Thursday, March 26, 2020


It's Meet the Bar, and Frank asks us to
address couplets.  They may or may not
be preceded with prose, but the final
couplet must be of equal meter.
Submitted to dVerse
March 26, 2020

Closeted in our homes, the resilience and
creativity of people rise to the occasion,
and we are grateful for technology and
the ability to reach out and touch someone.
grateful for the health care workers who
work daily in the face of danger, and grateful
for all those in essential roles carrying on
as best they can, often at personal sacrifice.

In these times of crisis we realize
Heroes come in every shape and size

Wednesday, March 25, 2020


Weekly Scribblings and we’re asked to
write a poem using three phrases:
She was warned… she was given an
explanation…and nevertheless she persisted. 
I chose to attack the challenge with a bit
of  humor.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
March 25, 2020

She was warned “He’s trouble!
Completely averse to obligation."
Nevertheless she persisted
when she was given an explanation

"How silly they were", she reflected
"He’s handsome and wonderfully wise
Not at all what they expected
But a gentleman in lothario disguise"

His true colors, however, were soon displayed
In due time she learned her lesson
She was disrespected and woefully betrayed
and fell into deep depression

Eventually she donned big girl panties
and set out to achieve success
She joined the lady vigilantes
Now she’s a force to be reckoned with, I guess.

Monday, March 23, 2020


Quadrille #100.  Our poem of exactly
44 words is to feature "magic" … and
couldn't we all use a bit of that about
now in the midst of this pandemic.
Submitted to dVerse
March 23, 2020

alas the day dawned moon-blown
and I awoke all a-quirk
I knew I’d seen the slimytoes
in the corner where they lurk

I reached for my magic potion
and just sprayed it all around
those besotted grave-groping slimytoes
growled and melted into the ground

Sunday, March 22, 2020


Writers' Pantry #12 arrives in the midst
of pandemic and sobering times.  My
children are both on the front lines and
I hold them in my prayers.  This new
poem is reflective.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
March 22, 2020

where have they gone, the busy people
who were rushing to and fro
the carousel stopped, the world stood still
and they met an invisible foe

they found they were facing pandemic
something they never supposed
their streets became eerily empty
the schools and stores were closed

the strong rose to the occasion
each doing what they could
vulnerability came to the busy people
and at last they understood.

how fragile is their carousel
how self-absorbed  their days
perhaps this is an opportunity
to mend their selfish ways

Wednesday, March 18, 2020


Laura has challenged us to choose three of the provided rhyming sets in a
tercet of our own.   I ask your forgiveness for using galle-on!   I couldn’t
seem to do otherwise without dangling a participle!  My poem is loosely
based on Mel Fisher's discovery of the Spanish galleon Atocha in 1985,
which continues to give up treasure today, only half of its fortune thought
to be yet found.
Submitted to dVerse
March 18, 2020

Beneath waters the dreamer sailed upon
Were long kept secrets of the sea
Hidden in depths lay a Spanish galleon

In selkie tales it’s long been sung
Sea breezes kissed the dreamer’s lips
And spoke to him in Spanish tongue

Wealth , they said, may come your way
Harkening to their whispered sound
He set sail with hope beyond the bay

The dreamer dived to the ocean floor
Finding the galleon and its treasure spill
Of gold doubloons, emeralds and even more

It’s long lost tomb uncovered at last
The galleon Atocha gave up its treasure
The dreamer's found window into the past 

Sunday, March 15, 2020

Smoky Mountain Memories

Writer's Pantry #11, and I'm waxing nostalgic
 and posting something I wrote after the fire
in the Smoky Mountains in 2016.  I like to
revisit it from time to time.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
March 15, 2020
                                                 SMOKY MOUNTAIN MEMORIES
For more than 30 years, my three good friends and I spent a week every autumn in the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains.  Creatures of habit, we stayed in the same room in the same lodge for all those years.  It was our favorite place.  The Riverhouse Lodge sat at the base of a mountain beside a gurgling little river called The Little Pigeon River.  We spent long hours on the balcony over the river, and slept listening to the sound of its tumbling progress over the rocks below.   We played rousing card games, snug by the fireplace, with the bounty of our shopping sprees lining the perimeter of the room.   We shared our lives, our joys and tribulations, and marked those long hours with sometime tears, but always with much laughter.

