Wednesday, July 1, 2020


Weekly Scribblings #26. and we're asked
to consider the word "pavement".
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
July 1, 2020

My thoughts go back to the soil-rich middle Illinois
farmland of my youth.   I remember when the first paved
road came through our isolated part of the prairie.  The
locals called it the "hard road".  If you asked for directions
you might be told to "Go north past Miller's farm to the
mile tree and turn right.  That'll take you to the hard road".
I knew only that the hard road would take us to Chicago,
that distant and mystical city about which I knew absolutely
nothing.  My mother was suspicious of city folk.  She thought
cities were filled with dens of iniquity like pool halls, bowling
alleys, and (God forbid) bars.  What a quantum leap from that
simple time to today's six-lane highways and complicated
interchanges!   Hard road.  Path to tomorrow.

Sunday, June 28, 2020


Writers’ Pantry #26 at Poets and Storytellers,
I was thinking this Sunday morning we all need
a good swig of hope.  We’re inundated daily by
news feeds of bleak times.  No one reports the
good news.  I thought of Waterhouse's painting
of Pandora, and had these idle thoughts on the
subject of hope.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
June 28, 2020

In Greek mythology, Pandora opened the box and released all sorts of ills and evils
 upon the world.  What we hear less about is that, according to legend, the box also
 contained hope.  There are varying interpretations as to whether or not hope was
 released or remained securely hidden within the box.   That said, most of us live
with hope…..a steady and abiding belief the sun will come up tomorrow.  

Some folks seem to have more hope than others.  These folks usually give hope a
 helping hand by hard work and determination.   Some seem to think hope is all
 that is needed, and adapt a wait-and-see attitude, expecting some sort of miracle to
provide their desired outcome..  Still others have bowed to life’s pressures and
abandoned hope, always seeming to expect the worst and by some peculiar twist of
fate seeming to attract misfortune to themselves in a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy.

I like to think that perhaps at the bottom of Pandora's box was a bottle of hope, and
when we're running out of cope, we can open the bottle and take a sip.

Please, don’t diminish my fancy!

Saturday, June 27, 2020

Sunday Muse #114

Sunday Muse #114, and we’re
Presented with a photo for
Inspiration … a single rose
lost in the mists of time (at least
that’s what I saw).
Submitted June 27, 2020

Page 96
I turned the well-worn page
in the tattered book of poems as
I sat in my favorite used book
store on a rainy afternoon. There,
perfectly pressed, was a single red
rose.  Someone’s memory, I mused,
and pondered the occasion.  Then
I noted the title on the stained page
 … “Broken Promises”… and I saw it all
 as a captured moment, a time capsule 
of sorrow.  I left it undisturbed 
for the next reader to pull the dusty 
little book from the shelf … the next 
to consider the story on
Page 96

Wednesday, June 24, 2020


We're to consider the unexpected at
Weekly Scriblings this Wednesday.
I had an unexpected midnight epiphany,
and peculiar rhyming words kept
popping into my head.  Forgive my
unexpected nonsense!
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
June 13, 2020

Tickle me a ditty
Any tick’ll  do
I’ll try to make it pretty
And make it rhyme too.

I’ll make it quite spectacular
A sight for all  to see
And in the vernacular
You’ll be pleased to a T

If you’re not particular
And you don’t mind the style
I can make it lenticular
At least for a while

I can make it quite jocular
We all need a smile
You called it cuticular
And missed by a mile

I’ll make it reticular
And you’d best hope I’m done
What’s left is testicular
And that’s not any fun.

Tuesday, June 23, 2020


It's Tuesday Poetics and we're asked to
head for the sea and write a mer-poem.
I headed for my favorite spot, but my
mer-poem ended in a mer-prose.
Submitted to dVerse
June 23, 2020

It was twilight as I walked along the beach, loving the feel of warm sand beneath my toes, heading toward Shanahan’s Cove, my secret place to decompress when life seemed complicated and burdensome.  There was a light mist, and the shoreline was shrouded, with waves lapping lazily against the rocks, and the smooth, flat stone where I often sat.  It was an isolated and secluded little cove, away from it all, where I was always sure to be alone, so it was with surprise I heard the murmur of soft female voices.  The shimmering mists revealed the forms of mermaids engaged in quiet conversation, their voices lyrical and mysterious.  I was unable to understand the words, and as I neared they rose with surprise and slid silently into the waves, disappearing before my eyes with a final flip of their mermaid tails.  I thought perhaps I dreamed it in some sort of seaborne illusion, but there on my stone were strands of seaweed, and a lingering echo seemed to ride the mists.  You may think me fey, and so I may be, but I know what I saw that night at Shanahan’s Cove.

