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