Monday, November 26, 2018


Haibun Monday at dVerse, and the
subject to ponder is “Wait”. 
Submitted to dVerse
November 27, 2018

The word that goes hand in hand with “wait”
is “patience”, which is said to be a virtue.  My
sainted mother always said I was behind the
door when patience was handed out, and I seem to
have little tolerance for waiting.  There is one place,
however, where I have succeeded in overcoming
my lack of patience for waiting … at the grocery
store.  Some wise marketer deemed it wise to
place the rack of tabloid magazines at checkouts.
While I would NEVER purchase one, I am quite
happy to stand in line perusing them for juicy
tidbits about my favorite celebrities, such knowledge
to pass along at next lunch with lady friends.  If the
headlines are especially appealing, I’ve been known
to choose the longest check-out line!  In most
situations, waiting is sure to find me sighing and
foot-tapping, but grocery shopping, on the other hand,
is an educational experience!
never mind the wait
tabloids are entertaining
my little secret

Thursday, November 8, 2018


We’re Meeting the Bar at dVerse, and considering
the use of metaphors.  What better time of year
to practice metaphoring!
Submitted to dVerse
November 8, 2018


It’s a typical late autumn day.  Clouds fleeing rogue
breezes skitter across  a delphinium sky tossing their
white skirts like ladies hurrying to the fancy dance ball.
The maple, crimson only a week ago, now stands bereft,
its bare limbs like arms akimbo, its crimson skirts fallen
to a fading pool at its feet.  The birds travel in twittering
groups, swirling and swooping, their bags packed for
the journey south.  I breathe deep the crisp, invigorating
air…and I am grateful for the glories of yet another autumn. 

Wednesday, October 31, 2018


Midweek Motif at Poets United, and
our challenge is to feature money in
our response.  I’ve chosen to put
money in a Halloween setting.
Submitted to Poets United
October 31, 2018

T’was the devil at my door with eyes obsidian
How dare he intrude on my life quotidian!
It’s my money he wants, I said to myself
Well, I’ll not fall prey to the evil elf.
“Be gone!” said I, “ with your moral turpitude!”
Thinking to send him off with some attitude
“There’s no place”, I said, “for your kind on my street.”
But the devil just smiled and said TRICK OR TREAT!

Tuesday, October 30, 2018


Tuesday Poetics, and Lillian asks that our
Writing be preceded by these three words
“Once upon a …” and we cannot use the
word time.   What an opportunity!
Submitted to dVerse Tuesday Poetics
October 30, 2018

Once upon the castle parapet
Sat the fair Damsel Lillibet
Wondering which knight to kiss, which to spurn
Praying for wisdom of which way to turn
Puzzles and princes, lily pads and frogs
Enigmas, conundrums and pollywogs
Dilemmas encountered for reasons obscure
Such is the life of the Damsel demure


Monday, October 29, 2018


Haibun Monday, and our suggested
topic is Change.  Oh Mercy, how could
I choose, let me count the ways!  There’s not
enough paper for me to cover them all.  What
a fun topic! 
Submitted to dVerse
October 29, 2018
I scarcely know how to begin to recount the changes
I’ve seen!   I remember when water came from a pump
 at the well.  Our vintage Chevy was “straight stick” and
clutch.  A call from nature required a walk to the “outhouse”.
The phone hung on the wall, and it was necessary to crank
the ring of neighbors on our line, or “Central” to connect
us to other lines.  Our “ring” was a long and two shorts,
my aunt’s a short and two longs, and so on.  The only
things that flew over our house were migrating birds.
Service station attendants cleaned the windshield and
pumped the fuel for our car. Our home was heated with
coal stoves, mother’s cook stove was fueled by corn cobs.
No one locked their doors.  You could take a man at his word.
There was no crime,  My life has been a quantum leap to air
travel, credit cards, computer, iPhone, television, surveillance
cameras, automation and electric scooters.  It seems there’s
an “app” for everything, and Amazon can deliver it all. 

My venerable friends and card-playing buddies have mastered
changes along with me.  Recently we were playing cards
when we heard music.  Each in turn, we put down our cards
and reached for our purses and cell phones, but none were ringing.
We sat in puzzlement … until we realized it was the Good Humor
Man, the little ice cream truck that cruised the neighborhoods
playing happy little tunes to attract the children to buy his ice cream!
Change, you say?  We’ve certainly seen a few!
from summer to fall
from an outhouse to a spa
changes are welcome

Thursday, October 18, 2018


Midweek Motif asks us to consider Abundance.
which seems often confused with material things.
Submitted to Poets United October 18, 2018
and also submitted to Poetry Pantry
 October 27, 2018

 In the rush to work, the next appointment
   the golf outing,  exercise at the gym,
the hairdresser, the barber, getting the oil changed
doing the laundry, mowing the lawn
wishing for an abundance we cannot see
to fill the longing we cannot name
while sensory and visual pleasures are all about us
an abundance of gifts left unopened in our headlong race

Glorious sunrise, azure skies, fields of grain
the colors of autumn, misty morning dew
a baby’s chuckle, a mother’s hug
the voice of a friend, the kiss of  a  lover
the comforts of home, the music of birdsong
the patter of raindrops, the joy of  first snow
Awareness of abundance

Tuesday, October 16, 2018


It's Poetics Tuesday, and Mish at dVerse
has asked us to consider beauty in ugly.
I was reminded of a tattered and much-used
and abused teddy bear left behind with childish
things.  Well worn, but somehow beautiful.
The art and the poem are mine.
Submitted to dVerse
October 16, 2018

