Thursday, December 26, 2019



Do you mind, glorious white charger
if I  snuggle in  your mane
I’m used to warmer climes
where there’s no snow, but rain

My friends have all flown south
and I find myself quite alone
unaccustomed to this white stuff
and chilled quite to the bone

I’m asking for permission
in hopes you’ll say all right
my southward journey was booked
but alas I’ve missed my flight

You seem a friendly fellow
you’ll hardly know I’m here
I’m sure we can be the best of friends
by the time it’s Spring next year.

Tuesday, December 3, 2019


Tuesday Poetics and we're asked to
write a poem incorporating a word
ending in "less" and engendering
hopefulness for the Advent season
I've reflected on the seasons of life.
Submitted to dVerse
December 2, 2019

Dark clouds scud across obsidian skies
Harbingers of winter winds and lonely nights
When the restless heart begins to count
Too many wrongs to make a right

Soon snow will fall and cover ugly
Bad times and bad dreams fade away
Time for sitting by the fireplace
Finding solace in the light of day

Having learned a lot about forgiveness
For all the wrongs that once caused misery
Lessons learned and second chances
Come at last with age and set us free.

Tuesday, November 26, 2019


It’s Tuesday poetics, and Kim gives us
a challenge to write a poem in the format
and style of either Sylvia Plath or Ted Hughes.
It must be about something that grows or
multiplies and is in some way invasive.   I
like Plath’s brief tercets, and poison ivy
comes to mind.
Submitted to dVerse
November 26, 2019
Such a lovely vine
winding its way
up the tree

Some speak of it
with warning
“Beware leaves of three!”

In innocence
I touched it
Oh, woe is me.

Monday, November 25, 2019


Haibun Monday -
Frank asks us to consider gratitude
on this week of our Thanksgiving
Submitted to dVerse
November 25, 2019

Lord, help me to not take for granted the
good things in my life.  Help me to remember
there are those who would be grateful for such
simple things as a roof to shelter them from storms, 
enough sustenance to satisfy the gnawing hunger
that is part of their daily existence, for  clean water
to slake their thirst,  for a safe place to sleep at
night, and  for the ability to walk the streets of
their homeland without fear of gunfire or
mayhem.  Help me to celebrate gratitude for
small daily miracles that often go unnoticed,
and to face each day with a grateful heart.
daily miracles
pass by our way unnoticed
may we be aware

Thursday, November 21, 2019


Frank asks us to choose and describe a poetic style.  I find myself always turning to the more traditional poems, finding their rhythm soothing.  Research tells me "A traditional poem is any poetic work that adheres to a definite verse structure or set of characteristics. traditional poems are known for typically following particular rhyme schemes and metrical patterns. However, contemporary poems favor free verse, which employs no rhyme or poetic meter."   I'm afraid I don't know how to describe the metrical pattern of this poem, if any!  Thanks to Frank for sending me on a journey of research to try to identify my "style"!
Submitted to dVerse
November 21, 2019

It’s the “me” generation
It’s in vogue to please yourself
The idea is highly touted
In the books upon the shelf.

Self-fulfillment, self-enrichment
Look out for number one
If it works so well, I wonder
Where happiness has gone?

The divorce rate is steadily climbing
And many are at the end of their rope
Are we so busy feeding our egos
We’re running out of cope?

Our houses are growing larger
At quite an alarming rate
First we have to find one another
Before we can communicate.

Our children grow up with a sitter
Who has problems of her own
When we decide to spend time with them
We find they’re nearly grown.

The men are at the golf course
And the women at the pool.
And the children leave the sitter’s
And go to nursery school.

The husbands go to the men’s clubs
The wives go to the spas.
Are they so busy self-developing
They forget the way it was

When love was new and joyous
And each lived for the other
And finding time together
Wasn’t such an awful bother?

Could it be we had the answer
In the not so long ago
When we weren’t hung up on possessions
And what we had for show?

When our concern was more for others
And we loved our fellow man
And we weren’t too busy self-developing
To lend a helping hand?

Could self-denial be fulfilling
And self-control enriching too?
Is it just we have the self misplaced.
I wonder, is that true?

There’s a very great difference
Between what we want and what we need
And what we call desire to achieve
Is perilously close to greed.

It seems what we wear not who we are
Is what it’s all about
But ugly is still ugly
If it comes from inside out.

We’re all looking for the answers
And there’s little else to say
But, if we reassessed our values
Would happy come back one day?

