The tiniest window sits over my hearth
Housing a thin pane of glass,
The view from no matter the angle I look
Shifts only as seasons do pass.

Shamrock and emerald and deep forest greens
Stolen by ambers and golds,
Barren in branch and absent of scene
To buds that so bravely unfold.

Through this tiny window, on a tiny thin branch,
Occasional birds flitter by,
They sit and they sing and at times seem to glance
Straight in with inquisitive eyes.

What might they be thinking, those tiny bird brains,
Of my perch that sees so little change?
Do they think me as sad, or pathetic, or blessed,
Can they give my behavior a name?

Are they stronger these branches, these leaves, and these birds
Than I in my chair by the fire,
As they all face what comes with each rising sun
No choice to retreat or retire?

Often I dream of knocking it down
The wall that holds tight to that glass,
Let the whole world, the real world, come in
And brace for holding on fast.

That thin pane of glass some would argue is wise,
It’s what man has worked to attain,
But what is kept out and what is kept in
Is never remotely the same.

~ Leana Delle
Sunday, February 17, 2019
Number six of fifty-two in My Year of Sunday Poems challenge.

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Girlfriend, We Need To Talk!

Why a new podcast? A better question would be: Why the hell not? I’ve had a lifetime of whys, and I’m done. From now on, I see nothing to lose in trying something new. Nothing. Bring on judgment, ridicule, and negative comments. I’ve reached the official age of “I don’t give a damn,” as have several of my upcoming guests. I also know, full well, that for every naysayer, there is a member of my tribe hunkered down for the long haul of love and support. YOU make me feel unstoppable, and I thank you.

What’s the show about? Women. Outstanding women, to be exact, and I can’t wait to get started (technically, we have started, but in a few short weeks, the episodes will start airing). Selfishly, the show will be feeding my addiction – one for stimulating conversation. I can’t get enough of rich, let’s get to the heart of it, no bullshit interactions, and I’m a firm believer that surrounding ourselves with exceptional people only raises us higher. I want to go higher.

I’ve missed podcasting since The Matthews and McGuire Show came to the end of its three year run, and we’re pumped to bring you an entertaining alternative. When I say “we,” I’m referring to myself and the Robin to my Howard, modest sports broadcast celeb, Mark “Friedo” Friedman. Friedo is “The Guy” with a wealth of radio/podcast experience and a keen level of insight.

So, naysayer or tribe, stop by and take a listen. I’ve got guests in their 20s, 90s, and everywhere in between, ranging from actress to CEO, photographer to professional poker player. We’ll bring you laughter, aha moments, and the occasional, “did I just say that?” but I can guarantee you, there won’t be any bullshit.

We’ll be posting soon!

Follow us here:


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The man beside me, large and round,
Can’t help but crowd my space.
A two-year-old behind my seat
Kicks at a frantic pace.

The air is full of 9A’s sneeze,
But I’m afraid to ask,
The girl across the aisle from me
To spare an extra mask.

With pretzels stale and cat-piss ale
The business men grow rowdy,
While flight attendants gauge the risk
Of breaking up the party.

At 30,000 feet we cruise
This petri dish with wings,
What hurtling through a turbulent wind
Will destinations bring?

The miserable won’t crack a grin
They loathe a smiling face,
But I can’t help but stretch mine wide,
This is my favorite place.

~ Leana Delle
Sunday, February 10, 2019
Number five of fifty-two in My Year of Sunday Poems challenge.

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Midnight Writer

Pre-dawn hours shy from me
And dawn remains a stranger,
Midnight breaks the shadows free
And holds my heart’s desire.

Ideas shift and bend in bough
Dreaming of the page,
Where eyes may someday peel them free
And bless the gift of phrase.

I have to slow my frazzled pace
Though fearing that I can’t,
Capture fleeting seconds, minutes,
Coax them into dance,

For time alone can steal my voice
None other has the power,
’Tis I who make the final choice
On how to spend my hours.

So midnight, hold your arms out wide
I’ll fall to your embrace,
Carry me to death if prized
But let me leave a trace.

~ Leana Delle
Sunday, February 3, 2019
Number four of fifty-two in The Year of Sunday Poems challenge.

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Across the room
You try to steal
My gaze and my attention.
Though blank your stare
It’s obvious
The root of your intention.

To take my hands and place them firm
Upon your main controls.
Relax myself, forget my day,
Surrender heart and soul.

It’s true that I can turn you on
I’ve strode that path before,
But we both know it’s not enough;
You’re always wanting more.

How can I trust your promises
When all those times you failed,
To bring me satisfaction
Or know what that entailed.

The lies and disappointment
I fear I can’t forgive,
Each time you work your evil ways,
I never truly live.

So now I beg, leave me alone
To read or write or ponder,
I’ve had enough, you damned TV,
I swear your days are numbered!

~ Leana Delle
Sunday, January 27, 2019

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