Saturday, September 30, 2017


Submitted to Poets United
Poetry Pantry #373
September 30, 2017


Under the highway overpass, sun browned leaves
 skitter across the pavement and gather about the
cardboard castles of those who call them home.
Their residents seek escape from the real world.
Jaded with empty pleasures, haunted by old regrets
and unfulfilled promises, their stories are as varied
as their faces.

A heartbeat away are the glittering hotels, the valet
parking, and the posh pubs where money and liquor
flow freely … and  the beautiful people seek escape
in other ways. 

the road to escape
disparate byways chosen
a dichotomy

Thursday, September 28, 2017


Frank has given us SLEEP for the topic at Meet the Bar.
Sleep seems to be the time my brain kicks into high gear.
I close my eyes hopefully, and words, ideas, and images
vie for attention, often in the form of poetry.  They rattle
around my brain endlessly until I turn on the light, reach
for my little bedside journal, and commit them to paper
so I can at last drift off to slumber.   I call them midnight
epiphanies, and what follows is one such, when my midnight
muse suggested I write a poem using exclusively idioms.
It’s actually not about sleep, but a product of the lack thereof!
Forgive me for straying a bit!
Submitted to dVerse
September 28, 2017

You know what they all say
Little Goody Twoshoes
There’s no fool like an old fool
It’s plain as the nose on your face
You’ve fallen for another pretty face
He’s a two-timing man
Who’s all show and no go
His elevator doesn’t go all the way up
And you’re destined for disaster
If you hitch your wagon to that star
You haven’t the ghost of a chance
For happily ever after
Cut to the chase
And quit while you’re ahead
Better days are coming
Keep a stiff upper lip
Your ship will come in
And you’ll have a horse in the race
Keep your chin up
A new broom sweeps clean
There’s light at the end of the tunnel
And everything’s coming up roses
Nothing ventured, nothing gained
But look before you leap
And err on the side of caution
A good man is hard to find
But slow and steady wins the race
All’s well that ends well
And soon you’ll be happy as a pig in mud

Wednesday, September 27, 2017


Midweek Motif  challenge topic this week
Is “Rise Up”.  Pause for thought.
Submitted to Poets United
September 27, 2017

Sometimes in order to rise up
We need a dose of wise up
There are lessons to be learned

From trials and tribulations
The spiteful confabulations
And good intentions spurned

Were it not for times of trial
We’d be lost in self denial
When the good times have returned.

Lord,  send me a reminder
To remember to be kinder
And be grateful for the many lessons learned.

Tuesday, September 26, 2017


It's Poetics Tuesday, and Lillian has asked
us to feature our birthstone in our poem.  I've
added a haiku.
Submitted to dVerse
September 26, 2017

Ancient Greeks wore amythest and carved drinking 
vessels from it, in belief  that it would prevent 
intoxication.   So far it’s worked quite well for me.  
I have no proclivity for intoxicants.   I prefer the 
natural high of skies at dusk threaded with violet 
shades of amythest and cerulean blues, streaked 
with sun-faded gold.   I can get intoxicated by the 
fragrance of lavender and lilacs by the old yard gate, 
got giddy from stealing warm sun-ripened purple 
grapes on the vine by my mother’s clothes line.  
I can drink of the sight of violets planted long ago 
growing still by an old abandoned house.   An 
Aquarian, my best environment is said to be in 
a gathering of people exchanging ideas.  
Looks like I’m in the right place.
Born in winter
Savoring summer sunshine
Happy in autumn

Monday, September 25, 2017


It’s Quadrille time at dVerse, and
Mish requests we feature the word
Spice, as always 44 words not including
the title.
Submitted to dVerse
September, 2017

Life's variety
Enhancing satiety
Spice makes our life worthwhile
A dash of curry
When in a hurry
Causes diners to smile  
Rosemary and cardoman
Nutmeg and cinnamon
Add to rank and file
Last of all thyme
Spices up my rhyme
Taking care of chyle

Chyle:  A digestive agent

Sunday, September 24, 2017


Idle thoughts on a sunny Sunday, when
asked what I'd do with my  last $20.
Submitted to Poets United Poetry Pantry #372
September 24, 2017

Ten things I’d do with my last $20
Me, the girl who’s always had plenty?
I learned well at my mother’s knee
To beware of the careless spending spree.
I’m not the trendiest girl on the block
But I’ve a bit more hidden in a well worn sock.