Tuesday, November 19, 2019


It's  Quadrille #92, and De has
challenged us to use the word
CRACK in exactly 44 words.
The photo is Mt. Hood in the
distance from my daughter's
bedroom window.
Submitted to dVerse
November 19, 2019

Once I said I rose at the crack of dawn,
but I had a friend named Dawn who

I've adjusted my terminology and
I'm pleased to say I now stand

I arise at daybreak, secure in the
knowledge my phraseology is

Monday, November 11, 2019


November 11, 2019


She’s gone.   With a last sighing breath her weary heart ceased to beat
and we’re left in the darkness of loss and despair.   A beloved voice stilled,
a beloved spirit gone from our presence.  Grief settled upon us like dust
carried by prairie winds after drought.  “If it’s darkness we’re having,
let it be extravagant”, someone said, and one by one we shared our happiest
memory of her until the room filled with the laughter and joy of who she was,
with the happy memory of her rinky tink piano,  the sound of her accordion
and sing-alongs shared at family campfires,  her cute little giggle, loving
hugs and favorite recipes….and the extravagance of memories lit the darkness.


My response to Victoria’s challenge to practice prosery,
to include this phrase from “Taking Down The Tree”, a
Jane Kenyon poem --“If  it’s darkness we‘re having
let it be extravagant” in approximately 144 words.  I have
been dealing with loss these past few weeks, thus the quote
seemed timely.

Saturday, November 9, 2019


Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Tree 
 (Emulating the style of Wallace Stevens      
Sunday Muse #81
Submitted November 9, 2019

It falls from high, a seedling  
Small, brown, inconspicuous 
Containing promise of mighty oak 

Young roots seeking sustenance 
Growing strong and tall  
Fulfilling destiny     
Shield from summer sun  
Dappled shade    
On cool green grass.
Natives gather beneath
Shelter provided
From summer storm   
Feathered inhabitants
Find welcome homes
And raise voices in song

Now standing sentinel
Beside pioneer cabin
Amid fresh young dreams.

The child swings
From sturdy limb
Happy and secure

In soft rustles of night
A quiet “who who”
Of resident owl

Taller still, rooted deep
Scarred by time
Cloaked in history.

Dressed in colors
Glorious red
Russet and gold

Now naked in winter winds
Limbs akimbo
Colors pooled below

Stark shadows on snow
Like tentacles
Seeking warmth

Tinged with green
Bursting with life anew
The cycle continues .

Thursday, November 7, 2019


Poetics at dVerse and HA asks us to
write what we think when we hear the word
BLACK.   Hmmm.  Here’s what I thought.
Submitted to dVerse Poetics
November 7, 2019

I think black gets a bad rap. 
It’s  associated with
…a final ride in the big black hearse
…with the bogey man
… things that go bump in the night
…black widow
…black magic
…black Friday
…black sheep
…black flagged
…black market
…black hole
and Poe didn’t help it any
with his  raven quoting


without night,
life would be just
one interminable day

think about that!

Monday, November 4, 2019


Quadrille Monday, and Kim has
asked us to feature the word KEEP
in our poem of exactly 44 words.
It was hard to keep it under
several hundred words!
Submitted to dVerse
November 4, 2019

a pocket watch
my father tied
through a buttonhole
in his bib overalls
by an old shoe lace
I keep within a
  glass dome
my mother’s collection
of small glass birds
I keep in a bird cage,
bright-colored bits
that pleased her...
now me 

Tuesday, October 29, 2019


Poetics Tuesday at dVerse, and we’re
Asked to  explore sensory memories.
Submitted to dVerse
October  28, 2019

I remember the comfort of being half of a pair.
the security of simply knowing you were there
I remember the smell of your aftershave
your meticulous trimming of your moustache
I remember feeling cherished when 
you laughingly called me “bay-bee”
the sleepy morning kiss as you left for work
the pride of knowing you were a first responder
that final goodbye as you left for the fishing trip
from which you never returned.

For nearly 40 years you’ve been gone
and I’ve soldiered on alone
at times longing to feel your embrace
and calm reassurance that all will be well.
and still you visit in my dreams and
for a brief moment in time
I feel half of a pair once more.


Prosery at dVerse, and Bjorn has
asked us to consider a line from a
Louise Gluck poem …"This is the
barrenness of harvest or pestilence",
….a line to which I find I take
exception...nor do trees give up their
souls, as in the poem. My sympathy to
the poet.
Submitted to dVerse
October 27, 2019

The phrase  “barrenness of harvest”  is an oxymoron.    Harvest is  a golden time of thankfulness and celebration of  earth’s bounty when fields, divested  of their gifts, offer the banquet of remnants of harvest for small creatures and flocks of birds on their way to warmer climes.  Having given the last of their gifts, fields lie fallow awaiting winter’s mantle of moisture and nutrients in preparation for Spring when the miraculous process is repeated.  Harvest is reminiscent of hayrides, wiener roasts, glorious displays of gourds and chrysanthemums,  crisp autumn mornings and falling leaves.   Pestilence, on the other hand,  speaks for devastation resulting from disease or epidemic. Trees do not give up their souls, but divest themselves of their garments and prepare for a  long winter slumber, just as we undress,  go to our bed and pull up the blankets for a good night’s sleep.  I find Mrs. Gluck’s view of harvest to be depressing.