The years have passed, and the other three of our foursome have passed on to what comes after.  I was left with my memories and the hope of returning to the Riverhouse one more time, but it was   not to be.  Last year, a careless spark ignited a dreadful fire that swept down the mountainside and burned to the ground the lodge we loved so much.  I was bereft.  One day soon, I thought, I’ll follow my friends, and we’ll all be gone … the four of us, the lodge, and the balcony where we shared our lives.  We’ll all be but a blip in the passage of time.  A new lodge will replace the old, and new young housewives will come for their annual girlfriend getaway.  But I wonder, I just wonder,  if our spirits may not linger in the green hills above, and the sound of our laughter be heard faintly as the water tumbles over the rocks below. 

Sunday Muse #99

Sunday Muse #99, and our
photo of inspiration is that
of a black apple.  My muse took
me and the apple to current
Submitted to Sunday Muse
March 15, 2020

We're living in the weirdest of times
The. world is out of whack
Toilet paper is in high demand
And  the apple is turning black

Yet still we continue to bumble along
Seemingly. none the wiser
Convinced we're combating Covid 19
Safeguarded by sanitizer

Schools closed and games cancelled
Cruise ships in quarantine
Our lives in total disarray
The likes of which we haven't seen

The self-appointed king of our country
Is pontificating wonderfully wise
As if we haven't all figured out
He's the devil in disguise

We're all suspended in waiting mode
Hoping, and wondering when
Things might return to normal
And we have our lives back again.

Friday, March 13, 2020


It's Meet the Bar at dVerse
We're to start with a list and
fashion a rhyme.
Submitted to dVerse
March 12, 2020

A hairpin
A lipstick
A brush for my hair

A notepad
A nail file
Earrings, a pair

My cell phone
Car keys
A packet of tissues

Hand lotion
For virus issues

Ticket stub
Coaster from pub
Coupon for pie

Rubber band
Who knows why

Obvious necessities
I can’t be without
Bag packed, I’m ready
To go out and about.

Tuesday, March 10, 2020


Wednesday Scribblings this week
feature early birds and night owls, about
which I‘ve something to say!.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
March 11, 2020
I've always admired the earlybirds
it’s said they get the worms
but those of us who prowl at night
find it hard to come to terms
with their infernal cheerfulness
when we haven’t had our coffee
they offer inane conversation
and their speculations lofty
it makes me feel all grumpy
and I want to stomp my foot
and tell them their morning demeanor
is something up with which I will not put


It’s Quadrille #99 at dVerse
And the word of the week is
“stir” or a form thereof.  I give it
a limerick and a half.
Submitted to dVerse
March 10, 2020

There once was a lady named Fleur
Who called all the gentlemen sir
She was so well endowed
She drew quite a crowd
She caused, you might say, a stir

But working her corner
Left her feeling forlorner
And so she retired, did Fleur

Sunday, March 8, 2020


Writer’s Pantry #10 and I
offer a flight of fantasy and
armchair travel.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
March 8, 2020


I found the sparkly  slippers
In a battered treasure chest
“Magic slippers”, the genie said
I said “Surely you speak in jest”.

But I took them out and put them on
Convinced it was all for naught.
It’s silly to believe in magic…
At least that’s what I thought.

But the minute I buckled those beauties on
They changed my life, it’s safe to say
My aches and pains just were no more
Unbelievably, they’d gone away.

Well, I’ll be darned, I said to myself
I can probably dance and skip
If these things are really working
I’m off on a pleasure trip.

So I went to Bora Bora
And danced with the natives there
Then off to Hawaii to surf for a while
With the sea and sand in my hair.

I shopped til I dropped on the streets of Paris
And climbed the Eifel Tower
I took a gondola ride in Venice
There was no end to my staying power!

I climbed the heights of Machu Pichu
On the high plains of Peru
I saw the Taj Mahal and Angkor Wat
And Thailand before I was through.

I saw the terra cotta soldiers
And danced on China’s Great Wall
I stopped in Dubai for a game of roulette
I was determined to see it all.

I was off to Easter Island
(Those heads are mysterious, methinks)
Then I traveled on to the pyramids
And marveled at the sphinx.

In Italy I saw the coliseum
And castles in the land of Eire
I visited the Cotswolds in England
And learned to pronounce Staffordshire

I saw the white cliffs of Dover,
Budapest, Hong Kong and Singapore
Berlin, the Alps and Sicily
And oh, so many more.

Then on we went to Jerusalem
And the shores of Galilee
There wasn’t a place we didn’t go
My magic slippers and me.

I wore out those magic slippers
But, oh what a ride it was
Do I believe in magic now?
Yes I do, because … well just because!