Monday, June 22, 2020


Haibun Mnday, and we are challenged to
feature  “one shining moment““ in our
Submitted to dVerse
June 22, 2020

My one shining moment occurred in March of 1958 when my first born child, a son,  was placed in my arms.  Unwrapping the blanket, I examined  each small, perfect part.  Ten fingers, ten  toes (two joined to the first joint exactly as his father’s). Two bright eyes peered at me above a button nose.  My eyes filled with tears of joy and amazement at this miraculous gift of life with which I’d been entrusted.  I prayed for the wisdom to guide him wisely to manhood.  I prayed he’d learn real jewels are in sunsets, that riches are found in the loving of souls touched along life’s way, and I was profoundly grateful for this wondrous gift..... this one shining moment.

the earth springs to life
I am gifted with a son
God grant me wisdom

Sunday, June 21, 2020


Word Pantry #25
I often have a problem making my poems
fit challenge guidelines.  Such was the case
with the dVerse quadrille challenge for DRUM,
which is to be limited to exactly 44 words.
I began the poem and my muse carried me away,
ending with 7 stanzas!.  I never did
accomplish a quadrille, but here's my
drum-inspired poem!
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
June 21, 2020

              THE DRUM

The old oak sprawled by the tumbling stream
Stories wrapped within each  bough
Of times gone by and lives once lived
Through the years from then to now

Once long ago an Indian brave
Courted his maiden fair
And, oh the promises he made
As he ran his hands through her hair

He said, “Come to the oak at twilight
And listen for my drum
I’ll know you’re waiting here for me
And when darkness falls I’ll come”

The old oak knows their story
And whispered it to the wind
Of the brave and his fair maiden
And how it came to an end.

For the brave had gone to do battle
Promising he’d be back but didn’t know when
“Just listen at the oak at twilight“, he said
“You’ll hear my drum again”

The brave never returned from battle
His drum forever stilled
Heartbroken, the maiden accepted
Her brave warrior had been killed.

But if  you visit the oak at twilight
So the story is told by some
You’ll hear in the whispering silence
The sound of a distant drum.

Saturday, June 20, 2020

Sunday Muse #113

Sunday Muse #113 and I’m
Inspired by the second photo.
Submitted to the Sunday Muse
June 20, 2020

It’s me, Lord, can we talk?
Things are an awful mess
We can’t tell truth from fiction
Anymore, we have to guess

He whom we call our leader
Speaks with fork-ed tongue
We need a unifying voice
Instead he’s flinging dung

Please send us a man of honor
Someone who really cares
About the country’s people
And not just stocks and shares

Seems we’ve strayed far afield
Your commandments have been forgotten
We’re a bushel of shiny red apples
Give us wisdom to weed out the rotten

Wednesday, June 17, 2020


Wednesday Scribblings, and Magaly asks us
to consider the phrase “If all else fails” and
share our solution in our Wednesday poem.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
June 17, 2020

when all else fails and disaster is all I hear
I get in the car and put it in gear
travel down a peaceful meandering road
where mile by mile, my cares unload
the smog of the city and it’s murder a day
soon seem at a distance and fall away
the grass is green, the trees are tall
the peaceful scene seems away from it all
crops in the field, basking in sun
farmer’s on the porch, day’s work done
gives a friendly wave to each passerby
expecting (and getting) a friendly reply
soon my faith is restored, my kinks are unfurled
I’m feeling some hope for this troubled old world..


Anmol is hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse
and has suggested we speak on the subject
of Pride.  I've chosen to relate a personal
experience, which addresses the issue quite
well, I think.
Submitted to dVerse
June 17, 2020

I’m reminded of an event long, long ago.  An employee had asked me to join her for dinner.  It was obvious she was in quite an emotional state.  I knew she had just lost a dear friend, and I thought that to be the cause of her tumultuous emotions.   After idle conversation, with trembling voice, at last with great effort she said “I have to tell you something.  I am gay”.  I looked at this intelligent, caring woman with a wonderful spirit and sense of humor, and admirable work ethic, whom I‘d come to genuinely like and treasure as an employee.  I was moved that sharing that information was obviously so traumatic for her.  I reached across the table, took her hand, and replied,  “Well, I’m Methodist.  If that doesn’t bother you, your being gay doesn’t bother me!”  She later moved to another state, but we remained friends, and in contact for the next 45 years until her death last year.  She never did mind that I was a Methodist!

