A Richer Kind of Time - A Poem

When you are slowly dying

You spend a lot of time

Thinking about quality.

Quality of life

Of medical care

Of relationships.

Quality of your time.

You try to fill your days

With constructive

And positive

And useful things to do

You concentrate on the good

And try like hell

To fix the bad

And push it away

When you can't.

And it's okay

To cry

When your life clock

Stands at 3 minutes

To midnight

And you don't want to go yet.

Me, I don't fear it

I also don't seek it

I know it's coming

And I realized

It could happen tomorrow

In a car wreck

Or a Walmart shooter's spree

Or I could defy

My multiple diagnoses

And live another 25 years.

Nobody knows for sure

When the Reaper

Decides to show up.

So I live for the day,

I make them count

I love on my family

I love on my friends

My dogs

And really most importantly

I love on myself.

I am not living

On borrowed time

I merely live

On shortened time.

And when 

You make it good

That is enough.

Copyright Jennifer Thomas, 2026

Mean Girls, You've Got To Be Kind!

I was at Walmart one day and there was a guy sitting on a bench at the front near the registers. He was very obviously profoundly developmentally disabled, completely in his own world, and just having an absolute blast. I can't remember exactly what he was doing, but he was making a fair bit of noise, maybe listening to music because he was singing and chair dancing right there. 

Then these three teenage girls walked by. They were about 16, really pretty, fashionably dressed, the total cheerleader popular mean girl types. They noticed him and immediately started laughing and pointing, mimicking him and just being incredibly mean about it. 

The Windy City and Me

The roots of Chicago stay with you, no matter how many miles or years pile up. For me, that footprint started when I was eleven years old, living for four unforgettable months on South Kedzie Avenue with my Gramma Mary. Down on the Southwest Side, near Gage Park and Chicago Lawn, the city had a distinct, working-class grit. At eleven, that stretch of Kedzie was my entire universe. It was a world of brick two-flats, corner stores, and the constant, lively hum of the neighborhood. It was an eye-opening introduction to the real heart of the city. 

Years later, I returned to Chicago as an adult, but this time, the city showed us a completely different side of its character. 

Prose Writing from the past

Back in the 90s, I started an IRC channel called #Bards, where a group of us would get together every week and share/recite the poems and stories we had written for an appreciative audience. Here are some of the stories I wrote.



Once there were mountains that no longer exist on this planet today, canyons that have long since been filled with dust and earth, and become part of the prairies, and people the likes of which will never be seen on this earth again..

Assorted Poetry

This post holds a lot of poems I wrote back in the 80s and 90s, in no particular order. Enjoy!

Happy Birthday to the Great Bald Guru

Written for my friend Bill Sowman on his 69th birthday. He passed shortly after that, but he loved this poem, and called me (back in the days of Long Distance being bloody expensive) from London, just to ask me to read it to him. I sure miss him.

I Cried

 

July 1 1961 - August 31 1997

As soon as I heard of Princess Diana's death, the chorus of an old song began running through my mind. I think it is apropos to the moment..

The Hands

Early morning memory...

Death Watch

Being on death watch sucks.

Sam called Ginger's husband and gave the husband his number for updates.

As of right now, there is no change. She is still comatose, and is likely to stay that way until she leaves us.

Jesus fuck, I miss her already.

G and I met 26 years ago, because we were both part of a rosary maker's guild. We were paired up on a swap to send our partner a kit we had put together to make a rosary (beads, eye pins, cross, centerpiece) and we both went kind of overboard. She sent me four kits, I sent her three. She included her phone number in her package, and I called her to thank her and tell her how much I loved what she'd sent. 

We ended up talking for 2.5 hours that evening, and a friendship was born. We were soul sisters from the get-go. 

Four months later she announced she was coming to visit me. That was the first of four face to face visits we were able to accomplish, every one of them rich and warm and funny. She even came for my son's wedding, and insisted on paying for half of the food for the buffet as her gift.

When my second husband tried to walk away without giving me any closure, she called him and ripped him a new asshole, as did my other bestie, Debb, which prompted him to come to the psych ward I was in after my suicide attempt and work out details of spousal support and what have you. That settled things for me, and I was able then to heal enough to go home. Without Debb and G stepping in, I might still be sitting in the hospital, fingerpainting.

When I moved to Texas and we had NOTHING, G made Christmas happen for our entire family. She sent an artificial tree, ornaments, gifts, and a Walmart gift card so we could buy dinner fixings. For the next 24 years, G sent a huge Christmas box for us, until I finally told her to stop, the kids didn't come home any more for the holidays.

If I needed an ear, G was there. If I wanted to laugh, G had a joke. 

I feel like I am losing one of my anchors, and I am flailing.

G's other best friend, Karen, is going to be a total wreck. From what G has told me over the years, Karen is a wet mess and depends on G to keep her stable and afloat. I don't know what she will do now. I hope she will be okay.

I will be okay, but there will be a big huge hole in my life and heart. This loss is deep and painful, and I'm not coping very well right at the moment, but I am strong, or so they tell me, so I will get through this. I will never get OVER it, but I will get through it.

Sigh. Tonight, I will grab the job's tear rosary that G made for me and pray one for her peaceful passing.

Ginger

One of my best friends is currently dying. She could go tonight, she could go in a few days, but she is going. Her husband called me tonight to let me know.

None of you know her, but she would have made one amazing Callahooligan, and fit in well with most of you.