Saturday, March 7, 2020


Sunday Muse #98, when
we’re inspired by the photo.
Submitted to Sunday Muse
March 7, 2020

Digital art by Robin Isley


we see with foregone conclusion
which often is faulty illusion
we’d do best to see with our heart

we tend to be judgmental
misled by things ornamental
betrayed by our eyes from the start.

Thursday, March 5, 2020


Open Link #261 at dVerse.  This is
a poem from my archives, written
at a painful time,
Submitted to dVerse
March 5, 2020


My heart ached as she poured out her story
and I struggled to hold back the tears
“What’s happened to our love?” she anguished
“When it’s only been three years?”

My thoughts turned back to the wedding
When their bright eyes were filled with dreams
Dear God, how it hurts this moment
To see only silent screams.

Does he remember the times she needed
And, too busy, he turned away?
Does she know there were times she neglected
To make him feel king for a day?

For love is a delicate flower
That has to be tended with care
With warm words and loving and touching
And moments that are taken to share.

It seems they both were so busy
With their careers and hobbies and such
They passed day by day in their marriage
And they weren’t taking time out to touch.

Heaven knows the mothering was easy
When she was small and bright at my knee
But, now that her world’s torn asunder,
I’m as helpless as I can be.

God, give me some answers of wisdom
To respond to their questioning cries
Don’t let me just sit by helpless
As their bright young dream withers and dies.

Wednesday, March 4, 2020


Tuesday Poetics, and HA has asked us to
turn our poetic talents to the apple.
Submitted to dVerse
March 4, 2020

An apple a day keeps the doctor away
or so it’s told to me
and I’m assured the apple
doesn’t fall far from the tree

There’s a lot of folklore 
with which we seem to grapple
about Eve and the asp in the garden
and, of course,  Adam's apple

Just one bad apple, they tell us
will spoil the entire barrel
but an apple for the teacher
is much-desired desk apparel

Mary can’t sit under the apple tree
til Johnny comes marching back
and rumor has it, so I heard
he left with an apple in his sack

It was poison in the apple
that felled our sleeping beauty
she’d likely be still asleep
if the prince hadn’t done his duty

It seems there are apples everywhere
in songs we sing and books we read
and amazingly we owe it all
to that vagabond John Appleseed.

Monday, March 2, 2020


Haibun Monday at dVerse.  Frank
brings the planet Mars to our attention.
Submitted to dVerse
March 2, 2020

Imagine, if you will, a Martian newscaster reporting on the landing of an alien spacecraft on the moon, followed by a terrifying account of the door opening on the vehicle and an alien being stepping onto the surface of the moon and sticking a stick in the ground decorated with stripes and stars, speaking in some foreign tongue. I’m told Martians scurried into their subterranean homes in fear and trembling lest they be next to be invaded.  Not since October, 1938, and a newscaster named Orson Welles had there been such panic in the streets!   Jupiter and Venus intercepted the messages and set off an inter- planetary hubbub the likes of which had not been seen since the Great Poobah set it all in motion.  It’s quite likely the cow jumped over the moon and the dish ran away with the spoon.  Imagine, if you will …………………
Gardens are planted
according to phases of moon
Spring’s sure to follow

Photo is my own digital art.

Sunday, March 1, 2020


Writer's Pantry at Poets & Storytellers United.
There are times we recall the subtle lessons
we learned by example from our parents.  This
poem is one of those times.
Submitted March 1, 2020

As we rode through summer breezes
The man of courage and I
He taught me still another lesson
As he had since I was just so high.

For the years had left their burden
And now he walked with a cane
And the body once strong and strapping
Now faltered and gave much pain.

I heard him not once complaining
As we passed fields of grain on our drive
But commenting on God’s bounty and sunshine
Saying, “It’s a good day to be alive”.

When I find I’m feeling sorry
For the problems and troubles I’ve had
I look to my model of courage
With humble gratitude…I love you, Dad.