I’d need pen and paper so I could write
And something to read when it got to be night
I’d want a mu-mu, loose and flowing
I won’t wear a bra where I’m going.

I’ll gather my kids and we’ll head for the farm    
The one safe place, free from harm.
I’ll take along some packets of seeds
We’ll grow enough to meet our needs.

We may be down to our very last dime
But we’ll be living in a simpler time.
No electronic tethers, which some will think odd
But we’ll have time again to talk to God.

We’ll breathe fresh air, and dance in the sun
And count our blessings when day is done.
“They sure don’t have much”, some will say
But, then, what good is money anyway?


Thursday, September 21, 2017


It’s Open Link night, and I’ve a poem about
being a farm girl in the city.
Submitted to dVerse Open Link #204
September 20, 2017

I love the old ways and sayings
I’m a country girl at heart
But there are some modern conveniences
With which I couldn’t part

I love it when my garage door
Flies open when I appear.
I wouldn’t have much patience
Getting out in the cold, I fear

I wouldn’t want to have to
Iron each shirt and dress
I always extol the virtues
Of polyester and permanent press

I love my old-time fireplace
It makes me feel so good
But I guess I wouldn’t like it
If I had to chop the wood

My trips to the supermarket
Are a daily event, it seems
I’m sure I’d have to think twice
It I had to hitch up the team

It’s so nice to go to my kitchen
And find milk and eggs right there
I guess it wouldn’t be my forte’
For the hen and the cow to care

Oh, how I love my shower
I enjoy my nightly scrub
I wouldn’t want to exchange it
For carrying water to fill the tub

I adore my coffee grinder
And my stone crock is so pretty to see
But those things are just to look upon
And not to be used by me

I dream of moonlight sleigh rides
In a one horse open sleigh
But, once I arrived at my nice warm house
Who’d feed the horse his hay

I remember the calls of nature
That required a dash down the path
There’s no way I want to go back to that
And give up my nice warm bath

I guess I just like to read stories
Of how it used to be
In my heart, I think I’m country
But I’m as city as I can be

Tuesday, September 19, 2017


Tuesday Poetics, and Bjorn asks us to
write a poem of questions.
Submitted to dVerse
September 19, 2017
How are you, we ask …
Do we really want to know
or is it just another way to say hello?
Are we too busy to listen
or merely too self-absorbed?
Could we save someone’s life
merely by listening to words unsaid?
Could we make the world a better place
simply by each taking time to care?
Can we ever learn the power of one?


Monday, September 18, 2017


Haibun/Haiku Monday, and we’re
asked to feature the WHY of our writing
style, and add a classic haiku (not a micro-poem).
Submitted to dVerse
September 18, 2017

Why do I turn to the back page to see if it ends
well before I select a book, and why are most
of my poems the same?  Because I’m an eternal
optimist, honed by lessons learned early on from
sturdy stock, empowered by faith, enamored of
words, inordinately curious, occasionally sarcastic
with a humorous bent, compelled to commit
words to paper,  and hoping to leave positive
footprints in the sands of time.  When my book
of life is written, I trust it ends well.

winter approaches
a clean slate is presented
write a new story

Saturday, September 16, 2017


This is the result of a midnight epiphany
submitted to Poets United Poetry Pantry
September 17, 2017

In the wee small hours of the night when
insomniacs clutch their remotes, trolling
the airways for diversion, it’s the witching
hour, and darkness, black and velvet, envelops
the alley.  Beneath a tattered blanket, the
homeless man huddles in a doorway.  Soon
the trash trucks will clang their way down
the alley, collecting clotted and fetid debris
from the dumpsters. The man stirs, and draws
from beneath the blanket a stubby pencil and
battered journal.  He opens to a new page and
carefully writes NAMASTE *.  His low tones
break the alley silence as he chants:   “I honor
the place in you in which the entire universe
dwells;  I honor the place in you which is of
love, of truth, of  light and peace.  When you
are in that place in you and I am in that place
in me, we are one.”  Silence returns to the alley
 … but the essence of hope remains. 