She loved my kids, and they loved her, though they only met twice, since she lives in Philadelphia and we live in Texas.

Tonight I am utterly bereft and falling apart.

May her passing be peaceful. Please, let there be a reward for her after this, whatever reward she wants.

I can't stop crying. When I'm not crying so much, I will write more about her.

Fuck uncontrolled diabetes. Fuck it hard.

Ink, Strings, and Serenity OR Happy Little Clouds

There is a specific kind of silence that happens the moment I cap my pen after finishing a Zentangle. My hand is usually a bit cramped from the precision of the patterns, but my mind is finally quiet. To keep that peace from evaporating, I reach for my ukulele. The transition from the visual rhythm of ink on paper to the literal vibration of strings against my fingertips is where I find my center.

It’s a world of tiny, deliberate wonders. One hour I’m watching a Shrinky Dink curl and toughen under the heat, and the next I’m assembling an angel keychain, bead by bead. These aren't just crafts; they are anchors. In a world that feels increasingly loud and disposable, these small acts of creation are how I claim my space.

The Holy Trinity: Why I Keep Buying These Same Three Records

 

Most six-year-olds in 1971 were vibrating to "The Wheels on the Bus" or whatever upbeat nonsense was playing on the radio, but not me. No, I was already deep in the trenches of acoustic melancholy. I was sitting there in my kindergarten class, probably staring at a pile of blocks, while the haunting melodies of Joni Mitchell’s Blue, the earthy warmth of Carole King’s Tapestry, and the gentle drawl of James Taylor’s Sweet Baby James played on a loop in my head. 

I’ve owned these albums on vinyl, 8-track, cassette, CD, and every digital format known to man; at this point, the only thing missing is a reel-to-reel copy, and frankly, my wallet is grateful for that one omission. 

And now, the albums.

Carpe the Fucking Diem

So my COPD is stage two moving into stage three.

What does this mean?

3-5 years remaining to me. 4-6 if I'm really lucky and extremely diligent.

I did this to myself. I knew I was risking an early death with my chain smoking. Now it's a reality, not just a risk.

The Great Kitchen Standoff: A Bubbly Backwash Production

Left to right: Romeo, Connor, Cubby, Rocco. Cats in order: Not Bob, Mary Ann, Ada

I’m currently living in a low-budget nature documentary where the dogs are hairy potatoes and the cats are fuzzy dictators. Between Not Bob’s entitlement and Romeo’s vibrating tail, the kitchen has become a high-stakes war zone. Send help; or bacon.

I now present a world premier: The Great Kitchen Standoff: A Bubbly Backwash Production

Born Loud, Raised Proud

The Dog Who Broke My Heart and the Dog Who Put It Back Together

I didn’t go looking for Lulu. She found me. She was five years old when I got her, already past the puppy chaos, already herself. The first time I saw her, she walked straight over, climbed into my space like she belonged there, and rested her head on my heart. Not my lap. Not my hand. My heart. I said her name and she responded instantly, like she already knew it was hers. From that moment on, she was mine and I was hers.

Creating, Growing, and Returning to Life

For a long time, I thought my creative life had gone quiet. Not dead, just sleeping under a pile of exhaustion, pain, and the everyday grind of being a human with a body that doesn’t always cooperate. But lately something has cracked open again. I’ve been wandering back into the arts like someone returning to a house they used to live in. Everything feels familiar, but also new in ways I didn’t expect..

When Bipolar Disorder Takes Another Life, The Stigma Should Be What Dies Next

 

Image courtesy Unsplash.Com - work of Paolo Nicolello

Robert Carradine died by suicide today after a long fight with bipolar disorder. The news hit me harder than I expected. Not because I knew him personally, but because I know the illness that took him. I know what it feels like when your own brain turns into a battlefield. I know what it feels like to lose the fight for a moment and still be here to talk about it. I have been there. I have survived it. And I am tired of pretending that bipolar disorder is anything other than a medical condition that deserves compassion and treatment.

Every time someone with bipolar disorder or another mental illness dies, the world reacts with shock. People ask how it could happen. People whisper. People speculate. But very few people talk about the truth. Bipolar disorder is not a character flaw. It is not a weakness. It is not a failure of willpower. It is a brain chemistry disorder that can be brutal, unpredictable, and exhausting. It deserves the same seriousness and empathy we give to heart disease or cancer or any other life threatening condition.

But that is not how society treats it...

FUCK Cancer! Fuck It In The EAR! I’m DONE Watching This Monster Hurt People I Love

Cancer is the one motherfucker that never clocks out. It doesn’t care how good you are, how careful you’ve been, how much you’ve already survived. It just shows up like a goddam wrecking ball and dares you to pretend this is normal. I’m fucking sick of it. I’m sick of watching people I love get blindsided by a piece of shit disease that feels like it’s everywhere, all the time, creeping into every family like some kind of outrageous cosmic joke.

We talk about cancer like it’s a statistic, like it’s a chart, like it’s a ribbon color. But when it hits your circle, it’s not a number, it’s a gut punch. It’s fear. It’s rage. It’s the helplessness of knowing that even with all our medical advances of the last motherfucking century, all our research, all our awareness campaigns, this thing still keeps taking swings at the people who deserve it the least.

And I’m tired. Tired of pretending to be calm. Tired of acting like this is just part of life. Tired of watching strong, brilliant, irreplaceable people get dragged into a fight they never fucking asked for...

Mogen David's for Donna Zentangle