Monday, October 28, 2019

Sunday Muse #78

Sunday Muse #78 with a new
photo inspiration .. this time
flight/space oriented.
Submitted to The Sunday Muse
October 27, 2019

They met one sparkling summer day
A most unlikely pairing
People paused to ponder
What they might be sharing
With gentle wave of fragile wing
Adrift on a breath of air
“What do you see”, the monarch asked
“All bottled up in there?”
“Well, I fly high” the astronaut replied
“to gain a broader view
While what you see is limited
To what’s just in front of you”
And so, you might imagine
The two talked quite a lot
Of varying views of God’s handiwork
As seen by a butterfly and an astronaut.

Thursday, October 24, 2019


Meeting the Bar at dVerse, and
Frank has presented the polyptoton,
to be included in our poetic effort.
I fear I'm in the midst of a dance
macabre this week, thus my poem.
Submitted October 24, 2019

here and there they sit
helped or helpless, wheelchair bound
thoughts skewed and hair askew
vacant eyes, devoid of hope
once alive, now lifeless
the journey a road trip to hell

Tardy Death, you come too late
they have already gone

Monday, October 21, 2019


Quadrille #90 at dVerse
And De asks us to feature the
word quiver in our poetic effort,
in exactly 44 words, of course!
Submitted October 21, 2019

deep in the forest at dark o’clock
I came upon a bubbling caldron
the black cat watched, the owl said “Who?”
I quivered, my footsteps

grasping an arrow from  ready quiver  
I drew my bow, vowing to shoot before I was

Saturday, October 19, 2019


Sunday Muse #78 - a photo by
Erik Johansson to inspire us.
Submitted to The Sunday Muse
October 18, 2019

he wished to write his 
heart song
but somewhere 
from pen to paper
the music went away
and so he began again
and again  
all about him was littered 
with the detritus
of his 

Thursday, October 17, 2019


Poetics, and we're to choose our poem
of any style we wish.  I chose a very
personal poem I wrote some time ago
about a quilt I treasure.
Submitted to dVerse
October 18, 2019

I’ve a quilt of many colors my mother gave to me
She lovingly caressed it as she told its history.
“These pieces”, she said with quivering voice,
“Are from my grandmother’s dress.
I made it in her memory, after she’d been laid to rest.”

I look at the quilt of colors my mother so carefully made.
Life’s like the quilt, I said to myself,  with pieces painstakingly laid.
Some colors are bright and happy, others are dark and sad
And the way we arrange the pieces reflects the life we’ve had.

I love my quilt of colors and display it with very great pride.
It’s more than a piece of fabric, it makes me feel good inside.
Very aware of my heritage and my place in the scheme of things.
We’re all keepers of memories, whether we’re paupers or kings.

As my mother passed on the memories of her grandmother to me
So I’ll entrust the memories to my daughter too, you see
She, in turn, will pass them on in an endless living chain
And the hopes and dreams of our ancestors
Will live again and again.

As those before, so those to come
Will encounter both joy and strife
And each generation be given the chance
To piece the quilt of life.

Tuesday, October 15, 2019


Submitted to the Sunday Muse #77
October 15, 2019

Rebeca Cygnus Photography

Pluck from the tree of lessons learned
Sip from the pool of sorrow

Know what it is to love and lose
And still believe in tomorrow

Garner the courage to seize the day
And face it with  an open mind

Eagerly explore the road ahead
Don’t dwell on the road behind

Thursday, October 10, 2019


dVerse Form For All!  Consider
pop art, a cultural phenomenon or some
such.  My mother used to grind Spam
with some hard boiled eggs, onion,
pickle, celery and mayonnaise for a
gastronomic delight she called
Spamwiches.  Here’s my tribute!
Submitted to dVerse
October 10, 2019

When did Spam fall from grace
It was once considered handy
Mom served company Spamwiches
They liked them fine and dandy

Today it’s being frowned upon
An object of ridicule
What’s happened to that standard
We once thought was so cool?

Monday, October 7, 2019


Quadrille #89. Our poem is to feature
the word “set” in exactly 44 words.
This one is dedicated to my father.
Daddy’s gone now, but he’ll appreciate this one!
Submitted to dVerse
October 7, 2019
The photo is of my parents' hands
on their 50th wedding anniversary.