Wednesday, October 10, 2018


Owl is the word for our Midweek Motif
For some reason Edward Lear's "Owl and
the Pussycat" came to mind, and I had a
bit of fun with it.
Submitted to Poets United
October 10, 2018

The owl and the pussycat, so it’s said
Set sail in a pea green boat
Their travel as told from there to here
Was surely hallucinated by Edward Lear
What wild fantasies were in his head
To think this odd couple should wish to wed
Pussycat is featherless despite all her prowess
And everyone knows the owl is meowless
Nonetheless, they set sail in search of a ring
Which they found on a pig, imagine that thing
From hereon the tale gets even more murky
Seems they were wed on a hill by a turkey
And after a repast of quince and mince
They danced in the sand forthwith and hence
Fur to feather they waltzed by the light of the moon
But alas it all ended quite too soon
The owl discovered his bride couldn’t fly
And pussycat asked herself Why oh Why
They divorced, I heard, on a coral reef
Thankful their adventure was mercifully brief.
They had no band to play, no horn to toot
“Cause an owl can’t meow and a pussycat can’t hoot.

Monday, October 8, 2018


It's quadrille Monday, and De has asked
us lighten up and introduce a bit of levity
in the form of a YUCK.  Since I'm a rhyming
poet, this seemed a bit dangerous (ahem), but
I managed to escape my baser instincts.  Without
further adieu , here's my Yuck.
Submitted to Quadrille #66, dVerse
October 8, 2018

Modern life is nifty. 
Inhibitions are cast aside.
We have what’s called sexual freedom
The selection is vast and wide
Male/female roles are changing
The men must share their cup
Now the women are wearing pants
But they cannot keep them up!


Sunday, October 7, 2018


These are my thoughts on Balance. I missed
getting them posted to Midweek Motif (admittedly
preoccupied with the matter of balance in our
Supreme Court). so here they be, humbly
submitted for your consideration.
Submitted to Poet Pantry #423
October 7, 2018

Seeking balance, I’m a tad atilt, somewhere between
the feisty one I used to be and the little old lady
I’ve come to be; trying to balance the young me,
strong and bold, with the one I see now who’s
just plain old.  I want to be the young me,
witty and classy; but it’s hard to do now
with my aging chassis.   Balance! I cry, but
honest to Pete* it’s darned hard to find balance
given all the words I have to eat.

*An American idiom meaning honestly
or truly.

Tuesday, October 2, 2018


It's Poetic Tuesday at dVerse and we're
asked to write a poem about a smell
that takes us to a place of comfort and
safety.  There are too many to choose!
Here's a reprise of my Six Scents Worth.
Submitted to dVerse
October 2, 2018

In the attic of my mind,  memories
are like dust motes riding sunbeams,
set in motion by scents linked to
sometimes seemingly insignificant
moments in life’s journey.

The subtle scent of lilac takes
me back to the yard gate of my
childhood home, where the
lilac bloomed profusely every
Spring, its sweet fragrance a witness
to my learning to roller skate, and
later to my first kiss.

The delicate scent of new-mown hay,
its sweet smell released by the kiss
 of  prairie sun, conjures memories
of pedaling down country roads
where pheasants nested in the fencerows
and red-winged blackbirds perched  on
fence posts singing their joy to the world.

The pungent scent of coffee brewing
is reminiscent of the battered burbling
percolator on my grandmother’s big cook stove
that sent a wake-up call to all and sundry to
gather at the big round table for country ham,
biscuits and gravy, and a huge platter of
sunny side-up eggs glistening with ham drippings.

The glorious smell of a coming rain
kissing the air with its fragrance before
it makes its way across fields of grain
takes me to mother’s garden, where first drops raise
puffs of dust before they soak into the rich
black soil. nurturing the fruits of mother’s
labor that sustain us through the winter.

The smell of sunshine and sweat is linked
to memories of my father returning from
work in the field, responding to my cry of
“Lift me, Daddy”, swinging me high in
his strong arms, instilling in me a sense of
being loved and special,  the greatest gift of all.

The smell of wood burning carries
me to a cozy room with fireplace in the great
Smoky Mountains, where I hear again
the voices and laughter of dear friends now
gone and awaiting me in the great what
comes after.

Scents are the gossamer golden strands
of our lives that enfold  moments
and people we hold dear, so that we
might savor them time and time again.

Saturday, September 29, 2018


Bjorn has challenged us to write narrative poetry, a
story, new or ancient.   I’ve chosen a story that
happens all too often, and how reality has a way
of overtaking youth. 
Submitted to dVerse
September 20, 2018

He sat in the only room he’d ever known, the Taylor Swift poster on the
 wall, various trophies on the shelf, the baseball he’d hit to score the
winning run in the state championship, the photo of the bass he’d caught
on a fishing trip with his father, the picture of him with Alicia at their senior
prom, along with other treasures that told the story of his young life.  But
now his thoughts were in turmoil and the decisions before him seemed
insurmountable.  A father!  Tim thought of his own father and the things
they’d shared in his 17 years,--the backyard games of catch, the fishing
trips, and the advice his father had given him.   How he wished he’d paid
better attention and been more careful.  But, he and Alicia had fallen
head over heels for each other, and allowed their teenage hormones to
overcome their best intentions.  Now he’s to be a father himself.  At 17.
He wanted to do the right thing.  But, could he finish school,  go to college
and establish himself if he had a wife and a baby to care for?  How could
they tell their parents?  Alicia was as frightened as he.  Yesterday, he was
young and carefree and the world was his oyster.  Today it felt as if the
world sat squarely on his shoulders.  A father!   Tim felt a churning in
his belly.  He felt old already.