Thursday, June 11, 2020


Open Link Night at dVerse. I’ve penned
a recount of advice I was given as a child.
“Don’t get above your raisin’”(raising) of course
means not to become over-impressed with
one’s self or lose sight of basic moral standards.
Those standards, it seems, have fallen by the
wayside with far too many in today’s world.
(Image compliments of Pinterest)

Today is yesterday’s tomorrow, child,
and tomorrow’s yesterday, don’t forget
this morning is yesterday morning’s hope
and could be tomorrow morning’s regret
tonight is last night’s dream
make it special, don’t you see
in the flicker of an eyelash
it’becomes tomorrow night’s memory
time is always happenin’
it’s best you use it well
you’ll run out of it all too soon
and it’ll be gone, truth to tell.

Don’t get above your raisin’, child
remember who you are
keep your feet firmly grounded,
but hitch your wagon to a star
and when you reach your end of time
look back filled with pride
having savored the journey
and enjoyed an incredible ride.

Wednesday, June 10, 2020


Wednesday Scribblings, and we’re asked
to be inspired by a play list choice.  I
chose “For What It’s Worth” by Buffalo
Springfield, struck by how timely it is,
as if written today. This newspaper headline
is from 1968, and could be today. Sadly, it
seems we’ve learned nothing in all these years. 
Submitted to  Poets and Storytellers United,
May 10, 2020

Stop, hey, what’s that sound
Everybody look what’s going down

A rhousand people in the street
Carrying signs and singing songs

There’s a man with a gun over there
Telling me I got to beware

Mothers cry and sons die
We’re living 1967

Sixty years of learning nothing
Empty promises of doing something

We cry JUSTICE! Weed out hate!
Pray for change before it’s too late

Monday, June 8, 2020


It's Prosery Monday, and Merril has given us
a phrase from a poem by Gwendolyn Brooks
about which we're to fashion flash fiction up
to or exactly 144 words.  The phrase is "we
go in different directions down the imperturbable
Submitted May 8, 2020
We were the best of friends, we were the best of lovers in that magic time.  Exchange students from two different worlds , we met and fell madly in love.  As if we’d entered our very own version of Brigadoon. the golden days passed in a passionate trance with no thought of tomorrow…..until we reached the day when reality struck.  It was time to return to our two different worlds.  With tearful promises to meet again, we go in different directions.   Down the imperturbable street, blinded by tears, I made my way to the bus station, the airport and home.   For a time we stayed in touch, then distance frayed the fabric of our passionate interlude, and it is now, in my sunset years, in an evening reverie,  my thoughts return and I wonder, does he ever think of me?  

Sunday, June 7, 2020


Writers' Pantry #23, and we learn the
story of Joel's Legacy Tree.  In honor
of the Legacy Tree, this is a reprise
of my poem inspired by Wallace Stevens
"13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird".
When I see an old tree, I always wonder
about the stories it could tell.  Perhaps
this is the story of an old oak.

It falls from high,    
small, brown, inconspicuous,    
containing promise of mighty oak 
Now a seedling,     
young roots seeking sustenance  
growing strong and tall   
fulfilling destiny      
Shield from summer sun.    
Dappled shade 
on cool green grass. 
Natives gather beneath.   
Dense leaves provide shelter   
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 shadow cast on snow
like tentacles
seeking warmth

Now tinged with green
bursting with life anew
The cycle continues.

Sunday Muse #111

Sunday Muse #111, and Chrissa has
provided the image by Alexandra
Dillon  for inspiration.
Submitted June 7, 2020

my nation grieves
protests erupt
into violence and destruction
our leader only serves
to fan the flames

I am only one,
praying for justice
and equality
Where do I fit in?

Thursday, June 4, 2020


Weekly Scribblings at Poets and
Storytellers United.  Our theme is
discipline.  My father pronounced
It de-SIP’-lin..  Either way, it’s a
difficult taskmaster!
Submitted  June 4, 2020

It’s such an easy recipe
sweetened condensed milk
24 oz of chocolate chips
dash of vanilla, melt, stir
and pour.  Cool til set.  

I am strong
I am disciplined
I can limit myself to
   one small piece a day…
   Tomorrow calls my name…

Clock hands move slowly
FINALLY midnight! It’s tomorrow!
One more small piece
I am strong, I am disciplined
WHEW!  I made it!