No need for communication
Clearly her mind was set
Nevertheless he loved his woman
Stubborn as a woman can get
For fifty years he’d hankered
Just once she’d let him be right
As usual, he patted her bottom,
Kissed her, and said “Good night.”

Tuesday, October 1, 2019

Grandma's Stove

Time for Tuesday Poetics, and Grace
has asked us to feature FOOD in
our writing effort.  My special memories
of food take me directly to the kitchen
of my grandmother and the huge round
table that sat near her magic black
cookstove. Food and family intermingle
in m mind.
Submitted to dVerse
October 1, 2019

Saturday, September 28, 2019


Submitted for The Sunday Muse #75
inspired by the photo below.
September 29, 2019
Once I stood atop the mountain
mistress of all I surveyed
How sweet to survey my kingdom
for which I'd so dearly paid
But I slipped from the promontory
it seemed I had only just gained
and I found that I stood in the valley
with the mountain before me again.
I vowed I would conquer the mountain
it seemed I'd climbed time after time
and, grasping familiar footholds,
once more I began to climb.

Photo Source: Alastair Magnaldo

Thursday, September 26, 2019


Bjorn challenges us to write poems
with creative use of metaphors.
Submitted to dVerse
September 24, 2019

When memories stir with gossamer wings
to transport you back home again
best to leave them in the lingering mists
of the places you have been.

You can’t get an armful of summer breeze
and you can’t unring a bell
None can capture yesterday
and perhaps that’s just as well.

Feast from the tree of lessons learned
but keep your eye upon tomorrow
Gather happy moments as hidden gems
avoid the torn fabric of sorrow.  


Tuesday, September 24, 2019


This is one of my first visits to
The Sunday Muse where the
challenge is to write a poem or
short vignette using the picture
provided for inspiration.
Submitted to The Sunday Muse
September 24,  2019

The old man can’t play
and the bird can’t sing
they commiserate on what used to be
when the old man was young
and the bird soared free
and the world seemed theirs for the taking
they speak of roads not explored
and flights not taken
and how quick the passage of time
how trying to get it all back again
is useless, like catching the wind
and they’re left, an odd pair,
to consider what might have been.

Monday, September 23, 2019


Quadrille # 88, and we're asked
to feature the word extinct or a
form thereof in exactly 44 words.
Submitted to dVerse
September 23, 2019
I search for words profound
to consider becoming 
What must it be like
to be the last of your species,
passing unheralded into the
mists of time.  

What would you ask with
none to mark your passing,
facing extinction without

Why me? 


Saturday, September 14, 2019


Frank challenges us to engage in
descriptive detail. To participate in this prompt
we’re to write a poem paying attention to the
descriptive detail that will tell readers what the
poem is about and what you hope will hold their
interest and make them want to read it again.
I would hope, on contemplation, my poem
illustrates nature can imitate life.

Consider the flight of the bumblebee
Flitting from flower to flower
His journey is energy efficient
He operates on bee power

In his suit of black and yellow
He’s quite a handsome guy
All the lady bumblebees
Want to accompany his fly

He’s said to have a temper
At least that’s what they say
Slow to anger, but when offended
He can certainly ruin your day

For those who make him angry
Memories of the encounter will linger
He may be collecting honey
But he’s always carrying his stinger.

Monday, September 9, 2019


It’s Quadrille #87, and we’re
asked to feature the word
NICK (and haven’t we all
known one?)  My rhyme’s a
bit crude, forgive me!  I had so
much more to say about Nick,
but alas I’m limited to 44 words.
My apologies to all the nice
guys here at dVerse!

Nick the handsome devil,
the ladies’ favorite rake
was quite a charming devil
                      but his promises were fake                      

He came to be known as Nick the Prick
here featured in my rhyme
his flirting fame was fleeting
           mercifully gone in the nick of time.     

Art credit to Mari845
at Deviant Art

Tuesday, September 3, 2019


It’s Poetic Tuesday, and Mish introduces
us to the art of Bev Dyer, asks us to choose
a piece to feature in our poem.  I chose
the sassy Farm House Rooster.  
Submitted to dVerse
September 3, 2019

Loaded with self confidence
with comb so red
and morning greeting
we've all come to dread

Strut your stuff,
you braggadoccio.
It’s the hen that lays the eggs,
you old so and so!