Saturday, February 29, 2020


Sunday Muse #97  wherein we write
as inspired by the photo presented.
Submitted February 29, 2020
I dressed for the dance
  but I cannot go

Will you be there with her?
Will they play “our” Chopin nocturne
recalling our passion as it played
soft accompaniment back when we
made midnight magic together …
before my world fractured …
before her

I dressed for the dance
I cannot go

Thursday, February 27, 2020


We Meet at the Bar, and Frank
requests a triolet.  Rules and
restrictions seem to stifle the poet
in me, but here’s the old school
try, written with the concept that
trioilet rhymes with way.  Now, if
it actually rhymes with toilet, I’m
obviously in a heap of trouble!
Submitted to dVerse
February 27, 2020

So it’s to be a triolet
Write eight lines and pray
Try to make some sense of it
It’s, after all, a triolet
No need to chose a theme
There’s hardly time to scheme
When you write a triolet
With only eight lines to say

Wednesday, February 26, 2020


Weekly Scribblings #7 asks us to write
as inspired by red fruit, and my brain
was flooded with a stream of consciousness
of all things red.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
February 26, 2020



Crimson poppies in Flanders fields… carmined
lips of Scheherazade … roses are red and I love
you .. right turn on red … blood of legions of
young men and women spilled in countless
 wars … sweet, tart strawberry ripened on
the vine …  color of the dress my mother wore
the first time my father saw her …  sun-warmed
tomato from the garden … scarlet letter of Hester
Prynne …  ruby flash of the wing of a cardinal
on a snowy day …  rosy red apple that fell far
from the tree … russet red breast of the first
Spring robin … warm cherry pie with dip of
ice cream …  red, white and blue my country
‘tis of thee … the crimson tide …Dorothy’s
slippers … Superman’s cape … and, lastly,
 read is what I hope these words get (groan).

Image is my own digital art.

Tuesday, February 25, 2020


Poetics Tuesday and we’re to consider
the state of impermanence, which has
been much on my mind these past few
weeks as I’m preparing to move.  There
 comes a time we realize the things we
felt were permanent, that we couldn’t
live without, are simply that … things.
Submitted to dVerse
February 25, 2020

It’s an antique stepback cupboard I acquired
many years ago. Inside a door is scripted
 “A Christmas gift for Mr. and Mrs. (Name Withheld)
from Mr. and Mrs. (Name Withheld).  Christmas, 1888”.
I wondered how such a treasured piece of family history
ended at an antique auction house.  Of course I brought
it home with me.  Polished and much loved, it was part
of my life for the next 25 years, displaying china and
glassware. When I sold my home, I sold my collection
of antique furniture, except for it, and I brought it with
me when I moved in with my son and his wife 6 years
ago.  But now we are downsizing, and there will be no
place for it in our new home.  I’ve sold it to the daughter
of a friend who has a booth in an antique mall, happy
to see she regarded it as I had all those years ago.  It is
permanently impermanent, this old cupboard.  It will
collect the memories of yet another family.  How I wish
it could tell me the story of its last 130 years! 

Saturday, February 22, 2020

Sunday Muse #96

Sunday Muse #96 wherein
we are inspired by the
photo below.
Submitted to Sunday Muse
February 22, 2010
Photo by Sarolta Ban

Is it there, old woman,
written on the final page
answer to the age-old question
pondered by sages since
the beginning of time

What is it, old woman
that life is all about
is it correcting the wrongs
of yesterday in some
preordained karmic waltz

Or is there no plan at all as we
stumble onward seeking answers
and creating new wrongs for the
next karmic chapter

Is it I who will have the bench and book
and you who approach with questions.
Treat me kindly, old woman
tomorrow it may be you 
who howls at the moon.

Wednesday, February 19, 2020


Weekly Scribblings, and we're asked to
consider the word "tribute".  I seem to
be headed for irreverent comic relief ...
as usual!   I coined the title word.  It
seemed to fit.  I also had some Photoshop
fun with a recent newspaper headline.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers
February 19, 2020

A tip 'o me hat, a nod o' me head
It' time to pay a tribute
No need to consider our president
He's his own horn to toot.

And now, heaven help us
He says he's high sheriff of the land
No need to pay him accolades
He gives himself a hand

All his crooked white collar cohorts
Think in him the sun has risen
That comes as no small wonder
He's released them all from prison.

I'm just a little granny
But I'll still have my say
I plan to  save my tribute
And pray for a brighter day,

Sunday, February 16, 2020


Sunday Writers’ Pantry, and I
look back on lessons learned.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers
February 16, 2020

He sits, a verdigris object
my constant reminder long since
of the time I succumbed to the fatal charms
of the frog, formerly known as prince

I believed his lies duplicitous
I was gullible, naive and dense
I was enamored, he was ubiquitous
the frog formerly known as prince

I was his Scheherazade
and he my handsome prince
passion burned within my heart
I've not seen the likes of since

My friends just shook their heads
and thought I'd slipped a cog
they all knew before I did
that he was just a frog.

