About jftoomey

I'm many things, among which is a linguist, a therapist, a scientist, a business owner, a student, a traveller, a dreamer, a poet, a friend, a dog lover, and I'm sure some other things that I'd rather not mention here.

winter’s end in the age of plague

a warm, golden

rippling blue

blue-yellow light

danced like a sprite

off the dulled, splintered

winter-worn window panes,

as stubbornly they opened

one by one,

onto the parched, dusty rooms


to gulp in the shimmer

& abundance of a misty

perfumed concoction

of salty

green grass

lilac & oxygen,

they filled brimming

with the sustenance

of springtime promises:

long, dark

withering winters

now but




is the lightning-strike

urge to purge

yourself of patience

when others see things


it pierces

the peace

like the unrelenting

anxious squeal

of a white-hot steaming

tea kettle.





demands your

perfect compliance,


shatters to shards

‘neath the crush

of questioning

its teetering




& myriad




onto Impatience

Right onto

Intolerance Road

hypothesis on Living a Creative Life

the Power to live

a creative life

lies in the ability to

actively make choices.

Choices centered

in a willingness

to be sure about nothing

in a willingness

to embrace a state of non-thinking silence

– just long enough

for inspiration to surge

& flow


into a conscious state

of gentle awareness


by an attitude

of non-clinging curiosity

evolving heuristically

into a soundly reasoned theory


for validity

& reliability

only by means of positive


emotional response

My 2 Centences

Reasonable, isn’t it?

To simply express your preferred way of doing things, no matter how strong the preference, even when… bordering on demand, after all, if you can foresee the mess another is about to make when they cannot, don’t you have an obligation to help them avoid it!?

So right!

Things should never have to get messy; if only we could do things just as You have planned them, everything would go so much more smoothly!

Blue Popsicles

I love the ocean, really I do, I never take a vacation without it, so often when I buy personal hygiene products I like to buy things with names like Ocean Breeze, Sea Mist, Briny Breezes, Misty Sea and Surf for Men, etc., etc., this seems to temporarily fill my need for an ocean fix, but this morning my system seems to have hit a snag when eyes shut, wallowing in the sheer dreaminess of hot water running over by head and down my back, I grabbed for my ever-dependable, too-wide-to-grasp, family-size, Suave Ocean Breeze with Infused Sea Algae Extract and Vitamin E Shampoo, and decided to put it to my nostrils to take a long, deep, savoring breath when immediately I became anxious as a memory flashed on a summer-sweaty, hedonistically-devouring 3 or 4-year-old child gorging on a delicious blue popsicle after mass with my father, and my mother asking me in her sweet, calm, quietly hysterical tone, the one she reserved for small children to refrain from full-tilt scream: “Joseph, who gave you the blue popsicle?”, and “How the …. will I ever get those gd blue stains off your brand new (short-sleeve) white dress shirt?” Moral: Don’t buy Suave Ocean Breeze Shampoo, it smells like blue popsicles, or some kind of deadly Monsantoèsque sea weed, beach plum and propylene glycol mix, and what is that blue popsicle flavor anyway?

Das Vagabonder

What I love

⁃ most

about vacation

is just wandering,

wandering aimlessly.

it was this glorious,


picture perfect

beach day,

but I chose to spend most of it



inside my Marriott Bonvoy

points-paid suite of rooms

with wall-sized

sliding glass doors,

⁃ slid wide open,

windows supervising

a luminescent

azure pounding ocean

just beyond their reach,

see-through sheers

flying like ballroom dancers

on lifts of briny breezes

⁃ watching movies,


old American

frontier romance fiction,

then shuffling,


in a pair of well-worn contoured

black leather Berkenstocks,

like a too-tired snail

pulling itself, reluctantly

‘cross a sun-drenched

southern French

terra-cotta-tiled pathway,

a trail of glistening slime

regaling its wake,

every centimeter, a toss


all the closer

and just too far

to the beachside cafe

for a hardy

sea-side lunch,

then, when all is said & eaten

the awkward posse of successive

backward tripping steps,

⁃ back

onto the bank of elevators:

l-o-b-b-y l-e-v-e-l!

exhorts the whispy

electronic she-voice

14th floor!

a muffled murmur responds

from behind

the faceless

canteen issue


paper pandemic

surgical mask,


an empty


nylon mesh



to my sunny,

breezy window-treated


for just a little bit more


inside, ocean-side

beach-day wandering

⁃ DasVagabonder

Birthday 63

For my 63rd birthday Jeff & I decided to take a shot (NPI) at golf! This was not a decision made as care-freely as it might sound. For as long as I can remember, age 4 to be exact, when after a certain 10-year-old uncle and his huddled gang of marauding 10-to-12-year-old buddies torpedoed a football at my chest while jeering me on to clutch it and sprint in a bee line toward the imposing, lone red maple, wide-stanced and broad-shouldered, its mighty chest proffered to proudly accept every hue of nature’s rainbow-speckled fall glory – a request I happily indulged like an eager-to-please puppy – and out of nowhere – BAM! – I ended up on the suffocating bottom of a pile of eight or nine 10-to-12-year-old boys – not as pleasant an experience as the more cynical among you might think. This was a defining moment, one that invoked immediate rebellion and a near life-long self-imposed ban on playing any kind of game involving a flying object even remotely resembling a football. Culprits have included: baseballs, tennis balls, basketballs, frisbees, hockey pucks, birdies, etc., etc., etc. I am happy to report, however, that I think I’ve finally found my sport! Never too late to find your flow, albeit a safe’ish, gentlemanly and leisurely game, golfing is a lot of fun, despite the tacit assumption that the occasional ill-intentioned marauding hoodlum most likely still lies stealthily in wait, cleverly queued in reoccurring ten-minute tee-time sorties, and camouflaged in colorful glove-tight, ergonomically yielding Lululemon active wear, just longing for the perfectly inopportune moment to lob a tiny, menacing, pimpled, neon ball aloft in my direction.