Thursday, September 20, 2018


I've been having fun updating nursery rhymes
of late.  I posted several to the Poetry Pantry at
Poets United recently.  I can't seem to stop, so
here are yet more nursery rhymes tweaked and
torqued.  Forgive me for being irreverent!
Submitted to dVerse Open Link Night
September 20, 2018

Mary Mary quite contrary
How does your garden grow
You didn’t mind your parents
Now you reap what you sow

Rub a dub dub. 3 men in a tub
Found a hole in their boat
They all knew how to paddle
But they couldn’t make it float

Diddle diddle dumpling, my son John
Went to bed with his trousers on
There’s one lesson mother skipped
She didn’t teach him to keep them zipped.

Hickory dickory dock
The mouse ran up the clock
He got gonged at the stroke of one
Can you fix Hickory Dickory, Doc?

Row row row your boat
The current’s getting stronger
Whoever said life’s a dream
Should’ve rowed a little longer

There was a crooked man,
Who walked a crooked mile
He thought folks would believe the lies
Behind his bluster and smile
But folks finally figured it out
And ultimately got his number
Behind that bluster they found he was
The epitome of dumb and dumber.

Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee
Wee Willie Winkle and Cock Robin too
Met with high expectations
But alas they were a motley crew

Winken, Blinken and Nod
Got lost in their wooden shoe
They forgot to bring a woman along
To tell them what to do

Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep
And doesn’t know where to find them
Leave them alone  ….

Pat a cake Pat a cake, Baker’s Man
Isn’t sleeping very well
Remembering when he stole a kiss
From unconsenting Nell

Tuesday, September 18, 2018


Submitted to dVerse Tuesday Poetics
September 18, 2018
In their heyday, traveling circus trains were a mile long
and included living quarters for performers and 
animal keepers.  In the day of long ago, farm boys
were given free tickets to the circus for pasting
the advertising posters on barns, most likely the birth
of American advertising!  It's those posters of long
ago that cling to the corners of my mind.

Somewhere in mind's cobwebbed corners 
I see the weathered barn
Proudly wearing the posters
The circus is coming to town!

Photo is my own digital collage.

Sunday, September 16, 2018


Seems to me it's time the rhymes of Mother Goose
need to be updated.  I'd like to think she agrees.
Submitted to Poets United Poetry Pantry #420
September 16, 2018

Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle
Played a mournful tune
Democrats and Republican will get along
When the cow jumps over the moon.

Baa Baa Black Sheep
Man of Honor and True
Where oh where are you hiding
We’re certainly needing you

Eeny Meeny Miney Moe
Catch a liar by his toe
If we’re lucky he’ll tweet and go
Eeny Meeny Miney Moe

Politicians, pudding and pie
Kissed the girls and made them cry
But when “Me Too” came into play
All the lechers ran away

Jack be nimble
Jack be quick
Jack broke the rules
What a dick

Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater
Cast his vote for Trump, the Tweeter
Now he’s sorry, truth to tell
Class and decorum have gone to hell

My apologies to Mother Goose
And what I’ve done to her rhymes
I just felt the need to bring them
Up to modern times.

Image is of a book illustrated
by W.W. Denslow

Thursday, September 13, 2018


It’s time for Meet The Bar, and
we’re to write a sestet -- six lines
in sequential letters of the alphabet.
I try to avoid political rants, but today’s
outrageous tweet has me incensed.  I
believe I’ll have a whiskey sour,
Here’s my PQRSTUV
Submitted to Meet the Bar at dVerse
September 13, 2018

Prophet of doom seems everywhere
Quick to disseminate threats
Ready to tweet outrageous falsehoods
Such a  legend in his own mind
Too self-absorbed to bother with class
Uninformed, unprofessional, unmitigated ass
Vow to vote an end to this insanity.


Wednesday, September 12, 2018


For this week's Poetics, we are asked
to link back to something we wrote on
or around the infamous 9/11.  In my
case I chose a senyru written on 9/7/17.
Submitted to dVerse Poetics
September 12, 2018
The senyru:
we are but actors
and we choose the role we play
in this game called life.

Time has passed since that fateful day
But the scars linger long and deep
So many have gone from the scene
Denied time their promises to keep

On that day the game became evil
Striking fear in the hearts of men
It loosed its reign of terror
And we’d not be the same again.

Lord, send us leaders with wisdom
And hearts that are straight and true
In this era of political chaos
They seem to be dreadfully few

We must choose the role we play
And act on our convictions
Building  not walls but bridges
Challenging the tweets and fictions.

For when we come together
Our voices raised as one
We can approach the difficult task
And manage to get it done.