Now out beyond the garden wall
Just inside the fence
Lie the words of that worthless miscreant
The frog. formerly known as prince.  

And I? I'm much the wiser
I've taken the lesson thence
I've become quite amazingly astute
at separating frog from prince

Saturday, February 15, 2020

Sunday Muse #95

Forgive me, I've altered this week's photo
a bit to fit my Sunday prose.  It's been a week
of momentous change, and I felt the need to
record it for history!!
Submitted to Sunday Muse #95
February 15, 2020

I sold my 2001 Buick LeSabre today.  It was like parting with an old friend. 
My trustworthy and loyal companion, it carried me and my travel buddies 
many times to the Smoky Mountains for our annual autumn trip, to Eureka 
Springs, Arkansas,  to Williamsport and Yorktown, to the Ohio Amish country, 
to Minnesota’s Red River Valley, to Savannah, to Door County Wisconsin,
 to Derby, Indiana, on the Ohio River, and Galena in Illinois.  We meandered 
down country roads to obscure little restaurants and  antique shops tucked 
away.  It carried us home with quilts, crocks and all manner of treasures.  I hope 
it’s next owner treats it kindly, and I hope he doesn’t get too uncomfortable 
when he detects the slight scent of White Diamonds perfume and faint raucous laughter.


Tuesday, February 11, 2020


Weekly Scribblings #6, and Magaly
asks us to write cliché in poem
or prose.  What fun for my birthday
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
February 12, 2020

hey diddle diddle, I’m fit as a fiddle
I seem to be thinking in rhyme
it must be my day to think in cliché
and just in the nick of time

when I was young, the cat got my tongue
I couldn’t rhyme to save my soul
once the dam burst and I’d written my first
sure as I stand here I’m on a roll

good things come to those who wait
fool me twice, shame on me
can’t say that I’ve been left at the gate
while on my rhyming spree

love is blind and ignorance is bliss
what doesn’t kill will make you stronger
if more clichés had come to my mind,
this poem would surely be longer. 


Tuesday Poetics and we’re challenged
to acknowledge Black History Month,
and be inspired by two moving poems
by black poets.  We’re left with the age-old
question … will we ever learn?
Submitted to dVerse
February 11, 2020
If you knew me only by my voice
Would you make unbiased choice

If you judged me only by our touch
Would my color really mean so much

If you were blind and could not see
Would you then know a different me

Monday, February 10, 2020


De hosts today’s Quadrille #97.  We’re
to feature the word FILL in exactly
44 words.  I took a bit of largess with
the spelling.
Submitted to dVerse
February 10, 2020

Philomena tired of Phillip’s philandering
his forays would fill a book
Phil was a rank philogynist
she was bereft, betrayed, forsook. 
Philomena turned to philosophy
sadly her options seemed to be nil
at last she became so desperate
she decided to call Dr. Phil.

Image from CanStock ClipArt

Sunday, February 9, 2020


Writers Pantry #6 and I'm feeling nostalgic
on this snowy Sunday.  Here's something
from a few years back that comes to mind.,,
an idyllic bit of suburbia that's difficult to
find in life as it is today.
Submitted to Poets and Storytellers United
February 9, 2020


It was the prefab suburbs, our house came on a truck
They put it together in a single day, with any kind of luck
Our view was of the farmer’s barn, we were in an open field
He’d determined selling out would be the greater yield.

And so the streets appeared and marched in identical rows
With identical little houses,  except for color, I suppose
Our street was full of dreams, obtained with GI loan
But we all knew in 30 years, they’d be our very own.

Soon the babies came along, we raised them all together
They roamed the yards in safety; no need for electronic tether.
They knew well that any mischief, be it this, that or the other
Would travel up and down the street, passing from mother to mother.

We taught them all respect, and to obey the golden rule
When autumn came, we dressed them up and sent them off to school
The big ones watched the little ones as they walked along the way
The world was safe and life was good, in that suburban day.

Wednesday, February 5, 2020


Weekly Scribblings #5
Poets & Storytellers United
February 3, 2020


It was a slim, blue volume of poems by my favorite 1950’s author, Don Blanding, found one afternoon in a used book store.  Once home I settled into my easy chair with a glass of wine beside me, prepared to savor the work of this vagabond poet whose words never failed to capture me. Between the pages I was surprised to find pressed the delicate petals of a single  gardenia.