Tuesday, June 2, 2020


Sarah is hosting Poets' Pub this week
and our topic of choice is rain.  I lapsed
into prose!
Submitted to dVerse
June 2, 2020

The song says "Rainy days and Mondays always get me down”, but not me!  As early as I can remember, I’ve loved rain.  In our part of the Illinois prairie, you could see the spring rain clouds building from miles away over the vast flatness, their skirts billowed out like great clucking mother hens.  By the time they reached the far edge of the corn field beside the house, you could see the leading edge of the curtain of rain. The distant patter on the corn leaves crescendoed to a wonderful rat-a-tat as the first big splats set off spurts of dust in the barnyard.  Ah, the wonderful earthy, fresh, pungent smell of rain!  Summer storms were wonderful too.  Sometimes the distant sky turned almost black, the clouds rolling and tumbling, shaking themselves free of lightning bolts that arced to earth over the dark green fields, the distant rumbling thunder building to bone-jarring cracks that accompanied spectacular electrical displays as the storm moved overhead.  Majestic. Magnificent.  I don’t remember fear, only awe, and somehow reassurance that I was part of a greater scheme of things. While I’ve lived my adult life in cities, rainy days always take me back to those prairie rains. 

Monday, June 1, 2020


Time for Quadrille #105.  Linda
offers the phrase “Cry havoc. Let slip
the gods of war” which seems appropriate,
 and asks us to use the word “slip” or a
form thereof in our poem of exactly 44 words.
I write with heavy heart, my city one that
experienced riots, and our demented
president only rattles sabers.  .



death wearing blue
shaming his brothers
racism unveiled
some watched
letting slip the
beast of discontent
anathema in city streets
                opportunistic thugs                
seize opportunity to pillage
pandemic becomes
epidemic of frustration
reasoning black and white
brothers and sisters
sickened and aghast
crying for justice

Sunday, May 31, 2020


Sunday Muse #110
Our photo of ispiration is titled
“Rocket” by Brad Phillips.
I rode the rocket for a dream.
Submitted May 31, 2020

I dreamed I rode a rocket ship
To the land of could it be
Where people lived in harmony
With respect for all they see

Where color didn’t mean a thing
And no one lived in fear
Where leaders worked together
And statements were sincere

Where my homeland had no claim to shame
And death didn’t come wearing blue
Where people lived with dignity
Oh, if only dreams came true

Tuesday, May 26, 2020


Poetics Tuesday, and we're asked to
write of a room important to us, in
Laura's words "a room in the literal,
functional, metaphorical, imaginary
and/or fantastical sense".  Some of what
I've written may have been included in
poems in the past, but I've written of the
one room that impacted my life in every way.
Submitted to dVerse
May 26, 2020

Deep in the windy prairie of Illinois, miles from a city of any size, was a one-room country school where lessons learned impacted the woman I became.  My teacher for the first seven years filled many roles in our lives.  He was janitor, and responsible for building a fire in the big pot-bellied stove on cold winter mornings; and, with the some help from students, keeping our schoolroom tidy.  We learned responsibility by being assigned small tasks, and pride in doing them well.   He was music director, and played the piano for our rousing renditions of  “America, the Beautiful”, “God Bless America and other patriotic songs that instilled a pride and love for our country.  On the playground, he was umpire, coach and athletic director.  It was here we learned life lessons that would stand us in good stead for all our lives.   We learned to play fair, to negotiate, to respect others, to look after the little ones, and always to do our best.

Perhaps the greatest gift for me was the time he set aside two or three days a week to read to us from a book of his choice.   In mind I see him still, taking up the book from the corner of his desk, opening it almost reverently, and, in his measured voice, beginning to read to us of faraway cities and  events so very different from our rural part of the world.   He would read two or three chapters, then close the book until the next session, leaving us in breathless anticipation.   I became enamored with the written word, and thirsty to read every book that came my way.  My studies ended after a year in business college, but my education has lasted my life long, thanks to the thirst for knowledge instilled in me in that single prairie room.  Many years later, in what proved to be the last year of his life, I had occasion to see that teacher again, and to thank him for the gifts he had given me.  I am so grateful I had that opportunity, and for that one room school.

