Wednesday Poetry

 My Lolita

By Billie Daddario

Lolita in tight shorts and a half shirt,

Walking down the street.

Causing the man to drive his car into a parked car.

Lolita looking for men to worship her and they do.

Lolita is trouble in her tight shorts and half shirt.

Drinking beer out of the bottle you bought for her.

Because she didn’t have an ID.

Lolita making the most of her tight shorts and half shirt.

Lolita in your bed with the sheet draped around her

Lolita’s tight shorts and a half shirt lay half hazardly on the floor.

Because you took from her what you thought she was giving.

Lolita playing grown up is still very much a little girl.

Tuesday Poetry


By Billie Daddario

I was drinking a beer and listening to a Reggae Band,

When SHE came in.

SHE and her friends sat at the table next to me.

SHE was celebrating her 50th birthday

SHE drank rum.

Then to prove SHE was still young

Up on the table SHE danced.

SHE wasn’t afraid of 50 years old.

SHE looked it in the eye and celebrated the years.

Monday Poetry

The Year Almost Over

By Billie Daddario

Outside, snow is falling;

Covering the remnants of autumn.

Inside there is slow jazz and a warm drink;

I don’t know why, but I feel sad.

Reminiscing, brings to mind a tough year;

I’ve seen worse, at least for me personally.

I’m still a little blue. The children in their masks.

I’ve always thought a little sad. Though they don’t seem to mind.

What I know is, this too shall pass, like water in a river.

We’ve all stepped through, whether we blame someone for getting wet,

Is up to each their own decision.

The numbers they predict are staggering;

I can’t pretend to comprehend.

I know the dead could pile up;

Maybe that’s what has me blue.

I know the dead could pile up;

Will it be my loved ones? Or yours?

Mask wearing purgatory.

Non-mask wearing hell.

Pity me I wear my mask.

When all around me I see smiles.

It’s all fun until someone you know dies.

Sunday Poetry

Election 2020

By Billie Daddario

There once was a man with an orange face and yellow hair

Who cried all the time, no fair.

He sat in his chair, shook his fist in the air,

Said, “the votes are unfair.”

I’m the best

You can test

I confess none the less

You won’t find anyone better. I’m the best.

Now my crowds are the biggest

They’re the loudest

The loyalist

And without a doubt, they’re the easiest.

“It’s no fair,” said the man with the yellow hair

As he shook his fist in the air.

Stop the votes, I’m the heir.

“It’s no fair,” said the man with the yellow hair.

Saturday Poetry

It’s in His Touch

By Billie Daddario

When our palms touch

My body tingles

With a million points of electrical charge,

And when your fingers wrap around mine

It takes my breath away, and my heart skips a beat.

To know that I am safe,

And to have that still after many years is spectacular.

We melt together with one singular touch of our hands.

Thursday Poetry


By Billie Daddario

I carry with me the bones

All the bones of my ancestors’ love.

The men, the women, the children, All the

Carcasses of love from my ancestors’ lovers, they are with me.

In a sack sometimes at night I unpack it and say,

“They loved as much as they were able.”

But they too carried bones of their own making

The cold bones of the dead loveless longing.

I carry those bones too because they are the bones of my ancestors, unrequited love ,

And they chose to carry it with them, so I must carry it with me the cold bones of love.

Monday Poetry


By Billie Daddario

Time is a ticking

In the corner of your mind.

It’s the ticking that tells you you’re too young.

Time is a ticking

In the corner of the room

It’s the ticking that tells you they’re too young to be going

Time is a ticking

In the corner of the room

It’s the ticking that begs you not to look in the mirror

Time is a ticking

In the corner of the mind ,

It’s a ticking that tells you that times slipped away.