Who put it there? I mused.  I lifted it to see the title of the poem below.  “To a Lady I Loved”,
a brief story of a friendship spoiled by romance, ending with the line “I liked you so much better when you were just my friend.”  How I wished the gardenia could speak and tell me of the lady who loved the poet, and where it all went wrong.  I turned the pages and read on….but I left the gardenia where I was sure it belonged, with the secrets it held.

Monday, February 3, 2020


Haibun Monday and Frank asks us to
consider Spring.
Submitted to dVerse
February 3, 2020

There’s increased anticipation of Spring in my personal world.  We are having a
home built in an over 55 community, due to be complete by May.  We are eager
to see the greening of the trees that screen the walking trail behind our proposed
new home.   Downsizing is a time of letting go, parting with the miscellaneous
detritus gathered through the years.  Like the daffodils that push their way up
through winter’s carpet of leaves, I look forward to a fresh start and a new
chapter … no doubt the epilogue … of my journey.

eternal promise
Winter’s end, onset of Spring
a new year unfolds

Sunday, February 2, 2020


Writer’s Pantry #5, wherein
I indulge in a bit of political satire,
although it’s hard to find the light side
of the present situation in my world.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers
 February 2, 2020

With his pomposity
and juvenile viscosity
the king was feared by all
The men of the kingdom
soon formed a gangdom
its purpose the king’s downfall
They sought a way
with bluster and foray
to displace the king from his seat
The king unaware
with no words to spare
continued to rule by tweet
with rampant defamity
and threat of calamity
for those who would dare disagree.
Meanwhile people prayed fervently
and dreamed urgently
of the land of the brave and home of the free.

   The end of this story
ignominy or glory
ultimately remains to be seen.
The dilemma continues
touted loudly on venues
Could we trade a king for a queen?

Thursday, January 30, 2020

Attempted Alliteration

It’s Meet the Bar at dVerse, and
Bjorn challenges us to try using
different types of consonance and
assonance in our poem. 
Submitted to dVerse
January 30, 2020
surprised, I spied
a freewheeling fairy
gracefully gamboling today
eloquently enchanting
and adeptly agile
softly slipping away...
a nascent nymph
on a mystery mission

Wednesday, January 29, 2020


At Weekly Scribblings Rommy has
asked us to think about the phrase “You can’t
teach an old dog new tricks”.  A humorous
story comes to mind.
Submitted to Poets and Storytellers United
January 29, 2020

My friends and I planned a pleasant afternoon of bridge.  All in our senior years, we nonetheless were proud owners of recently acquired cell phones.  Technology wasn’t going to pass us by!  None of us were yet familiar with the musical tones we’d chosen for incoming calls. Our phones tucked safely in our purses, our bridge game progressed when we heard music. “Is that your phone?” I asked Charlotte, and in turn we each around the table delved into our purses to check our phones……until someone looked out the window to see the Good Humor ice cream truck cruising down the street playing it‘s tinkly little tune to attract customers!   After having a good laugh at ourselves we resumed the game, someone commenting about teaching old dogs new tricks.

I can’t speak for my friends, but my personal telephone experience began with an old-fashioned wall crank phone.  Our “ring” on the party line was a long and two shorts. One long ring connected us to “Central” at her switchboard in the little telephone office in a nearby town, and she could connect us to parties on other lines.  One very long ring meant everyone on the party line should pick up to receive community news….a bit of a quantum leap to cell phones.   Ah, so many old dogs, so many new tricks!

Sunday, January 26, 2020


Writer’s Pantry #4  and the message
is to lighten up a bit.  Sounds good
to me, Magaly.  All the heavy gets…
well….heavy from time to time.
Here’s a light-hearted Sunday afternoon
perspective, with a bit of a barb.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
January 26, 2020

I’ve studied the Fibonacci
Been to the springs of Weekiwachee
And marveled at all in between.
I’ve pondered many a conundrum
Puzzled enigmas that I found humdrum
And  opined things I wish I’d seen
I’ve experienced some of life’s ecstasies
Indulged in innumerable fantasies
And enjoyed the glorious ride
But he who’s in the highest seat
Bombarding us with scathing tweet
Is something I just can’t abide.

Saturday, January 25, 2020


Sunday Muse offers us an oasis
in the desert.  I’m getting ready to
move, and the photo seemed a bit
prophetic.  For reasons unknown,
this irreverent ditty came to mind.
Submitted to the Sunday Muse
January 25, 2020

an author I read long ago said
“Image your way to success”
the girl decided to try it out
and it worked for her, more or less

whatever she did, she undertook
to give it her very best
picturing herself successful
until she was, I guess

I haven’t seen her lately
apparently she imaged away
to the land of sunshine and happy
….at least that’s what they say.

and then there was that other girl
who always expected the worst
when it came to imaging
she got the roles reversed

“I’d probably end up some awful place”
she said, “heaven forbid”
she imaged herself in that dreadful place
and that’s where she ended … she did.