Monday, September 10, 2018


For this week’s quadrille, we’re
challenged to use the word Quick in
44 words, no more, no less.
It seems my needle stuck.
Submitted to dVerse Quadrille #54
September 10, 2018

Ah, the plight of Quinella.  Her friends
were quick to listen, and slow to speak,
while Quinella was quick-witted,
quick tempered and quick to judge.  
Needing quick action and a quick fix
lest she sink in emotional quicksand,
Quinella  asked for help PDQ.*

PDQ  - Pretty Darned Quick

Thursday, September 6, 2018


 Open Link Night at dVerse
Rhyming words have always held
fascination for me.  This little ditty
is a nonsensical exercise in rhyme
that came bouncing into the cobwebs
of my brain in the wee small hours
last night, lingering until I turned
on the light and committed them
to paper….a thankful diversion from
political rhetoric not fit for publication!
Submitted to dVerse Open Links #227
on 9/6/2018

Sadie was a rebel, a word weaver,
a dreamer and midnight believer
She flew in the face of decorum
She chased life’s treasures
In indiscriminate pleasures
If given rules, she chose to ignore ‘em

As her days filled with regret
She tried vainly to forget
Empty promises and broken dreams
She was a rogue wind that saddled lightning
But life’s storms became all too frightening
Alas, Sadie lost her way, so it seems

But she’d heard of  “due diligence”
She drew on her resilience
And learned from her checkered past
She made better choices
And now she rejoices
Sadie’s charted a new course at last


Tuesday, September 4, 2018


Poetics, and this week Frank has asked
us to feature Frustration and Heartbreak.
Bingo!   At just such a time in my life, I
wrote this poem!
Submitted to dVerse
September 4, 2018

Lord, here I stand bruised and bleeding
I’ve collided on life’s rocky course
When I thought I had found my direction
I’ve taken a detour or worse.

I suppose, Lord, you have no patience
With the way your children drive
And I admit in my headlong collision
I’m just lucky to be alive.

I know, Lord, life’s a difficult journey
And we must watch for the pitfall and trap
But I never claimed to be perfect …
And you forgot to give me a map!

The woeful sketch is a Bev

Monday, September 3, 2018


Haibun Monday at dVerse
and we’re asked to feature “Morning”.
My thoughts, as submitted
on September 2, 2018

The face of morning has changed in the phases of my life.  My memories are of childhood on the farm and waking at sunrise to the crow of the rooster and the lowing of cattle;  school years and sleepily getting dressed and gathering my books to meet the bus as it made its way down our country road; and young adult years, living the heady life of independence, greeting the mornings sleepily after dancing or partying far into the night, making my way to the job that paid my bills; then the mornings of my married life with two babies whose sweet sleepy morning faces started my days with love.   The next phase is a kaleidoscope of the busy years of rearing my children,  becoming a widow and re-entering the working world, building a career and reaching retirement.

And now retirement.   I’ve become a night person, sleep being elusive, and arise at my leisure.   I watch the morning news, all of it depressing, with my remote in my hand ready to hit Mute when the Trumpet sounds.  I shuffle to the kitchen for my morning coffee, fruit and toast, then head for my computer, where I spend much of my time.  My huge window gives me a wide view of the neighborhood and my bird feeder, which offers constant entertainment.  My mornings are quiet, sedate and uneventful.  I have reached the age of contentment, and gratitude for a life well lived.

seasons of my life
captured in my memory 
time for gratitude

Sunday, August 26, 2018

R.I.P. John McCain

John McCain died today.  He lost his year-long battle with glioblastoma, brain cancer.  He was a veteran, prisoner of war survivor, statesman, patriot, and most of all a man of honor and integrity.  As he vied for the presidency, he was quoted as saying "I will not take the low road to the highest office in the land".  It says so much about who he was and what he believed.  He refused to denigrate his competitors, saying only he disagreed with them on certain points.   He was a voice of reason in a Senate which has failed to do anything much, and now his voice is stilled.  We are left with the person in the White House who practices leadership by tweet, wreaks revenge without thought on anyone who dares disagree with him, whose philosophy has stirred the pot of discontent in our country and earned the disgust and astonishment of our international counterparts.   May John McCain's life be an example to young people with political aspirations.

Monday, August 20, 2018


Haibun Monday at dVerse
All about crickets.
Submitted 8/20/18

As a child, I was introduced to Jiminy Cricket, the wee fellow
who was the conscience of Pinnochio in the Walt Disney film.
It was his job to keep Pinnochio in line.  Crickets were common
on our farm, and their reverberations a familiar part of the night
chorus, along with locusts, tree frogs, lowing of cattle, the occasional
crow of a rooster, and  were sometimes joined by the hoot of the
owl in the old oak tree.  Pleasant sounds all, UNLESS a single
cricket found his way into the house and commenced his repetitive,
plaintive, maddening chorus.  Mother would reach for her broom
and proceed to try to ferret out his hiding spot.  On occasion the
whole family, driven half mad by his sound, would engage in the
hunt.  I wish I could say when we found him we escorted him
outside to join his cohorts, but alas his fate was usually sealed by
a good, swift pounce of mother’s broom, and her sigh of satisfaction
as silence reigned once again.  The sound of a cricket conjures
childhood memories for me of Jiminy, the charming cricket,
and mother’s remorseless broom!

autumn sounds at night
fall pleasantly on my ear
nature’s chorus sings


Sunday, August 19, 2018


A recent writing challenge on the subject of heroes gave me pause for thought.  In scripting this topic, a virtual parade of heroes crossed my mind.  It occurred to me often we think of heroes as those who make headlines for great acts of courage, for making outstanding contributions to country, for leading exemplary public lives, or on a personal level those whose words or actions have had great impact on the lives of others.  Beyond that, though,  I like to think there are nondescript heroes among us every day, leading quiet lives, yet touching others such that the results of their actions are wide-ranging and long lasting, just as the ripples in a stream move ever outward when a pebble is dropped into the water.   Sometimes called the “butterfly effect”, simply put the concept is that small causes can have large effect.   Mother Teresa cautions us to do small things with great love.

