Monday, July 15, 2019


Back from Summer hiatus,Quadrille #83
as presented by Grace is “Sun”or form of
the word in a poem of exactly 44 words
including the title.
Submitted to dVerse
July 15, 2019

Barefoot child with tousled hair
toes anchored in prairie dust
limbs tanned and nose freckled

greeting father’s return from the field
lifted high in arms so strong
inhaling smell of sweat and sunshine
familiar chuckle speaking love

memories linger, caught in sunbeams
still today.

Monday, June 17, 2019


Quadrille #82.  Kim has
suggested we consider
“fret” in any form.  I’ve waxed
political, since politics causes
me to fret as much as anything!
Submitted to dVerse
June 17, 2019
Quid pro quo, tit for tat
you grease his palm
he greases yours
it’s always been like that

There's no need to fret
the falses or trues
If it doesn’t please
       it’s all fake news.      

While we’ve fretted
it’s all been vetted. 
Trump style

Thursday, June 13, 2019


Open Link Night at dVerse
Submitted June 13, 2019

I think I was a scribe
in some previous life,
leaving word pictures on cliff walls,
carving ancient symbols in weathered rock,
leaving pictoglyphs and petroglyphs for posterity,
painstakingly recording things I perceived
on papyrus with a reed pen,
determined to leave for some unknown descendant
a record of my perception
of my life and times.
How else will the stories be told?

Monday, June 3, 2019


Quadrille Monday and there be
dragons!  Some of them might
be a nice exchange for some of the
stuff our children are being fed
in movies and television today.
 “Scuse me for being an old fogy!

Children believe in magic
They never get enough
But even Puff the Magic Dragon
Finally ran out of puff   

Guns, all sorts, are glorified
And used to harm or kill
 I wish Puff would just come back  
If we believe in magic,
 perhaps he will.

Tuesday, May 28, 2019


Haibun Monday, and Frank asks us to
adapt a concept that alludes to
MEMORIAL in some way.
Submitted to dVerse
May 27, 2019

I stand with my hand on a weathered stone in
the old pioneer cemetery that lies in a peaceful
glade surrounded by trees and hallowed silence.
“Sarah Sampson lies here”, it says, and I know
her to be my 5th great grandmother.  Five
generations have come and gone since Sarah
and William left the Virginia plantation on
Culpeper Mountain to pioneer this raw, new
land called the Indiana Territory just north of
the Ohio River.  Five generations of strong
women have lived and loved, laughed and
wept, and borne their babies here.  I honor
their memory.

hand on weathered stone
honor generations passed
I carry the torch

Thursday, May 16, 2019


It's Poetics at dVerse and Amaya has asked
us to consider the age-old question of what
makes us who we are.  Here are my thoughts
Submitted to dVerse
May 16, 2019

A new moon trickled little light on a meagerly furnished
old farmhouse where an oil lamp illuminated the room
where the woman lay. Her labor, long and exhausting,
ended just before midnight on that February 13. and I
made my way into the world kicking and squalling  
Generations of comingled blood culminated in the DNA,
double helix,  molecules, chromosomes and markers
that carried the genetic traits that would be mine.

Astrologers and seekers of the miraculous mystery of
what makes us who we are have conjectured long the
correlation of the moon, the stars and the planets and
what they tell us about who we become.  They would
say I am Aquarius, witty and intelligent, curious to a fault
that is sometimes annoying, spontaneous, honest and,
under pressure,  sometimes obstinate and sarcastic  
My genetic imprint is impacted and moulded by life
circumstances and serendipity, yet I carry it into the next

 Perhaps my ancestors left their footprints in the sands
of the Nile or deep in some dark forest in Africa; perhaps
they helped erect the stones in Stonehenge,
or worshiped in some kiva in the Southwest.    Do I
sometimes hear their faint voices in those breathless
moments of déjà vu  that leave me feeling I’ve been
there before?  I remain a link in an endless chain.

I am me.   I am unique.

(The art is my own digital art)

Monday, May 13, 2019


Wednesday Muse asks us to write a poem
inspired by the Japanese art of Kintsugi (repair
of that which is broken with golden glue).
Each gold-veined piece has a story to tell!
Submitted to The Sunday Muse
May 13, 2019


Two bowls sit upon the shelf
One pristine, without a blemish,
filled with pride in self
no stories
to tell

The other gold-glued with signs of living
of failures and success
 love and loss
bumps and falls
lessons learned
joy of achievement
life well lived
filled only with love
and stories
to tell