Monday, May 25, 2020


Haibun Monday, and Kim has presented a visual prompt .. “Broadway Boogie Woogie” by Piet Mondrian.  We’re asked to study the image and write how it makes us feel.  I have been painfully honest with my impression.  Perhaps I’ve opened myself to psychoanalysis! At any rate, here it is, with my apologies to Mr. Mondrian!
Submitted to dVerse
May 25, 2020

I am a pragmatic soul and when it comes to abstract art and/or fantasy, I seem to find myself out in left field somewhere. The piece makes me feel claustrophobic, much as when I find myself in a crowd, I feel I can’t breathe freely until I get to the edge and space.  “Broadway Boogie Woogie” just disturbs me.  It seems to be a maze, and the primary colors lead me to believe the artist works within rigid parameters.  Were I not given the title, it would not lead my thoughts to Broadway … or any city, for that matter.  It evokes sympathy for the artist, thinking perhaps he felt boxed in with no clear path to the outside.  No small wonder, since his arsenal of tools seems limited.  Mondrian seemed to have progressed from Dutch traditional to cubism and hence to abstract art, an interesting journey.

any way I turn
anger red and sunshine hot
an endless summer

Sunday, May 24, 2020


It's Writers' Pantry #21, where we consider
something old or new.  I seem to be thinking
of my grandmother a lot of late.  Maybe it's
because I just discovered I'm to be a great
grandmother at year's end!.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
May 24, 2020

There was a trunk in Grandma’s attic
Where we children used to play
It held bits of lace and “special things”
My Grandma used to say.

Life went on as it’s known to do
Time has passed on golden wings
Now my children play their games
Near the trunk of “special things”.

This old house is growing older
Still to its memories it clings
Soon another generation will play
Near Grandma’s “special things”.  

Saturday, May 23, 2020

Sunday Muse #108

Sunday Muse #108
Our photo is titled “Snow White and Rose Red”
By Kerry Darlington.  I hope she forgives
me for where it led me!
Submitted to Sunday Muse
May 23, 2020

I fell asleep one dreary night, and had
the strangest dream. 
I tried to learn the signs it brought
and wondered what it means
they say a bear dream means you’re strong
and very independent
my bear was accompanied by
ladies quite resplendent
I pondered long and hard
just what they said to me
and, if you’ll “bear” with me
this is what I see
Snow White is sleeping,
waiting for her prince to appear
Rose Red reminds me it’s
not likely this year
The alarm clock sounded
I woke with a yawn
fatigued with my dreaming
I welcomed the dawn.
the moral of the story
at least so it seems
is that pizza at midnight
makes for puzzling dreams.

Thursday, May 21, 2020


It’s Meet at the Bar for dVerse,
Frank Tassone our host.  We consider
the 5 line Japanese poem forms…
 tanka, kyoka and gogyohka.  As best
I can understand, I’ve chosen to write
a gogyohka.

in cobwebbed corridors of my mind

I seem to see it still

the winding lane beyond the hedge

grandma in her apron

waiting on the porch   


Wednesday, May 20, 2020


Weekly Scribblings leads us to
poetry and art of Christina Georgina
Rossetti and her brother Dante Gabriel
Rossetti.  We’re to be inspired by either
the poetry or the art.  I chose “The Harp”
by Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
May 20, 2020

Pluck the strings of lessons learned
Sip from the pool of sorrow
Know what it is to have loved and lost
And still believe in tomorrow
Let the harp song fill the air
Soothing troubled brow
Its dulcet tones a bridge in time
Traversing from then to now

Tuesday, May 19, 2020


Tuesday Poetics and HA has asked that our
poem this week be about portals. 
Submitted to dVerse
May 19. 2020

Presidents and garbagemen, priests and whores
Children and old people all passing through doors
Lives lived in chapters, choices untold
Portal by portal our lives unfold
The boat we’re sailing in the river of time
Speeds through the shallows, stops on a dime
We’re the sum of our choices, fate is our friend
 We’ll know how we did when we reach journey’s end
Image my own digital art.

Monday, May 18, 2020


It’s Quadrille #104, and our
poem of exactly 44 words is to
include fix or a form thereof.
It was so difficult to stop at
44 words!
Submitted to dVerse
May 18, 2020

a woman’s heart has no filter,
she falls for a pretty face
it doesn’t seem to matter
if his habits are a disgrace
he’ll suffice, she tells herself    
as she blindly picks him  
but trouble will surely follow  
as she sets out to fix him.

