Dolls & Magic by Dana Lee

Sunday, March 22, 2026

I was going through my Easter basket; Mummy was with me. She asked me what I was going to do with my hydration station and the twenty-five dollars that she had given me. I told her that I’d probably buy more clay. She asked how many dolls I could make with a block of clay. I told her, three. She said, “That’s good!” Then Ron woke me up banging on my door with Frankie. I gave him the finger and slept on the couch.

The second dream took place at an aquarium. Mummy and Becky Galbraith were there. Becky and I had made up. There were enormous hatchet fish, and I showed Mummy how big they were with my hands. I was looking for a bathroom when a guy from the group pointed out some barbs, sleek black fish.

The third dream should’ve been epic, but I am so sleep deprived. It began alongside the car in a parking lot on a class trip to a fair. I had lots of girlfriends along, but none that I recognized from real life. I wanted to make an old-fashioned plastic mermaid. The female vendor told me that it would cost ten to thirty-five dollars. I said that my money was in my bag in the car. My girlfriend said that she’d lend me the money. The vendor was showing me plastic bags filled with odd things: emblems, Mucha sorts of designs, and other old-fashioned stuff, but nothing like the little mermaids that were supposedly do-it-yourself from a pressed mold, I presumed. The last bag had a polished bronze relief of Neptune fixed to a piece of clear turquoise plastic, something like a little fishing rod, a tiny compass, and other brassy fixings. I took that one. My teacher or chaperone, a tall white middle-aged man, was talking to somebody about canceling a loan. I passed a big bin full of things like a navy-blue wool stuffed elephant. We were heading towards the car when Ron had the actual gall to wake me up again. Then he asked me for breakfast. I told him that I’d fix him a middle finger sandwich along with a thank God Dana isn’t running away omelet.

Dana's Dreams

Dana's Dreams Two

Revenge of the Dream Hog

Saturday, March 21, 2026

The Apple Orchard

Have you the time to spend

with the quiet patriot, Robert Townsend?

He was hiding for hundreds of years,

from glories, not fears.

Time to make his acquaintance, friend.

He played with his siblings in Oyster Bay,

in the apple trees,

round Raynham way.

Eight children, and the bees,

apple blossoms,

swinging possums,

blissful, happy,

daring, scrappy.

Samuel Townsend was their Pappy.

He owned three ships,

that were well equipped,

Glasgow, Sarah, and Sally,

laden with goods to stock the galley:

beeswax, barrel staves, butter, rums,

molasses, calico, plums,

fetching quite a sum.

He sailed to England

and back, again.

Then the limeys came

and took over the manor,

waving their English banner.

They cut down

all the apple trees

and built a fort.

The Townsends cried.

Rebellion caught up in the breeze.

Captain Simcoe loved

little sister, Sally.

He gave her a valentine,

thinking her very fine.

He kissed her little hand, gloved,

knowing it impossible.

She did not think him horrible,

not at all.

He was sweet; he was tall.

It wasn’t enough.

Little Sally was very tough.

She kept him enthralled.

Our Robert met Abraham Woodhull,

at his cousin’s boarding house,

living quiet as a mouse,

playing backgammon, having a ball.

Abe whispered of Washington’s spy ring.

Robert was perfect, he’d never sing.

They used Jay’s invisible ink,

sweet Sally, the secret link.

The little queen had quite the sting.

Packed with enemy ships was Oyster Bay,

Robert Townsend gave them away.

Counterfeiters, gun boats,

anything afloat.

And, oh, Captain Townsend could ride!

Who would keep up with his secretive stride?

Paul Revere?

With the enemy by his side

Robert Townsend kept an open ear.

723

was his number, you see?

Culper Junior,

Woodhull was Senior.

What’s a name?

Another game.

Robbie hobnobbed,

snobbed,

with the braggarts

and officers,

faggots, and swaggers.

They were vain.

He was sly,

maybe Washington’s greatest spy.

After hours, he’d remain,

so near,

no beer,

keeping it clear.

What they divulged!

Fat, drunken limeys,

never a stymie,

and our Robbie let them indulge.

He told Washington all about the rangers.

Sister Sally helped,

she wasn’t a stranger.

Washington came to rely

upon the intelligence of his special spy.

Culper Junior hoped he helped.

Loyal letters,

disinformation,

getting better,

Junior passed

to Culper, there,

when he so dared,

so fast,

revelation.

Washington, himself,

humble and stealth,

knew not his true name.

Culper Junior knew no fame.

But, oh, he was good,

doing what he could,

saving the French fleet!

Secret scorpion, so neat!

Britain bought the bluff,

fake news, faker funds,

enough was enough!

Dirty spies,

in disguise,

His horse galloped across the schrunds

from Holy Ground,

the last packet,

over the sound,

wind in his jacket.

We had won, friend,

it was the end.

He had a ball,

but that was all.

He lived across the alley

with sister Sally.

Thank Robert and his sister.

You probably missed her.

So, The Royal Navy,

and all its beaus,

America’s foes,

King George, himself, maybe,

fell from his sting.

We did not want a king.

Our country’s past,

will we last?

With another Robert Townsend or two,

heroes are so few.

My tale is true.

Listen, I’ve got a secret, I do.

Selected Poems by Dana Lee

DOC

Fanging with Claude

I've started another musical satire of the same name. I will be working on a doll too. I get obsessed, I do. This poem was inspired by Longfellow's The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere. I was at his grave in England, Longfellow, that is. I'm a big fan.