Thursday, August 22, 2019


Open Link #249.  Here are my
observations of the eternal
male/female dilemma.
Submitted to dVerse
August 22, 2019
Men’s heads are full of knowledge
They fix cars and TVs and clocks
But when it’s time to get dressed
They cannot find their socks
They’re wizards of culinary talent
In the backyard barbeque
But ask them to boil water
And they don’t know what to do.
Their toolboxes are models of neatness
And their fishing gear just so
But, once inside the house,
They strew things to and fro
They are strong, stalwart and silent
And brave for all to see
But hand them a screaming infant
And they’re terrified as can be
Quite often they’re tough and unyielding
No challenge ever too much
Other times they’re tender and caring
And hungry for a loving touch
They ogle with obvious pleasure
Each sweet young thing on the street
But if their lady’s eyes should wander
They say things we can’t repeat.

On the other hand we have the female
Man’s helpmate here on this earth
Oh, how can they ever question
Our immeasurable worth
When they’re comfy with beer and ballgame
Why does the reason have to be proved
That we cannot wait one minute
To have the furniture moved.
When their space allotted in the closet
Is approximately one foot square
Why do they question our statement
“I haven’t a thing to wear!”
One day we say “Is THAT all you think of
Can’t you see I must go to the store
The next we say “You didn’t kiss me
Don’t you love me anymore?”
We know bridge with the girls is harmless
For we are wonderfully wise
Why don’t they understand it’s different
Than poker with the guys?

I’m sure God’s still searching for blueprints
And mumbling “Now what was my plan?
Could it be I was elsewise distracted
When I thought to create woman for man?"

Tuesday, August 20, 2019


Prosery #3...a story with beginning and end
to include up to or exactly 144 words
including the phrase "You will love again the
stranger who was yourself" from the poem "Love
After Love".   After being rebellious, I am
shamed into having a go at it.
There was a huge celestial problem.  Cloud Keeper seemed to have lost her sense of self and was dispensing clouds indiscriminately. The sun, moon and stars formed a coalition to negotiate with her to be more responsible, and work with their schedules.  The sun complained that the storm clouds were loosed on the very day he planned to ripen peaches in Georgia, and the moon grumbled they ruined the romantic moonlit evening he’d planned for lovers in Hawaii.  The fat-bellied clouds rained all over picnics, parades and ballgames, and the fluffy white clouds hid the handle of the Big Dipper and turned the Milky Way into a pit stop resulting in celestial chaos.   The coalition issued the Cloud Keeper a mandate … “You will learn to love again the stranger who was yourself” or it will be necessary to give you a 30-day notice.

Monday, August 19, 2019


Kim offers Prosery #3 in which we're to
write a story in the genre of our choice,
with beginning and end, up to or exactly
144 words, including the words "love after love".
I find my folksy style doesn't lend itself
very well to structure. Forgive me, fellow
poets, I seem to be a bit of a
rebel, but here are my thoughts …...

It’s always given me pleasure
To create my little rhymes
Happy mindless ditties
Even sad ones sometimes

Sometimes I write of love
After love has passed me by 
I try to remember passionate times
God knows I really try.

Tumbling through my head
Words fall into their place
Leaving me contented
With a smile upon my face
I guess I’m a free spirit
A rebel, if you may
Try to put me in a box
And you’ve surely spoiled my day

Telling me how to place my words
And where to end a line
Leaves me quite determined
To write not that way but mine

Instructions leave me speechless
I just don’t have the knack
For wrestling ten pounds of words
Into a five pound sack                        

Tuesday, August 13, 2019


Tuesday Poetics.  We’re given three
Poems from international artists from
which to chose for inspiration.  I’ve
chosen “Migratory Birds” by a
Serbian poet.  I felt it could also apply
to the special relationships in our lives.
Submitted to dVerse
August 12, 2019 

Southward we fly
in answer to a genetic message
old as rime.

To my right, my wingman
long time friend
and trusted companion

For many years
we’ve made this journey
side by side

We cry our joy
to those below

A gunshot sounds
my wingman falters
and plummets earthward

Onward I fly
and scream my grief
Farewell, my friend

All the journeys
yet to come
will never be the same.

Monday, August 12, 2019


Quadrille #85 … 44 words on the
subject of our inner voice.  I harken
to a time when I was newly widowed
and my inner voice challenged me as
I learned to live alone once more.
Submitted to dVerse
August 12, 2019


Furniture is polished
To warm rosy glow
Small voice says “Who’ll know?”

Soup is a’simmer
Good smells in air
Small voice says “Who’ll share?”

Windows are sparkling
Clean as can be
Small voice says “Who’ll see?”

Lesson to be learned
Small voice says “When?”