* Namaste is a Hindu greeting, a salutation and
validation,  usually issued with palms together,
fingers pointing skyward.

Thursday, September 14, 2017


It's Meeting the Bar, and Bjorn requests
metaphors, avoiding the use of "like" and
"as", avoiding similes.
Submitted to d'Verse
September 14, 2017

It was a write it on your heart kind of autumn day.
Snowy clouds skittered across topaz skies, white-
petticoated ladies on their way to some grand soiree.

Bare trees kiss the autumn sky, old ladies with arms
akimbo, their skirts jeweled pools of fallen leaves at their feet.

Distant vees of geese arrowing south,  their honking
splitting the crisp autumn air with news of their departure.


(Photo Credit: Pinterest)

Wednesday, September 13, 2017


We’re to feature REUNIONs in this
week’s Midweek Motif .   It occasioned
me to muse and philosophize.
Submitted to Poets United Midweek Motif
September 13, 2017

In a conversation with my father, not long before he passed
into the Great Beyond, I asked “Do you believe in a life
hereafter, Dad?”   My father (descended from a long line
of God-fearing ancestors with names like Bishop, Lot and
Absolam), who had attended our little country church faithfully
with my mother and who had taught the young couples’ Sunday
School class, said “Of course I do” …. and, after a long
hesitation said “if there is such a thing”.   We, each of us,
form our own particular beliefs, which change as we grow
older and wiser.  I’m sure we’ve all had experiences of déjà vu
or met some kindred spirit it seems we’ve always known.  
Perhaps these ARE reunions with someone we’ve known
in a past life.   I like to think  I will see my loved ones and
friends again, and that Dad and I will have a chance to
continue our conversation!


Tuesday, September 12, 2017


Poetics Tuesday, and we’re to write
an upbeat poem using the word  rain, rein,
or reign … or all three.  Here’s a bit
of silliness.
Submitted to dVerse September 12, 2017

There once was a fair maiden
Daughter of the king (long may he reign)
“I’m at a loss“, he said, “to control her
No matter how tight the rein”
So he set out to explore his kingdom
Through sun, sheets of sleet, and rain
To find a knight for his daughter
Who’d become such a very great pain.

At last he found the perfect knight
And soon the girl was wed
“You’ll find her quite a challenge”
To her groom, the knight, he said
But now his daughter was smiling
At last he’d got it quite right
All she ever really wanted
Was for  him to find her a knight.


Saturday, September 9, 2017


Poignant thoughts at the loss of
a friend, and a senryu.  Submitted to
Poets United Poetry Pantry #370
September 10, 2017

A light went out this week, and the world is a lesser place.  A dear friend lost her battle with cancer.  I am left with 57 years of memories of spirited card games, autumn vacations to the Smoky Mountains, lunches and camaraderie.  We raised our children together, we lost our husbands together,  we lost our two travel companions, we laughed and cried together and our friendship carried on.  To know her was to be enriched by her presence, and I was honored to be her friend.    A sorrow of aging is losing  friends one by one.  Today the sun is shining, the sky is azure with puffy white clouds .  It is a perfect autumn day.  I am reminded how fleeting our time can be, but I am reassured there’s a place for me with my friends at the heavenly card table, and I’ll be along when it’s my turn to deal.

we are but actors
and we choose the role we play
in this game called life.


Thursday, September 7, 2017


I ’d pass a little deserted country
church on trips to visit my parents.  The
sight always left me musing about its
history, hence this poem.

Submitted to Open Link Night #203 at dVerse
September 7, 2017

It’s just a little chapel that sits beside the way
But I wondered what it could tell me, if it could speak today.
The tower is now empty, where the beckoning bell once rang.
And only dusty silence, where the little congregation sang.
The windows are now vacant, and the pews are long since gone.
But it seems I hear the echoes of ice cream socials on the lawn.
I imagine all the faithful who have talked here with their God
While outside their forefathers rested, deep beneath prairie sod.
I see all the bridal couples who have here exchanged their vows
And think of long-ago sermons soothing furrowed brows.
How many babes were christened, how many old folks laid to rest?
How many Sunday mornings, with folks dressed in Sunday best?