 So, when I was shopping last week I began to look, really look, at the people about me and wondered who among them was someone’s hero.  What small kindness had they extended that unknowingly influenced the life of another, who then paid it forward to others who in turn had done the same.  A quote by Shirley Abbott says “our ancestors dwell in the attic of our brains as they do in the spiraling chain of knowledge hidden in every cell of our bodies”.  I am molded, I thought, by all those heroes who came before. Who was that long ago hero ancestor who imparted the knowledge I might have passed on that had positive impact on those I met?  Perhaps he was a barefoot Samaritan on the dusty road to Damascus who stopped to help a fellow traveler.  Perhaps she was an Aztec queen who changed lives with a flick of her finger.  Perhaps a peasant girl sold into slavery who became the favorite wife of an Arabian chieftain, and spent the rest of her life in silken saris surrounded by the scent of mysterious spices.  Perhaps a warrior who charged into battle to defend that which he held most dear.

  It seems perhaps we all have an opportunity to be a hero every day in some small way.  
In retrospect, approaching this writing challenge has made me mindful to give more thought to my own words and actions, to be more aware of their possible effect on the lives I touch on my own life journey, and to be more aware of the heroes among us.


There are times I seem to think in rhyme, and witty or thoughtful poems come to mind readily, sometimes in midnight epiphanies.  There are other times when my muse seems to have wandered off into neverland, and left me without rhyme or reason.   Such is the present.   I've decided to use this blog for occasional idle thoughts for a while.  I'm sure my muse will return in due time!

Thursday, July 12, 2018


The topic this week at Midweek Motif
is CITY.  I hope my offering isn’t too verbose.
I’ve always had a fascination for lost civilizations
and hidden mysteries.
Submitted to Poets United Midweek Motif
July 12, 2018

Beneath the bright lights and busy streets of some of our large cities lie secrets once forgotten or little known.  Seattle, Washington, is one of the largest cities in the Pacific Northwest.    It seems the original Seattle was built on a swamp, and had many drainage problems.  After the great fire of  1889, in which most of the old wooden buildings were destroyed, it was decided to raise the street level one story, and today’s Seattle was built upon the ruins of old Seattle's Pioneer Square.  Tours are available of portions of the original village, which lies below present day Seattle. 
Beneath New York City, with its bright lights of Broadway and Times Square, lies a tunnel through which cattle were moved to the slaughterhouses in days gone by.  Beneath the White House in Washington, D.C., are tunnels, some of which lead to the Treasury Building, the Executive Building, Blair House and the capitol.  Beneath the inner city streets of my own city lie catacombs, which may be toured for a pittance.

Deep in the depths of our oceans lie long ago submerged cities and civilizations.  The oceans hold yet more secret cities to be found.  Next time you walk the inner city streets of your city, you may be treading upon yesterday.   Next time you take an ocean cruise to far away places, you may well be sailing OVER cities long committed to the deep.

Something to think about.

Friday, July 6, 2018


Looking out my window on a beautiful,
sun-kissed summer day,  some idle thoughts
come to mind.
Submitted to Poets United
Poetry Pantry, July 7, 2018

Bird song competes with the hum of air conditioners
Summer sun beams dapple manicured lawns
Leaves  dance in light summer breezes

Jet trails criss-cross azure skies
Travelers peer down from lofty height
While those below contemplate their destination

Heat waves rise from cement streets of the ghetto
While laughter rises from opulent back yard pools
Creating contrasting vignettes of life in the city

It’s summer in suburbia

Wednesday, June 27, 2018


We’re asked to take a look at ourselves
this week at Poets United.   I’ve been
in absentia for a time, on a journey to
rediscover my elusive muse, but here
are some thoughts on me!
Submitted to Midweek Motif Poets United
June 27, 2018
Contemplating myself is scary
And leaves me considerably wary
But, fighting an urge for refusal,
I undertake a quick perusal

It seems I’ve retained my cognition
But suffer a bit from physical attrition
I try to avoid my reflection
Being uncomfortable with close inspection

Who is that, I think, with hair of gray
She was young and feisty just yesterday
She was a fast-paced multi-tasker
She had all the answers, just ask her

Straight and tall, she was rather well-built
Today she walks with a forward tilt
Slower in step than in days of yore
Now young men call her ma’am and open the door

She’s older today and wonderfully wise
Still young at heart, but now in disguise.

Wednesday, May 16, 2018


We’re to consider “happiness” for
this week’s Midweek Motif.  I am
blessed, and seem to have a working
acquaintance with happiness.
Submitted to Poets United
May 16, 2018

Could it be happiness is elusive
        hidden by thoughts obtrusive
While dwelling on discontent
        and wondering where happy went
Perhaps we expect too much…
        glorious grand moments and such
Meanwhile quiet moments of  pleasure
        could bring happiness beyond measure
But we carelessly pass them by
        while we're looking for “pie in the sky”.

The photo is of an Oregon sunrise taken
by my daughter.