Monday, July 29, 2019


Open Link Night #268.  After sundown on a
cool evening, we enjoy a small bonfire in a
clearing in our neighboring woods.  It is a 
peaceful respite from the daily news.
Submitted to dVerse
August 8, 2019

Fingers of flame reach skyward and the scent of wood smoke soothes the senses. 
Concerns of the day follow sparks aloft, fading into the night sky.  A mantle of 
contentment descends as the snap and crackle of burning twigs accompanies the 
evening tree frog symphony.   An especially loud pop from the fire alerts a 
crow in a distant tree, and he caws a warning to his compatriots.  In a nearby 
oak, a catbird reassures his fellows.  Fireflies appear in the darkness and a faint 
breeze rustles the leaves overhead.  The resident raccoon who lives under the 
deck ambles out for a visit to his nightly peanut buffet.  Somewhere in the shadows 
the fox is an interested observer.  It's quiet in the neighborhood and a sense of 
peace settles over my soul.  I am blessed.  I am thankful. 



I once was able to go to a movie, buy my ticket, find a seat and settle in.  Seeing the “Lion King” the other day was a humbling experience.  We went to the AMC theater at Perry Crossing.  From curb to entrance is a sea of cement that must be 30 feet or so and, once entering, the lobby is half the size of my high school gymnasium.  Buying the ticket was not so simple, choosing reserved seating (what?!) “regular” or Dolby ($4 more per person), said to be “where the movie comes to life”.  My trusty companions wheeled me some distance to the elevator (what?!), and we found our reserved recliner seats.  After watching me fumble ineffectually for some time, Marc instructed me in the nuances of my recliner (harrumph!).  Next I learn that Dolby means one is assailed from all directions by sound at a gabillion decibels, such that the floor seems to shake and my recliner tremble.  I am truly transported into the “Circle of Life”, and lost in the wonder that is “Lion King”.  On the way out, a stop at the Ladies Room proved a learning experience as well.  It seemed the paper towel dispenser was out of towels.  I looked for a button to push but found nothing.  Hands dripping, I stood in frustration.  A kind lady offered help, passed her hand beneath the besotted thing, and it spit out a towel.  Who knew?   We made our way across the street to Stone Creek for a delightful dinner on the patio, giving me time to contemplate the wonders of technology as it passes me by.  Oh well, “hakuna matata”!

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 and away we go
In the game of tit for tat
You grease his palm, he greases yours
It’s always been like that

No need to fret  falses or trues
If it doesn’t please it’s all fake news
While we’ve fretted, it’s all been vetted
to Trump news.

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.  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

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

Thursday, April 25, 2019


At dVerse, we’re addressing poetry
forms.  Grace presents the lai nouveau.
I admit to being a poor student,
finding complicated forms restrictive,
so I'm taking this lightly.  Assuming
lai rhymes with eye, here’s a quickie.
Submitted April 23, 2019

the challenge nouveau
neither fast nor slow

but why?

let syllables flow
just simply for show?

I’ll try

I’m finished, ho ho
so now may I go?

I lai!

See the maiden fair
She with golden hair

She winks

He with gallant air
Charm and debonair

He slinks

I’ll have maiden fair
My ring she will wear

He thinks

Tuesday, April 23, 2019


It's Poetics Tuesday, and Anhol has
asked that we consider Myths and Legends.
I've always loved the tales of bold knights
and shy maidens.  Here's a reprise of my
poem about one of those romances.  It's
a mite bawdy, forgive me.
Submitted to dVerse Poetics
April 23, 2019

Gather ‘round, you quirksters
I’ve a tale for you to hear
About the king of the castle
And his daughter, Gimme-a-beer

One day into the castle
Clanked handsome Sir Laugh-a-lot
He’d heard of the fair maiden
Whose father, the king, was gone a lot.

He courted the fair maiden
And stole her heart away
“When father comes back, we’ll tell him”,
She said, “’Twill be a wondrous day”.

But the day was not so wondrous
When the king returned to the castle
He’d heard of faithless courting knights
And there really was quite a hassle.

Sir Laugh-a-lot had to do battle
In the castle jousting ring
He learned it wasn’t easy
To please Gimme-a-beer’s father, the king.

But Sir Laugh-a-lot was canny
He was bound to persevere
And win the hand in marriage
Of the beautiful Gimme-a-beer

The day came the king consented
To give his daughter in marriage
And Gimme-a-beer and Laugh-a-lot
Rode off in their wedding carriage.

The moral of my story
Of those days of long ago
Of castle kings and jousting rings
It’s one you’ll want to know.

It’s that there’s danger in the jousting ring
Being king of the castle is tough …
And once a king always a king
But once a knight’s enough.


Monday, April 22, 2019


It’s quadrille time at dVerse
and the word is “rise”, a word that
strikes terror in the heart of those
who live along the Ohio River.
Submitted April 22, 2019

Maleficent mists rise
over murky waters
that creep ever higher.
A raging current uproots trees
taking them downriver,
battering rams of destruction,
taking out bridges,
relentlessly threatening levees
and the piteous efforts
of man.
It's Spring on the Ohio, and
again the rivers rise.