I feel God all about me, as I stand beside the door
And listen to the voices of those who’ve passed before
One day I’ll be like them, when this life has passed me by
And my voice be but an echo to some dreamer such as I.
May I live my life with honor in my short time here on earth
And touch the lives of others with love, and joy and mirth.
May there always be a moment, when day follows busy day
For echoes like the chapel’s, and what it has to say.


Wednesday, September 6, 2017


It’s Midweek Motif at Poets United
and we’re asked to feature MEMORY.
I consider it from a senior perspective.
Submitted to Poets United
September 5, 2017

Our minds used to be razor sharp
A name came to mind in a nonce
Somehow those days seem over
We’re not as sharp as we were once

But we become a formidable force
When we’re together in a group
We each contribute a piece of solution
That at first seemed to be word soup.

“He was tall”, says one; “A cowboy” says another
“That knock-kneed fellow, his name rhymed with pain”
And in no time at all, we’ve solved the dilemma
“Of course” we all shout, “His name was John Wayne!”

We enter a room and forget why we’re there
We park the car, then can’t remember where
A lifetime of memories are filed in our brain
And “It’ll come in a moment” is a common refrain

Put us together, we’re sharp as a tack
Alone we recall it, but it takes longer to come back
We’re happy together with our walkers and canes
Looking forward  to tomorrow and the time that remains.

Tuesday, September 5, 2017


Paul has asked us to set aside somber issues and
consider magic for Poetics Tuesday.  I am "blissed"
with nature's magic daily by visiting hummingbirds. 
Submitted to dVerse Poetics Tuesday.
September 4, 2017

Magic outside my window again today.  The hummingbirds
have come to call.  These magical little creatures, with emerald
green backs and ruby red throats are no bigger than the pad
of my thumb.  They dart through the air with what seems the
speed of light, suspend for a moment over the feeder, then settle
and drink deep of the nectar.  Their eggs are smaller than jelly beans. 
It’s said their average heart rate is 1200 beats a minute, and
during migration, they fly 500 miles nonstop across the Gulf
of Mexico.  Now THAT’S magic! 

Monday, September 4, 2017


Haibun/haiku Monday. We are asked
to feature the change of seasons, our
experiences, etc.
Submitted to dVerse
September 4, 2017

The very word autumn brings a kaleidoscope of sights, sounds and scents to me.  There are childhood memories of hayrides, V’s of southbound geese overhead, fall displays of gourds, corn shocks and pumpkins, trips to the apple and peach orchards, the sounds of harvest in the fields, bonfires, and wiener roasts.  After marriage and children there are memories of football games, marching bands, fall festivals, the state fair and girlfriend getaway trips to the Smokey Mountains.  And always, always, nature’s backdrop of the glorious palette of autumn, when the hardwoods of the Midwest don their glorious wardrobes of crimson, gold, russet, and orange; when the birds flock for migration and busy squirrels can be seen burying their winter stores.  In September, there’s a subtle change in the air, and the occasional crisp morning offers a harbinger of the season to come.  I’m reminded of the words in Ecclesiastes “To every thing there is a season…” 

feast of the senses
savor the gifts of autumn
gratitude abounds

Saturday, September 2, 2017


A bit of fun inspired by a photo taken by
a friend.  (Thanks, Bev Lloyd).
Submitted to Poetry Pantry #368
September 2, 2017

Consider the talented spider
Who, with nothing but genetics to guide her
Creates delicate lace filigree

Her industrious endeavor
Is devilishly clever
For she has a plan, you see.

When a curious fly
Comes cruising by
He’ll be headed for eternity

Before time can ebb
He’s caught in her web
There’s no hope for the fly to flee

For all of her spinning
She’s accustomed to winning
An anticipated gourmet repast

And the ill-fated fly
Who came wandering by
Will find the journey his last.