Sunday, May 17, 2020


It's Writers' Pantry #20, and I'm sharing
idle thoughts on a cloudy Sunday afternoon,
about what's really important in life, what
really matters.....or so it seems to me.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
May 17, 2020
Funny, it’s not the grand material things that bring lasting pleasure, but the small things that validate us.  When we’re gone,  it’s not likely we’ll be remembered for the material things we’ve accrued in this life,  but for the small kindnesses we’ve extended that linger in the memory of those whose lives we touched along the way.   It brings such a rush of pleasure to know, even with all the stumbles and  less than glorious moments during my life journey,  I have left some fond and positive memories  with others.   Nothing pleases me more than to be with my children and hear them speak fondly of things I did or said in their childhood;  to hear an ex-employee say “If it weren’t for you I wouldn’t be where I am today” or “You were a good boss” (never mind that their secret nickname for me was “Old Ironpants”!).  Recently, a long-time dear friend showed me a note I’d written her long ago during a difficult time for her that she’d kept all these years.  I was incredibly touched.  I guess you could say my greatest pleasure is simply knowing that I mattered.  

Saturday, May 16, 2020


Sunday Muse #108 presents to us the
historic Aztec Theater in San Antonio.
A bit of research left me totally enchanted
and longing to visit.  My reverie of the
stories it might tell left me simply writing a
Submitted May 16, 2020
A toast to the Aztec!  Six stories tall, in its heyday the Aztec dominated the theater district of downtown San Antonio.  Built at the time the River Walk was being established, with its 2 ton chandelier in the lobby and the ornate pillars and Aztec and Mayan sculptures, surely its storied walls are home to the spirits of those who trod the corridors through the years.  Some say it’s cursed, driving the long succession of owners daft.  What stories might emanate from the famed Tequilla Bar, home of late night assignations.  One wonders if the spirit of Montezuma might wander the floors in the dead of night, passing the spirits of young revelers whose fondest memories feature secluded theater seats where romance flourished.  If only the walls could talk!  Here's to the Aztec.  Long may she grace the River Walk!  

Thursday, May 14, 2020


I was reading the other day about NASA’s Mars
Exploration Program.   Must have gone to sleep
thinking about it.  Here’s the resulting “midnight
Submitted to dVerse Open Link
May 14, 2020

In these days of tribulation, you gotta wonder why
We need to look for more, by exploring our sky.
We dress up our heroes in spacesuits slick as a whistle,
Give them a flag, and send them off in a missile.
If there are aliens out there, they probably have seen us
From their vantage point on the planet of Venus,
Or perhaps from Jupiter, in their own space cars
When they’re off with their family for a trip to Mars.
Stopping by Mercury or lunch on the moon,
Passing by Earth, they‘ll head on to Neptune.
Enjoying the cosmos and its glorious pattern
They‘ll take a left turn so the kids can see Saturn..
Circling the sun, they’ll send a message to pain us
“When we get there”, they’ll say, “we’ll study Uranus.”
Oh dear!

Wednesday, May 13, 2020


Weekly Scribblings and Rommy presents
the dilemma of telling the truth or to lie.
Sailing the waters between truth and a lie
can be confusing, to say the least.  I’ve
chosen to take a humorous look.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
May 13, 2020

It’s hard to teach our children
The concept of a lie
How sometimes untruth is necessary
Just to protect the other guy

If you dye your hair purple, for example
And it’s my impression you seek
You’ll get what I call a little untruth
I’ll just say “It’s sure unique”.

But if you bought the piecrust
And “it’s home made”, you say
That’s a bold-faced lie, my friend
And that is not okay.

Monday, May 11, 2020


Bjorn is our host for Tuesday Prosery, and we are instructed
to write prosery not to exceed 144 words and including a quote
from the poem "Caged Bird" by Maya Angelou.
   "his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream".

Deadline approached for my next book, and my muse seemed on sabbatical. Since
I’d done my very best work in a getaway cottage deep in the woods, I booked it,
hoping it’s magic would work once more. Parking my old VW van by the door.
carrying my venerable Royal typewriter inside, I placed it on the beat-up desk.
Mysteries are my forte’. Tired but determined, I was soon happily typing a scenario
fit for mayhem and murder, lost in my creation of a forbidding haunted house.
Suddenly, without warning, a  shadow formed in the cabin corner. Dark and
foreboding, he drifted toward me and suddenly “his shadow shouts on a nightmare
scream”.  Kicking over my chair, I matched his scream with one of my own, gasping
for breath….and slowly realized I’d fallen asleep at my typewriter and fell into my
own Chapter One.   