Photo is Pomeroy, Ohio, a
small river town where
the first coal barges on
the Ohio were loaded.

Thursday, April 18, 2019


Open Link Night #241
at dVerse
Submitted April 18, 2019

Joy reigned in the beginning
When love had just begun
One careless, selfish act
And a piece of love was gone

A door was closed to closeness
That would not be regained
But love is slow to disappear
And still some of it remained

One final breech of trust
More thoughtless than before
No need to discuss forgiveness
For now love was no more


Monday, April 8, 2019


It’s Quadrille time at dVerse
The word “ACE” is to be used
in our 44 word quadrille.
Submitted April 8, 2019

Momma didn’t trust the bank
(It failed in ‘29)
She hid her stash under the guest room rug
“That way” she said, “I know it’s mine”
Momma was always thrifty
A faithful, happy soul 
Hidden where guests slept
Was momma’s ace in the hole.

Tuesday, March 26, 2019


For Tuesday Poetics we’re asked to consider
GEOGRAPHY in an open-ended manner featuring
where we are, who we are and how it might impact
why we are who we are.  Whew!
Submitted to dVerse
March 26, 2019

My belonging place is in north central Illinois near a tumbling
little creek called Rooks Creek.  Were I to empty a glass of
water into Rooks Creek where it flows past the little country
church of my childhood , it would join its waters as they meander
through the fertile black soil of the corn belt and find their way
into the Vermilion River.  The Vermilion is a  rowdy, obstinate
river that against all odds flows north to its confluence with the
Illinois River, where its waters are redirected south to its confluence
with the mighty Mississippi which travels south past the levees
of New Orleans into the Gulf of Mexico and hence into the
Atlantic Ocean.  Geography comes alive when I consider the
journey of the waters from my glass.  I once read “all the waters
of the world are one“.  Perhaps it is so. 

Monday, March 25, 2019


Time for a Quadrille (44 words only)
and our subject word is TROLL
The troll took a toll on me, so to speak!
Submitted to dVerse
March 25, 2019

Say something spectacular
In 44 words, no more
A pox on the troll who spoils my fun
And counts behind the door

What wondrous things I might’ve said
If only I had the chance       
But  my spontaneity's been trollified
And now I’m left askance

Thursday, March 21, 2019


It’s Open Link Night at dVerse, and I’ve chosen
to write an ode to my birthstone, the amethyst. Given
that politics seem quite odious at the moment, an ode
seems appropriate.  The amethyst  is said to promote
calm, balance and peace, and is also used to eliminate
impatience, of which I seem to have a good deal of late.
This IS a Beverly ode, after all, so don't look for a strophe,
antistrophe or epode!  I don't know exactly what they are.
Submitted to dVerse
March 21, 2019

Oh stone of purple, made from quartz
I call on your magic powers.
The State of the Union is dreadful,
the politicians rant for hours.
Our president goes on tirades
as scattered as grains of wheat
He’s seldom at the White House
and he’s running the country by tweet.

It’s become nearly impossible
to determine what is true.
In our state of desperation
I thought I’d turn to you
Oh stone of purple, we call on you
to cast a mighty spell
Please infect the fools with honesty and wisdom
before the country goes to hell.

Tuesday, March 19, 2019


It’s Poetics Tuesday.  Gina has asked us
to ponder how our writing inspiration
and our occupation interact.  I’m retired
now, so it isn’t an issue, but once in the
long ago I paused to think about my
identity…the executive me and the
inner me.. Here were my thoughts back
in about 1995...(of course in one of my
folksy little rhymes),
It’s important to know yourself, they say
Retain your identity
If that’s the case, then I’m okay
I’ve always known I’m me.

They call me lady executive
In the job that I have now
But I’m the same little farm girl
Who used to milk the cow.

I sit in on business luncheons
Where we all discuss loss and profit
But I’m the moppet who drove the tractor
When I could barely climb on and off it.

My co-workers think me efficient
And sometimes even wise
But I’m that same pudgy dreamer
Who used to catch fireflies.

Sometimes when I look in the mirror
I can hardly suppress a smile
Admittedly the exterior is changing,
But inside it’s been me all the while.

The inside me likes to take the time
To take up paper and pen
And indulge in childhood memories
And record my “remember whens”. 

Wednesday, March 13, 2019


Poetics Tuesday at dVerse, and we’re
challenged to consider our thoughts
on some of the traditions of the Lenten season
or perhaps the tradition of Mardi Gras in New
Submitted to dVerse Tuesday Poetics
March 13, 2019

Beyond the levee, the mighty Mississippi flows lazily to the ocean.

