Where Did You Get One Hundred Plus? – Guest Post by Miranda Stone

Miranda Stone:

The lovely Lisa Ojanpera invited me to be a guest blogger this week, and I was delighted to accept. You can read my post on her blog, and while you’re there, be sure to follow her if you’re not already. She’s an incredible lady with lots of great things to say.

Originally posted on Underground Energy:

Young Woman Writing

Young Woman Writing by Pierre Bonnard

This my beautiful, funny, extremely intelligent and comedic author friend, Miranda Stone. Miranda has been a great encouragement to me through “The road to recovery” as I have been learning to walk again and carrying the oxygen hose around. She always has time to lend me a smile, throw me some encouragement or hand me a pocketful of hope. Please visit her blog Author Miranda Stone when you get time.


Lisa’s feeling under the weather this week, so when she invited me to fill in as a guest blogger, I was delighted to accept. Since I began my own blogging journey here, I’ve been lucky to meet some wonderful friends, including Lisa and Johnny. Lisa’s blog focuses on the theme of life—its moments of beauty and heartbreak, all its challenges and rewards. Her posts make me laugh, and they make me think. My blog…

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Second Sight

Dilated pupils
bright light illuminating
the interior of my eyes.

Familial drusen
Rolls off the tongue
sounding innocuous—
a rare condition
of fatty deposits
dotting the retina,
possibly present at birth.
No recent ancestors
suffered from blindness,
so perhaps I’m the first
with the genetic mutation.

The photos reveal
brightly lit clusters
politely remaining
outside the macula.
Eyesight still 20/20.
The technician says
I’m fortunate to have
such good vision. I nod,
resisting the urge
to tell her I feel like
I have time bombs
ticking in both eyes.

All is well, I assure myself
as I once again pass
the Amsler Grid Eye Test.
And yet when I stand
before the butterfly bush,
I pause to drink in the purple
of those blooms, searing it
so deeply in my mind’s eye
that years of darkness
won’t rob me of it.


How did you, a near stranger,
recognize that I had changed
over the course of a weekend,
that a frigid November morning
ended childhood as I knew it?

Is that why you singled me out?
Your offhand compliment
of my hideous new hairstyle
whipped up a storm of gossip.
So you eased away from me,
and I hated you for it, refusing
to listen to your words or return
a simple gesture of kindness.

Over the years, I’ve imagined
seeking you out, sending a note
to apologize for my past behavior
and thank you for the attention
you could afford to give me.
I want to tell you I’m still broken,
just as I was, but more functional,
and able to admit I was wrong.

But in these technological times
when we leave endless trails
of smudged digital fingerprints
wherever we go, I cannot find you.

Love Poems

Sending out love poems like flares
in the dark—and between the lines
a hidden code: “I want these words
to mold you into the shape I prefer.”

In sonnets we exchange, I describe
a man altogether different from you,
and your verses, sweetly dedicated
to me, are clearly meant for another.

But we’re not getting any younger.
So we put away our poems and sigh,
shrugging as we convince ourselves:
“Not perfection, but close enough.”