Tuesday, February 20, 2018


It's Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, and
Paul has asked us to turn our thoughts
to drink ... in a creative way, of course.
I indulged in prose, and memories of
my mother.
Submitted to dVerse Poetics
February 20, 2018

My mother was a tee-total-er to the nth degree.  She
would not eat in a restaurant if it had a beer sign in the
window.  I think the grape juice at church communion
was as close as she got.  She instilled in me such a fear
of alcohol that the first time in my wild youth I went with
friends into a pub in a nearby town I feared the devil
himself would rise up behind the bar and drag me down
into hellfire and damnation.  She also considered bowling
alleys dens of iniquity, and the first time I entered one
I fully expected Mephistopheles himself to be setting the pins! 

For all her long life we honored mother’s wishes, and there
was not a single drop of liquor in her home.  My husband,
who was of Irish descent, loved a nip now and then, so on
our visits he and my brother would often steal away to town
to “pick up something” and disappear for an hour or two.  
I have come to know that, somewhere between my mother’s
rabid abstinence and the drunken abandon of our young 
university students on Spring break,  there is a reasonable
medium where we can enjoy a glass of wine with dinner …
and a visit to the bar on Tuesdays at dVerse.

Monday, February 19, 2018


It’s Haibun Monday, and we’re asked
to consider grey, easy to do on this, the third
day in succession of drizzly rain, fog and
grey skies! 
Submitted to dVerse
February 19, 2018

It’s those last days of winter, when the pristine
snows have been reduced to dingy grey clumps
here and there.  The sky mourns in congress,
streaks of grey smeared with faint touches of
blue, and a drizzly rain adds to my morning
portrait of despair.  The morning news joins
in with a dismal array of tragedies and conflict. 
Sighing, I pour my first cup of coffee … and
remind myself these are the days that make
the advent of Spring so special.   A scarlet
cardinal arrives for his morning seed buffet
at my feeder, a bright spot in the morning grey
… and I rise to face the day, feeling somehow

welcome cardinal
bright spot in my dismal day
reminder that Spring will come
Image is my own digital art.

Thursday, February 15, 2018

Absence of Words

It’s Midweek Motif at Poets United
and we’re asked to use “word” in
our poem.   My heart is saddened
by the school shooting in Florida.
Words fail me today.
Submitted to Poets United
February 15, 2018

Word … words …
There are none.
How to express the horror
once again of children senselessly killed
by a weapon in the hands
of a tortured soul
How many children must die
before action is taken by pontificating
politicians whose pockets are padded
by the powerful NRA
My words are silent prayers …
and I long for the time when
schools were safe places
and children were carefree

Photo is my own digital art.

Monday, February 12, 2018


Time for Quadrille #50 at dVerse,
the topic word “murmur“.   My
muse seems to be on sabbatical of
late.  Perhaps she, too, is weary
of Winter!    
Submitted to dVerse
February 12, 2018

murmur me Springtime
sing softly green
whisper golden daffodils
mumble distant shower approaching 
mutter raindrops on my window 
excite me with earth’s fragrance
immerse me in soft forest sounds
sprinkle me with some stardust  
surround me with bird song
soothe my winter-weary soul

Monday, February 5, 2018


It’s Haibun Monday and Mish asks us to think
of our home towns.  I apologize that my haiku
is a senyru, but it needed to be!
Submitted to dVerse
February 5, 2018

My childhood was on a farm, six miles from the
 nearest little town, population 450 at the time.
I guess you might call Cornell my home town. 
In the empty lot behind the little drug store, free
outdoor movies were shown on Saturday nights.
Parents parked their cars on the perimeter, and
children spread quilts on the grass to watch the
movie under the stars.  As darkness fell, the boys
would find their way to the quilt of their favorite
girl of the moment.   I remember the excitement
of that first romance, and the first time his hand
timidly touched mine.  Such sweet, innocent
memories caught in the mists of time.

bashful young fellow
coming to my quilt at dusk
I wonder, where are you now?

Thursday, February 1, 2018


Paul has asked us to honor the poetic form of
Ghazal.  I have chosen for my repetitive phrase
one that I heard often from my father. 
Submitted to dVerse Meeting the Bar
February 1, 2018

Young and handsome he said to himself “It’s a good day to be alive”
He considered each day, whatever it brought, a good day to be alive.

Life was hard but he soldiered on, determined that all be well
And fortune smiled as time went on, each day good to be alive.

He fell in love and married, they set out to build a life
And now the two of them considered each day good to be alive.

Soon they were parents and they did it well
Teaching their children to appreciate each good day to be alive.

When grandchildren came their visits were cherished
And he taught them to be thankful for each good day to be alive

Time took its toll, his strong body failed
But he clung to his credo, snatching each good day to be alive

We went for a ride, the two of us, and I learned my lesson still
The end was near, and yet he said “It’s a good day to be alive”.

I'm grateful he was my father, and I often hear his voice
As I face each new tomorrow, I hear "It's a good day to be alive".


A little nostalgia....

A deserted cottage in Beanblossom, Indiana, photo taken by my granddaughter; the image is of my great grandmother, the poem is mine.