Sunday, May 10, 2020


Writers' Pantry #19, Birthing Hope
I so like our topic of birthing hope.
Often in these troubled times, our poems
are filled with the angst we're experiencing.
It's pervasive.  We do so need an infusion
of hope!  My last poem was about a sip
of hope, so here I'm counting blessings.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
May 10, 2020

I’ve just watched the news, and now have the blues
Dear Lord is there no good news anywhere
It’s a day to honor mothers, still looking after others
By not venturing out with faces bare

But, Lord I see the grass is green, I love the flowering trees I’ve seen
And the birds are still finding cause to sing
Things are coming up in the garden plot, petunias are blooming in the old clay pot
In spite of it all, here comes Spring!

It’s so easy to get caught up in detritus, not being thankful as each day greets us
So often we don’t take time to just be. 
I’m grateful, Lord, for each new day, sorry I don’t always take time to say
How good this old world has been to me

Thursday, May 7, 2020


Frank challenges us to write a poem of
exactly 14 lines in any form we wish.
I'm weary of the gloomy news of the day,
longing for better times and clinging to hope.
Submitted to dVerse
May 7, 2020

Weathered barns in distant places
Sun-kissed fields and open spaces
Tidy gardens weeded and hoed
Little white chapel by the road
Remembered faces, smiling and kind
Childhood lessons come to mind
Now jet flights and concrete jungles
Internet and traffic tangles
Drive-by shootings, prophets of doom
Everywhere, it seems, there’s gloom.
I wish we could bottle those carefree days
Of loving kindness and simple ways
And when we’re burdened and out of cope
We could open the bottle and sip some hope.

Wednesday, May 6, 2020


Weekly Scribblings asks us for
poetry inspired by pandemic street
art and our world today.  My efforts
are tongue-in-cheek.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers
May 6, 2020

will we recognize our neighbors
when pandemic releases earth
they’re all displaying roots of gray
and much expanded girth

while sheltering at home
mask makers are busy stitchin’
taking breaks for time, of course
for visits to the kitchen

the price of gas has plummeted
what a wondrous happenstance
alas we have nowhere to go
afraid to take a chance

if we beat this cursed pandemic
there’s no good news in sight
murder hornets are on their way
to be our newest fright

Monday, May 4, 2020


Writers' Pantry #18    and I've taken some time
to consider things I used to think on life's
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
April 4, 2020

Life's been good to me, and I consider lessons learned and some of the things I used to think......

* I used to think there is always tomorrow; but, as one by one people in my life have passed into what comes after, I’ve  come to know there are no guarantees and each day is a gift.
* I used to think if I gave someone my very best, I’d get their very best in return.   I’ve learned, however, that with some people,  their very best  falls far below my expectations.
* I used to think people with a college degree were superior to me.   I‘ve learned that being,  perhaps,  more knowledgeable does not equate to being superior.
* I used to think it was crucial to be at the head of the line at the traffic signal.  Unfortunately, I still tend to feel this way.
* I used to think one day I’d be a size 10.  I’ve come to realize time is running out.
* I used to think I was always right.   I’ve learned that, on rare occasions, I can be wrong.
* I used to think “cough” and “sprinkle” had nothing whatsoever to do with one another, but I’ve come to know there’s a certain synchronicity.   Think about it.
* I used to think everything was black or white, right or wrong; but I’ve come to know there are infinite shades of gray.
*  I used to think John Edwards and Tiger Woods were honorable men.
*  I used to think I would always wear stylish shoes, but now I’m comfortable in my orthopedic wedgies.
* I used to think “by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin” was about a bearded man, but now I know it is just about an old woman.

Sunday, May 3, 2020


Sunday Muse #106.  We know the
routine -- be inspired by the photo.
This is by no means autobiographical,
it's just where my muse took me.
Submitted to Sunday Muse
April 3, 2020

I’m tired of wearing this mask
trying to be what’s expected
    of me

I want to follow the
trail of fallen petals
that speak of poor choices

back to my wishing tree
in the meadow ….
I want to start over

Thursday, April 30, 2020


Open Link Night at dVerse, and Kim is
our gracious hostess.  She offers some thoughts
on listening, and shares the poem “The
Art of Listening” by Jonathan Drane.  It occurs
to me we might well pen one titled “The LOST Art
of Listening”. Here are my thoughts (in rhyme,
of course).
Submitted to dVerse
April 30, 2020
all too often we listen
all too seldom we hear
we say “How are you”
the reply falls on deaf ear.