Wednesday, January 22, 2020


Weekly Scribblings at Poets and Storytellers
have given us Salt Water Tales for our
topic this week.  I’m always enchanted with
underwater mysteries, hence my salt water
rhyme. The art is my own digital fantasy.
Submitted to Poets and Storytellers
January 22, 2020

Lazy waves sparkle with sunbeams
Making easy way to shore
But beneath are deep, dark secrets
Enigmas forevermore.

Civilizations and pirate ships
Lie beneath waters blue
While tourists sunbathing on shore
Haven’t the least of a clue

The good ship Mary Celeste
Set sail in eighteen seventy two
And never were seen again
The captain, his family and crew.

And what of Flight 19
The Air Force flight of five
Who flew out on routine mission
And were nevermore seen alive.

I love the gentle sound
As waves make their way to land
They whisper to me of their mysteries
While I’m landlocked safe on sand.

Tuesday, January 21, 2020


Our challenge at Tuesday Poetics
is to write a poem, any style, about
Secrets.  Thanks, Merril for a fun
prompt! Every family has its
Submitted to dVerse
January 21, 2020

Like fireflies,
seen for a moment,
then disappearing
into the night.

So are secrets
that seem life-changing,
fading into the mists of time,
only a blip
in the great, grand
scheme of things.

One day
they will never
be known.
They are, after all.


At dVerse, Frank challenges us to create
prosery of no more than 144 words, to
include a line from a Maya Angelou poem ...
"The Rock cries out to us today
You may stand on me, but do not hide
your face".   After the style of
Wallace Stevens, I consider rocks.
Submitted to dVerse
January 20, 2020

Ancient Phonician  landmark
Pillar of Hercules
Rock of Gibralter

Aboriginal sacred site
Uluru, red behemoth
In Australia's Outback

Giant head on Easter Island
standing silently in mystery
through the centuries

Endless task of Sisyphus
pushed onto the hilltop
falling again to valley floor

Kissed by many
Stone of Blarney
famous bit of Irish lore

Beside the shore at Plymouth
welcome sight to Pilgrims
arriving to new land

Imposing Devil's Tower
thrusting upward
from Wyoming's vast expanse

Signature Rock on westward trail
where steadfast pioneers
left their marks for history

Rosetta stone
that cracked the code
of Egypt's ancient hieroglyphs

Rushmore's rock of faces
countenances of history
worn smooth by wind and rain

Part of Stonehenge Circle
holding fast the secrets
of ancient druids

Haystack Rock of Oregon
legacy of ancient lava
standing sentinel on ocean shore

Faithful voices raised in chorus
"On Christ, the solid rock, I stand
all other ground is sinking sand"

Words of poet echo still
"The Rock cries out to us today,
You may stand upon me
But do not hide your face"

Sunday, January 19, 2020


Poets United has morphed into
Poets and Storytellers, thanks to
the efforts of Rosemary Nissen-Wade
and Megaly Guerrero.  Today, for
Writers Pantry #3, I offer a snippet
on marriage.
Submitted to Poets and Storytellers
January 10,  2020

It had always been there, the moustache, from the day she first met him in the parking lot of the apartment building where she’d just moved.  So dapper, with the touch of gray at his temples and the pencil-thin, carefully trimmed moustache.  She was immediately enamored.  Soon they were dating, and in seven short months they were married.   Life proceeded at a rapid pace, and now they were in a new home with two children.

One day she suddenly wondered just what he’d look like without his moustache.  And so, she began her campaign to encourage him to shave it off.  He was resistant for some time, but eventually, in the habit of all husbands seeking relief from a determined wife, one day he divested himself of that bit of hirsute magic that had attracted her in the first place.

He appeared at the breakfast table, a stranger with a naked upper lip.  Oh sure, the distinguished gray was still at the temples, but something important was missing.   She placed before him, as she had done every day for five years, two eggs sunny side up, toast and crisp bacon.   She poured his coffee and quietly remarked, “Thank you, dear.  You can grow it back now.”

