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.
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

Tuesday, May 7, 2019


Over at the Sunday Muse #54,
we’re presented with a photo
of a baby crow to inspire us.
This will be my first submission
to Sunday Muse
May 7, 2019

Ah, my little crowlet
 you’ll grow big and

One day you may be
the group leader
at the convocation
that occurs in the
woods outside my window
every morning.

You’ll call the meeting
to order with a mighty
CAW! And the troops
will set about a cacophony
of discussion until daily
duties are decided upon.

Missions assigned,
once more your CAW! will
send them all on their way
Silently, as one, their black
wings carry them up and

Think big, little crowlet
It may be you

Monday, May 6, 2019


Quadrille  #79, the word is UP
Submitted to dVerse
May 6, 2019

Armchair travel
carries me
up and away
star skipping
cloud hopping 


out to sea
drifting lazily
with the tides
guided by
friendly porpoises


exploring mysteries
of Easter Island
Machu Pichu
Taj Mahal    


safe to home
 no need
to unpack bags


Tuesday, April 30, 2019


Poetics Tuesday, and Grace has
given us the word limbo, and for
those who’ve been writing a poem
a day, she suggests we keep
mercifully brief.  No problem!
Submitted to dVerse
April 30, 2019
Some called her Betty the Bimbo
She was a bit dense, 'tis true

She'd stand with arms akimbo
deciding to go around or through

When indecision left Betty in limbo
she arrived too late to the loo.

Monday, April 29, 2019


It’s haibun Monday and Gina has asked us
to feature a picnic well remembered. 
Submitted to dVerse
April 29, 2019

I grew up in very rural Illinois, and attended a one-room
country school.  The last day of school was celebrated
with a picnic for students and their families. There were
few chances for socialization in our farming community,
so the picnic was always well attended, and every family
represented. There was usually a raucous game of softball
with parents participating.  The men gathered to discuss
weather and crops, and women compared recipes and such,
while children of all ages frolicked beneath the old oak
trees that rimmed the schoolyard.. There were no indoor
“facilities”, The boys’ outhouse sat at one corner of the
schoolyard and the girls’ the other.  For the eight years I
attended, I never remember a time it rained on picnic day.
Farm wives are wondrous cooks, and the tables were
laden with fried chicken, potato salad, baked beans,
deviled eggs, pies and cakes.  Everyone looked forward
to the home-made ice cream, hand-cranked in the old
freezer.  The little school closed in 1947 (the year I graduated
eighth grade).  It is there no longer, but its image remains
in the attic of my brain, and I hear the laughter still..

celebration in the Spring
cares are cast aside
for memories being made

Saturday, April 27, 2019


My brain refused to shut off
last night, wrestling with the
challenge of lai nouveau.  In
the early dark hours, it spit out
a couple of poems (with a couple
of bonus syllables).  Only now
do I discover I've only lai'd, and
I have not yet nouveau'd!  (Sigh)
Submitted April 26, 2019

A fellow named Art
drove a pink fish cart
He smelled

Veronica said
Don't come to my bed
She yelled

So driven by hope
Art applied lots of soap
He quelled

Things looked up for Art
No longer her heart

A fellow named Doug
The neighborhood thug

Changed his thuggish ways
And now spent his days

Reformed and imbued
With energy renewed

So now these two guys
have become quite wise