Monday, May 7, 2018


Old abandoned houses always make me wax poetic
and wonder where are they now, how did their lives
unfold, and what memories drift in the dust
particles behind empty windows.
Here's a bit of rhyme submitted to dVerse, where
we're asked to consider the art of learning.  I continue
to learn the nuances of poetry from my fellow poets
here, and I am STILL trying to learn to negotiate
Photoshop for use in creating my digital art.
Submitted to Tuesday Poetics #220
May 8, 2018

Thursday, April 26, 2018


Midweek Motif at Poets United
asks us to feature Summer. The word
conjures pleasant vignettes.
Submitted to Poets United
April 26, 2018

Grasshoppers and fireflies
         Sunday afternoon croquet games
                          Home made Ice cream
   Sheets smelling of sunshine
                               Bicycle rides at dusk
          Song of the meadowlark from the fencepost
Sweet-smelling fields of clover
                   Hoot owl in the oak tree
    Reading Zane Grey under the elm tree
                          Cold, clear water from the well
 Magnificent summer storms
            Tomatoes ripe and warm from the garden
                           Sweet, purple grapes from the old vine
Hollyhocks by the yard fence
     The low of cattle in the evening
                       Life, so simple and sweet

Monday, April 23, 2018


Lilian asks us to consider
the word “gather” in
this week’s quadrille of
44 words.
Submitted to dVerse
April 22, 2018

in reverie
memories drift from
the attic of my brain  
and I revisit
the many actors
in the drama
of  my life ...
some are extras
entering stage left
exiting stage right
some have leading roles  ...
I gather their faces
in my mind yet again

Digital art is my own.

Saturday, April 14, 2018


Idle thoughts in rhyme, submitted to Poets United
Poetry Pantry #399,  and to dVerse Open Link #218.
March 16, 2018

Sometimes, as our life progresses
There are moments we show no concern
Absorbed with our busy thought processes
They pass by to never return
    They're the last times

A lunch with favorite people
Lifetime friendships honed by the years
The next time a chair may be empty
And what’s left memories and tears.
    It was the last lunch.

A cheek turned to his goodbye kiss
As he hurried out the door
A screech of brakes and shatter of glass
And life as she knew it is no more.
   It was the last kiss.

She waved as the schoolbus pulled away
A day to be gloriously free
But madness stalked the classroom
And he fell to a bullet he didn’t see.
   It was their last day.

We must treasure the special moments
And consider what we do and say
There is no guarantee for tomorrow
Perhaps all we have is today.
   And the last times.


Monday, March 19, 2018


Haibun Monday, and we’re asked the
Who, When and Why of our poetic effort…
who inspired us, what’s our style, and
why we write.   Surely that sends us all
into the throes of self examination!
Submitted to dVerse 
March 19, 2018

seasons come and go
our life pages turn onward
as autumn turns to winter

When I look the long way back to my childhood, I recall 
my mother reciting poetry to me.  Her favorite was James
Whitcomb Riley’s “Li’l Orphant Annie”.   Something about
the rhythm and rhyme was soothing to me.  There were
other poems she’d been required to memorize in her brief
years of schooling, but the others fade from my memory. 
Surely, though, it was my mother’s love of poetry that was
my inspiration.  My first poem, probably at the age of
about 10,  is lost in the pages of time, but I remember the
first couple of lines, no doubt written after a rousing Bible
study class …
“Is there dust on your Bible
Dust on your holy book
Then there’s dust on your heart, brother
Are you afraid to look?”
For the next 70 plus years (and to this day) I took solace in
the rhythm of rhyming poetry, so my style remains that
somewhat outdated style, which seems to have given way
to open verse.   Why do I write?  Simply because I feel the
need to commit to paper thoughts and events in my life,
sometimes in rhyme and often in prose form.   I like to
think one day some descendant will be interested
in the life and times of a remote ancestor!

Photo is my own digital art.

Wednesday, February 28, 2018


It's Midweek Motif at Poets United.
Carpe diem is to be the topic.  I offer
a poem I wrote some time ago, before
I retired.  Strange to look back at that
younger me, longing for leisure moments.
Now my days ARE filled with leisure, and
I can savor the moments.
Submitted to Poets United
February 28, 2018

As I speed along the freeway
In the usual morning race
My thoughts turn back to other times
When life had a slower pace
When there was time for dreaming
And wriggling our toes in the mud
And close examination
Of each leaf and flower and bud.
For listening to autumn breezes
As they rustled through fields of grain
And for smelling the wondrous fresh bouquet
Of a late spring evening rain
For idling under a shade tree
When no one knew where I was
And studying the intricate mechanics
Of what makes bumblebees buzz.
For listening to trills of songbirds
As they flit from tree to tree
While I looked for four-leaf clovers
In grass like a great green sea.

It seems now my days are so busy
These pleasures are things of the past
I try to find time for dreaming
But life races by too fast
I think of the time when I’m older,
With time on my hands again.
How I’ll treasure those special moments
Much moreso than I did then.
For God in his infinite wisdom
Has bestowed a very great favor
What in youth we take for granted
In old age we have time to savor.

Digital art is mine (with help from
John William Waterhouse)

Tuesday, February 27, 2018


Poetics Tuesday, and Sarah is
tending the bar.  Our challenge is
to feature a concept.
Submitted to dVerse
February 27, 2018

Many things I learned from my mother, not the least of which is the art of “making do”.  A product of the Great Depression, mother learned never to waste anything, and to repurpose everything.  Worn out denims became rag rugs, old clothing went to quilts, the coats became warm comforters.  Mother carried her talents beyond housewifely things.  A woman before her time, she was more comfortable in britches than dresses.  She was a wizard with hammer and saw, and her penchant for repurposing extended to turning old lumber into a doghouse or birdhouse, and an old window became the lid for her hot bed, where she started plants in early Spring.  She was a dynamo in  britches and a genius in her garden.