Friday, January 17, 2020


Frank has asked us to Meet at the Bar
and consider the act of soliloquy at
DVerse.  Since I am in the throes of
relocating, I’m spending a lot of time in
soliloquy as I sort and pack. 
Submitted to dVerse
January 10, 2020

Sorting out the yesterdays
To make room for tomorrow
Packing up the joys
Leaving all the sorrow

Scattered photographs and memories
Like mismatched sox
How do you gather memories
And put them in a box.

Life is lived in chapters
Battles fought and lessons learned
Along the way a life well lived
As onward  pages turned

Now this, the final chapter
With moments yet to text
May it be long and joyful
Followed by what comes next!

Wednesday, January 15, 2020


Mish presents an interesting challenge for
Poetics today at dVerse.  Reach for a book
at hand, read the last one or two lines, and
let them be your muse. Below is my line
and source:
“Quite soon it was only a speck that vanished in the distance”

Out Of The Deeps by John Wyndham

Submitted to dVerse
January 8, 2020

Each night, as soon as my head hits the pillow, worries come marching one by one.  Larger than life, each seems insurmountable and takes its place beside others of equal enormity, until they form a chorus of what ifs and how tos accompanied by crashing cymbals of I can’t, I won’r, and I didn’t.  A swirling miasma of unknown calamities overtakes me, like a non-swimmer in deep water.  A wise man once accused me of  pole vaulting over mouse droppings and advised me “Consider if it will be a worry next year at this time”.  Wise advice, easier said than done; but words I repeat to myself as I consider each worry.  If I’m able to apply the theory, quite soon each is only a speck vanished in the distance.  Oh joy!  What freedom.  Zzzzzzzzz

sleep is slow to come
worry worry go away
you'll be gone one future day

Monday, January 13, 2020


Quadrille Monday at dVerse
The key word is ROAR, and
we're limited to 44 words. I used
to have a mighty roar, but it seems
greatly reduced of late.
Submitted to dVerse
January 14, 2020

My ROAR has become a whimper
My energy is spent
I’m left cowering in a corner
Wondering where it went   
I’m moving!  Oh heaven help me
I am finding the going rough
Lost in the ROARefied dilemma of

Thursday, January 9, 2020


Open Link #257 at dVerse
When suddenly our cyber connections
fail to take us to the magic land of
"the net" chaos reigns supreme.
Here are my thoughts about that.
Submitted to dVerse Open Link
January 9, 2020

The day was dark as any could get
We couldn’t get onto the internet
Our iPad, laptop, HP and Uverse
Were all beset by a dreadful curse.
Nothing to do but sit and doodle,
Hopelessly lost without benefit of Google
We’re pitiful orphans that fate forsook
Unable to access our friends on Facebook
We just keep mumbling, “what to do, what to do”
We know we have e-mail, but it’s all on Yahoo.
We just stare blankly, saying “why, oh why”
Deep in despair without our wi-fi.
If we survive ‘til tomorrow, my son, his wife and me
We look to a hero from AT |&T
Hopefully he’ll see our plight is quite tragic
And work some wonderful, mysterious magic.
We await his arrival with anticipation
Expecting an end to this cyber isolation,
And this feeling we have that minute by minute
The world’s going on, and we’re not in it!

Tuesday, January 7, 2020


At dVerse, Sarah has asked us to
write a poem inspired by the elements.
Here’s my tongue-in-cheek response.
Submitted to dVerse
January 7, 2020

Hydrogen, helium, lithium and sulfur
went out for a walk one day
and on their way they encountered
copper, gallium and zinc

followed in close succession
by arsenic, krypton and rubidium
it’s said they nodded as they passed by
quite compatibly,  I think

What marks this passage, you ask
which is seemingly incidental
and I reply, as you might expect
it’s purely elemental. 

Monday, January 6, 2020


Haibun Monday at dVerse, and we're
challenged to write a haibun on "beginning… again"
I am reminded of a childhood song we used
to sing on the school bus ...
"I knew a man named Michael Finnegan
He grew whiskers on his chin again
Along came a wind and blew them in again
Poor old Michael Finnegan begin again"….and it
would be repeated endlessly!
Presented to dVerse
January 6, 2020

It has been a winter of sorrows and farewells.  It’s
difficult to think of beginnings when reeling
from three funerals and the overwhelming feeling
that the pieces of my life are falling away. Yet each
day brings a beginning…granted a beginning of life altered
by loss of familiar voices and dear faces, but a beginning
to prepare for move into a new home in Spring, the
joy of watching the lives of youngsters in the family
as their lives unfold,  and the blessed assurance that
Spring will come again. 

bleakness of winter
a time to anticipate
Spring’s new beginning