In the heart of New Orleans, around the area known as “The Quarter”,
it’s Mardi Gras.  The streets fill with marching musicians and elaborate
parade floats from which beads, aluminum doubloons and small treats
are tossed to the raucous crowds of revelers, some in elaborate and
gaudy mache masks, a razzle dazzle potpouri of humanity made up
of tourists and locals including Creole, Cajun, indian,  Spanish, French,
Zulu, and perhaps an occasional voodoo priestess, each bringing their
own ethnic tradition to the frenzied revelry, which continues into the
night, lighted by flaming flambeaux.  The air hangs heavy with the
scent of alcohol, smoke, pralines, King cake and Cajun  cooking.
It is the “festivale supreme”.

…and beyond the levee, the mighty Mississippi still flows lazily
to the ocean.

Monday, March 11, 2019


Quadrille Monday #75 and De suggests
we feature SPIKE or a form thereof in
exactly 44 words.  If I hadn’t been limited
to 44 words, I think I could have had
more fun with this one!
Submitted to dVerse
March 11, 2019

Why do speak, spake and spoke
not claim their cousin, spike
They wouldn’t be such a snobbish bunch
if they let him spike their punch .
If he spikes their punch today
tomorrow could they say he spoke it 
and consider it spiked or spoken

Thursday, March 7, 2019


Open Link Night #238 and
Grace is our gracious hostess.
Here’s the result of a recent
midnight epiphany.
Submitted to dVerse Open Link
March 7, 2019

I’m a woman with a word fetish
I’m the rhymer in the room
I know little about iambic pentameters
and the vaunted, dread pantoum
My poems just sort of come to me
simple little rhymes, ‘tis true
but I’ve learned to appreciate
the haibun and haiku
I find it’s quite constricting
to fuss with ABBA or such
trying to make my rhymes fit
annoys me pretty much
I admit I’m  old and cranky
but I think I would be worse
if I hadn’t become enlightened
 when I chose to visit dVerse

Tuesday, March 5, 2019


It’s Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, and
Lillian has asked us to choose a line from
The Ecclesiastes quote “For every thing
There is a season"
Submitted to dVerse Tuesday Poetrics
March 5, 2019

“…a time to cast away stones, a time to gather stones together”

The autumn of life is upon me
time to reflect on that which has been
and that which is to come
time to cast away the stones of
old grudges, old misdeeds and lost opportunities
Time to gather the stones of happy memories
of loved ones, good friends, babies birthed and raised,
challenges met and conquered,  time to
reflect on the faces of lives touched along the way.
a time for peace and a grateful heart.

Bri.Rose, Artist

Wednesday, February 27, 2019


It's Tuesday Poetics, and
Frank has suggested the topic
of forgiveness and blame.  I don’t
take the topic lightly, but I couldn’t
resist having a bit of fun with it. 
Submitted to dVerse
February 27, 2019

On the topic of forgiveness
There are books of wise advice
I’ve tried to master the art
I’ve read them all once or twice

I try to practice forgiveness
And walk in another’s shoes
Often they don’t fit too well
Some things are hard to excuse

It’s easy when things go awry
To point a finger of blame
And not accept that our own bad choice
Changed the play of the game

One point that left an impression
Before I returned a book to my shelf
Was that one of the most important things
Is to learn to forgive yourself

Another point that impressed me
Came from that fellow John Wayne
“Forgive your enemy”, he said,
“But remember the bastard’s name!”


Monday, February 25, 2019


It’s time for Quadrille #74
and Mish asks us to feature
the word sip, or form thereof.
Submitted to dVerse
February 25, 2019

Eloquent with age
secrets lie within
your chipped porcelain
of lips that sipped
from your communal cup
cool, clear water
from some unknown well. 
Secrets of those sippets
remain your story to tell 
assuring a slip of the lip
remains beside the well.

Art by David Arms

Thursday, February 21, 2019


Open Link Night at dVerse, and we post a
poem of our choice.  I rarely write on the
dark side, but this one was fun.
Submitted to dVerse Open Link
February 21, 2019

Deep in the woods at the dead of night
when fog shrouds the forest paths
and small creatures burrow deep for safety,
the Gonnagetchas snuffle and growl.

Evil settles over the countryside
in a dank miasmic cloud of discontent.
Babes are restless in their cribs and
seek their mother’s comfort. Dogs cower
and bark at shadows.

In the branches of the tallest oak the owl
asks “Who?“ and small birds chatter timidly
in response.  Behind the barn, the cattle
huddle a bit closer and move restively. Chickens
cling fearfully to their roosts and exchange
clucks of concern.

I pull my covers ‘round my ears,  listen to
the tick tock of grandma’s old clock, and
wait for dawn to come and save me.