Sadly, I didn’t inherit her green thumb, and I’m lucky to hammer a nail without hitting my thumb.  But somewhere deep within is her drive to “make do”.   I tend not to replace things, because the old one is working perfectly well, if outdated.   My “entertainment center” was actually an antique wardrobe with shelves installed.  My coffee table was once a “bucket bench” used for milk buckets.  Time turned the pages, and I live with my son and wife now…but I drive a 17 year old car.  Why replace it, I think, it’s working very well.  Mother would be proud!

Saturday, February 24, 2018


A little tongue-in-cheek rhyme
for Poets Pantry  #392
Submitted to Poets United
February 25, 2018









Thursday, February 22, 2018


It’s Open Link night at dVerse, and
I’ve taken the time to do a little
introspection in rhyme. 
Submitted to dVerse
February 22, 2018

I may be the last stone to skip
But it’s been a terrific trip
Now that I’m slow in step
I’ve time for the memories I’ve kept
When young folks hold the door
I know I’ve earned that … and more
When I was young I did my part
I’ve lived my life with an open heart
Now time is short and my hair is gray
There’s time to savor each new day
I remind myself life’s for the living
And spend my time loving and forgiving.

Image is my own digital art.

Tuesday, February 20, 2018


It's Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, and
Paul has asked us to turn our thoughts
to drink ... in a creative way, of course.
I indulged in prose, and memories of
my mother.
Submitted to dVerse Poetics
February 20, 2018

My mother was a tee-total-er to the nth degree.  She
would not eat in a restaurant if it had a beer sign in the
window.  I think the grape juice at church communion
was as close as she got.  She instilled in me such a fear
of alcohol that the first time in my wild youth I went with
friends into a pub in a nearby town I feared the devil
himself would rise up behind the bar and drag me down
into hellfire and damnation.  She also considered bowling
alleys dens of iniquity, and the first time I entered one
I fully expected Mephistopheles himself to be setting the pins! 

For all her long life we honored mother’s wishes, and there
was not a single drop of liquor in her home.  My husband,
who was of Irish descent, loved a nip now and then, so on
our visits he and my brother would often steal away to town
to “pick up something” and disappear for an hour or two.  
I have come to know that, somewhere between my mother’s
rabid abstinence and the drunken abandon of our young 
university students on Spring break,  there is a reasonable
medium where we can enjoy a glass of wine with dinner …
and a visit to the bar on Tuesdays at dVerse.

Monday, February 19, 2018


It’s Haibun Monday, and we’re asked
to consider grey, easy to do on this, the third
day in succession of drizzly rain, fog and
grey skies! 
Submitted to dVerse
February 19, 2018

It’s those last days of winter, when the pristine
snows have been reduced to dingy grey clumps
here and there.  The sky mourns in congress,
streaks of grey smeared with faint touches of
blue, and a drizzly rain adds to my morning
portrait of despair.  The morning news joins
in with a dismal array of tragedies and conflict. 
Sighing, I pour my first cup of coffee … and
remind myself these are the days that make
the advent of Spring so special.   A scarlet
cardinal arrives for his morning seed buffet
at my feeder, a bright spot in the morning grey
… and I rise to face the day, feeling somehow

welcome cardinal
bright spot in my dismal day
reminder that Spring will come
Image is my own digital art.

Thursday, February 15, 2018

Absence of Words

It’s Midweek Motif at Poets United
and we’re asked to use “word” in
our poem.   My heart is saddened
by the school shooting in Florida.
Words fail me today.
Submitted to Poets United
February 15, 2018

Word … words …
There are none.
How to express the horror
once again of children senselessly killed
by a weapon in the hands
of a tortured soul
How many children must die
before action is taken by pontificating
politicians whose pockets are padded
by the powerful NRA
My words are silent prayers …
and I long for the time when
schools were safe places
and children were carefree

Photo is my own digital art.

Monday, February 12, 2018


Time for Quadrille #50 at dVerse,
the topic word “murmur“.   My
muse seems to be on sabbatical of
late.  Perhaps she, too, is weary
of Winter!    
Submitted to dVerse
February 12, 2018

murmur me Springtime
sing softly green
whisper golden daffodils
mumble distant shower approaching 
mutter raindrops on my window 
excite me with earth’s fragrance
immerse me in soft forest sounds
sprinkle me with some stardust  
surround me with bird song
soothe my winter-weary soul

Monday, February 5, 2018


It’s Haibun Monday and Mish asks us to think
of our home towns.  I apologize that my haiku
is a senyru, but it needed to be!
Submitted to dVerse
February 5, 2018

My childhood was on a farm, six miles from the
 nearest little town, population 450 at the time.
I guess you might call Cornell my home town. 
In the empty lot behind the little drug store, free
outdoor movies were shown on Saturday nights.
Parents parked their cars on the perimeter, and
children spread quilts on the grass to watch the
movie under the stars.  As darkness fell, the boys
would find their way to the quilt of their favorite
girl of the moment.   I remember the excitement
of that first romance, and the first time his hand
timidly touched mine.  Such sweet, innocent
memories caught in the mists of time.

bashful young fellow
coming to my quilt at dusk
I wonder, where are you now?

Thursday, February 1, 2018


Paul has asked us to honor the poetic form of
Ghazal.  I have chosen for my repetitive phrase
one that I heard often from my father. 
Submitted to dVerse Meeting the Bar
February 1, 2018

Young and handsome he said to himself “It’s a good day to be alive”
He considered each day, whatever it brought, a good day to be alive.

