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