who is owned by a cat.


Best Personal Quality?

Empathy, I care too much


Worst trait?

A toss up between honesty and detachment


How did you end up here?

It is your fault, you visited/followed my blog first


Whats the best blog you have been reading recently? Please provide a link so I can come be equally impressed!

I cannot “read” most blogs anymore, but I try to follow a few to receive email posts, but I also cannot share links very easily, so I shall pass.


Where’s your blog? Please provide a link so I can find you easy n stuff!

Purplesplatitudes.wordpress.com (my About Me page should explain some of my answers)


Thanks Miss Lou … this was quite fun.

8 February, 2014 Posted by | Vomit Theory | | Leave a comment


06 February 2014



Everyone learned

to read music except me,

I just played by ear.


For nine years I played

in concert and marching band,

I was a drummer.


Eighth grade music class

was soprano recorder.

I just memorized.


Ninth grade it all changed,

no jazz band unless I marched.

I quit, and marched out.


Discovered guitar,

started singing, writing songs,

wandering minstrel.


Over a lifetime,

I have taught myself to play

piano, bass too.


I have always said

I’m good enough to fool most,

but never myself.


I wanted to play

a little of everything,

but master of none.


This troubadour rests.

I have given up the dream,

or redefined it.


To amuse myself,

I still play

piano, and

never stop learning.


Eclectic in styles,

I’ll listen to anything,

‘though much I dislike.


My threefold passion,

Nature, music, and writing,

some things never change.



6 February, 2014 Posted by | Poetry | , , | Leave a comment


21 March 2013


Like an angry swarm of bees,

growing angrier by the second,

mom canvassed the neighborhood,

calling out my name,

asking anyone she saw if

they had seen me.


It wasn’t that I was missing,

just that she thought I was.


Exasperated, she returned home,

bitching and complaining

to my younger sisters,

yelling and threatening to mete out

severe punishment when she found me!


My sisters laughed, only making it worse,

then finally told her:

"Mom, calm down. He is in his room,

in his bed sleeping!"


She just assumed,

never bothered to even look.


We laughed about it later

and it became one of those stories

mom always told,

until it became almost legendary.

21 March, 2013 Posted by | Poetry | , , | Leave a comment

of Spanish rice & electric skillets

20 March 2013

of Spanish rice & electric skillets


What’s beyond stubborn?

I would make Balaam’s donkey

seem cooperative!

But if memory serves me right,


I was young, five or six,

and it was lunch.

Spanish rice with huge chunky tomatoes,

green bell peppers, onions,


cooked to perfection (supposedly)

in mom’s favorite, all-purpose,

torture device:

the electric skillet.


Dad ate it, mom too,

older brother and sister even,

but not me! No way!

I refused!


(like Jonah, only I couldn’t try to run away

and get swallowed by a whale

for two or three days and nights.

I missed all the fun.)


"You’re not leaving this table

young man until you at least

try it!"

Wanna bet?


Nearly twelve hours later,

after scolding and spanking,

begging and pleading, mom

finally relented.


I was sent to bed hungry, but I knew

I had won and I would never

have to eat anything I didn’t like

ever again.


(well until I was married …

but as they say,

that’s another story!)

Karma, ya know?

20 March, 2013 Posted by | Poetry | , , | Leave a comment

Unsolved Case

27 September 2010

The mysterious unsolved case of …


reused brown paper bags,

a sandwich, a piece of fruit, and

if I was lucky,

something else for a snack,

plus a dime for a half pint of white milk.


Cafeteria monitors assigned seats.

Most of the kids I had to sit with

bought school lunches.

I ignored their whispers and giggles,

most of the time.


That day I had a peanut butter sandwich,

one chocolate chip cookie,

and an orange cut into halves.


As I picked up the last half of my orange

and opened wide,

intending to shove the whole thing in my mouth,

the girl sitting across from me screamed,

slapped my hand, and

knocked the orange to the floor.


Buried in the orange,

open and sticking up

was a large safety pin.

27 September, 2010 Posted by | Poetry | , | Leave a comment