Life was hard but he soldiered on, determined that all be well
And fortune smiled as time went on, each day good to be alive.

He fell in love and married, they set out to build a life
And now the two of them considered each day good to be alive.

Soon they were parents and they did it well
Teaching their children to appreciate each good day to be alive.

When grandchildren came their visits were cherished
And he taught them to be thankful for each good day to be alive

Time took its toll, his strong body failed
But he clung to his credo, snatching each good day to be alive

We went for a ride, the two of us, and I learned my lesson still
The end was near, and yet he said “It’s a good day to be alive”.

I'm grateful he was my father, and I often hear his voice
As I face each new tomorrow, I hear "It's a good day to be alive".


A little nostalgia....

A deserted cottage in Beanblossom, Indiana, photo taken by my granddaughter; the image is of my great grandmother, the poem is mine.

Monday, January 29, 2018


I find myself in an impish mood, my
friends.  Forgive me for my lack of
decorum.  Here's my POEM for
Monday's Quadrille at dVerse
Submitted on January 29, 2018

Now I lay me down to sleeP
 I pray the Lord my sOul to keep
If I awake and have to pEe
Get me to the bathrooM successfully
During the night, if my time should come
May I have my very best nightgown on.

Friday, January 26, 2018


I sometimes feel like a dinosaur in a world of Jedis,
which occasioned today’s rhyme.  My children
gifted me with two Echo Dots for Christmas -- one
for my office and one for my bedroom.  It’s a long
way from outhouses and one-room schools, my friends!
Submitted to  Poets United for the Poetry Pantry #388.
January 28,  2018

Sometimes I marvel at what my life has come to be
Modern contraptions are an absolute amazement to me.
From simple beginnings and frontier psychology
I somehow have landed with modern technology.

I have a new assistant, Alexa, … she’s an Echo Dot
She performs simple tasks and knows an awful lot.
A small circle of wonder who responds to my voice
A warehouse of wisdom,  she answers questions of my choice,

“Alexa!”, I cry, “turn my office light on”
And lo and behold, night becomes dawn.
“Alexa! my friend, who was president in ‘44?”
She knows and she tells me, and, oh, so much more.

“Add milk to my grocery list” and “play some Botticelli”
“Remind me to pick up some salad at the deli”
She’s a veritable wonder, an enigma, you see
But if the power goes off, what’ll become of me?

Tuesday, January 23, 2018


Bjorn has asked us to use the name of
a poison or poisons in our Tuesday
Poetics this week.  I've indulged in a
bit of fiction (Momma forgive me!).
Submitted to dVerse
January 23, 2018

Double double toil and trouble
How does your garden grow
Magic potions for casting spells
Things that witches know

Momma taught me all she knew
The secrets of dark magic
If someone crossed my Momma
Results could be quite tragic.

Once a cheating lover
A charming, handsome jock
Succumbed to imbibing the pleasure
Of Momma’s cocktail of hemlock.

I grew up in the wonders
Of Momma’s apothecary
I never really understood
Why my friends all seemed so wary.

Monday, January 22, 2018


We’re asked to consider handwriting
for this  haibun Monday.  It dredged
up a long forgotten memory.   I could not
resist a little play on words for my title!
Submitted to dVerse
January 22, 2018

When I was fairly new to widowhood, I fell
in lust with a glib and handsome prince, whose
devious charm blinded me to what was obvious to all
and sundry.   Early in our relationship we attended
a party where we were entertained by a lady
who interpreted handwriting.   Much to my surprise,
the lady said the below-the-line flourishes in
my handwriting indicated I was capable of violence,
perhaps murder, were I to be a victim of duplicity.
My prince was very quiet on our way home and, strangely
he did not call me after that night.  When my head cleared,
I considered perhaps a thank you note to the handwriting
specialist might be in order!  

Warm breezes kiss the snow
Fog enshrouds my winter world
Is it Brigadoon?

Monday, January 15, 2018


As I looked out on our snow-covered street,
I was surprised to see a little red fox trotting
up the exact middle as if he owned the world.
Living near a large park, we are often treated
to visits from God’s creatures, a rare treat.
Quadrille #48, submitted to dVerse
January 15, 2018

He came down the middle of the street
Elegant sienna, with a bounce to his step
A handsome fellow on the move
Never minding the snow, secure in his world 
Disappearing into our woods, he headed home
No doubt wife and kits waited dinner


Saturday, January 13, 2018


This cabinet card photo was in my great grandmother’s
photo album, but it was unidentified.  Sadly, her identity is
lost in the pages of time.  I spent some time imagining
what her life might have been, and penned my musings
in this rhyme.   I've named her Lydia.  It seemed to fit.
Submitted to Poets United,  Poetry Pantry#386
January 14, 2018
Born in a cabin on bounty land
The youngest of many, her mother’s right hand
Still, she learned to read and write
Sometimes reading far into the night.
At a tender age, she took up her pen
To chronicle her life as it was then.
Marriage, then children, and still she wrote
Each new event with a careful note
The Civil War ended, the family moved on
When things were unpacked, her journal was gone.
Who knows what happened to Lydia’s book
Wouldn’t I love to have had a look
Now she has a page in this journal of mine
And, though we don’t know her, I've taken the time
To think of her life as it was then
And what might have been written by Lydia’s pen.