Mother Earth speaks
we block her wisdom
too selfish to care
we build our own prison
From a speech by Chief Seattle of the Suquamish tribe:
"At night, when the streets of your cities and villages shall be silent, and you think them deserted, they will throng with the returning hosts that once filled and still love this beautiful land.....Even the rocks that seem to lie dumb as they swelter in the sun along the silent seashore in solemn grandeur thrill with memories of past events connected with the fate of my people, "

Wednesday, April 29, 2020


Wednesday Scribblings, and we’re to practice
the art of enjambment.   I am so entrenched in
poetry of rhyme and rhythm, and nicely completed
thought on each line I find it difficult to
enjamb!   I will, however, give it a try.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
April 29, 2020

Freshly turned earth has a pungent
fragrance that takes me back
to my mother’s garden, which she tended
at the blush of day when the roosters
were announcing sun-up, and the dew clung
to the flowers before the sun burned
it away.

The smell of the rich, black earth
takes me also to the fields surrounding
home.  I close my eyes and see
my father, tall and strong in his overalls,
looking at me with love and a
chuckle as he takes me onto his lap
and lets me steer the tractor
toward home and suppertime.  

child of the prairie
unaware of world troubles
blessed with innocence

Tuesday, April 28, 2020


Lillian has sked us to indulge in virtual travel.
What a delightful challenge.  I've chosen to
feature a marvelous trip up the Rogue River
in Oregon.  What a wonderful memory!
Submitted to dVerse Tuesday Poetics
May 2, 2020

When visiting my daughter, who lives in Salem, Oregon, we chose to take a ride up the Rogue River on one of the jet boats that deliver the U.S. mail from Gold Beach to isolated spots on the river.  There were about 15 people in our group.  It was a glorious day and a glorious opportunity to see the unspoiled and unpopulated course of the Rogue, where we saw heron, cormorant, osprey, a bald eagle, and assorted wildlife   It seemed to be as it had been since the beginning of time, a veritable untouched Eden.

At mid-day we stopped at Lucas Lodge, which is at the confluence of the Rogue and the Illinois River, accessible only by boat or plane. There we were seated at one large table with red-checkered tablecloth, and served a farmhouse style dinner of crispy fried chicken, buttery mashed potatoes, garden vegetables, hot biscuits with blackberry jam, and apple pie.  It was a quiet group at first, but I suggested we go around the table and introduce ourselves.  What followed was a meal I will always remember.  Conversation flowed freely amongst the varied folks at the table … a pair on their honeymoon (blushing appropriately), an employee of the timber industry, a save-the-white-owl environmentalist, a pharmacist (my daughter), our tour guide and others.   By the time we got to the apple pie, we were a congenial group and we reluctantly found our way back down the hill and boarded the boat for the trip back to Gold Beach. That meal somewhere on the Rogue is one of my most pleasant memories.

Summer on the Rogue
far from civilization
worries fall away

Monday, April 27, 2020


Haibun Monday and Frank presents Basho and
Shakespeare.  We’re asked to produce a haibun
featuring one or both, followed by a Haiku.  An
interesting challenge!
Submitted to dVerse 4-27-2020

While I’m drawn to Basho’s haikus, brief and crisp, it’s the word mastery of Shakespeare that captures me.  His legacy of phrases that are still in common use, and his colorful, descriptive epithets cannot be surpassed.  He played the English language like a theater organ, pulling out all stops, yet he was born to illiterate parents and reared in a small town.  There is no record of his ever attending grammar school or university.  No letters or plays have been found written in his handwriting, and the existing samples of his handwriting are mainly signatures, often with his name misspelled.  So, did this uneducated man who couldn’t spell his own name correctly produce this mass of works?  Mystery swirls around Shakespeare and his works, and many theories abound.  What a fascinating history for the ages!

skillful word pictures
masterful Bard of Avon
we borrow your words

Sunday, April 26, 2020


Writers' Pantry #17 where we choose what
we wish to share.  Mother's Day approaches
and I'm thinking of my mother who had an
answer for everything!
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
April 26, 2020

Mama said “Stupid is as stupid does”
My Mama said a lot.
She always had a saying
For every bad habit I’d got.

When I made a pouty face
When I didn’t get my way
“Your face is sure to freeze like that”
I’d hear my Mama say.

When I forgot to change my clothes
And keep all nice and neat
I was sure to hear my Mama say
“Remember, soap is cheap”.

When I was feeling lazy
Pretending the work was done.
There she was, and Mama’d say
“Hard work never hurt anyone!”

The years have passed so quickly
Before my very eyes
And it’s only now I’ve come to know
That Mama was so wise.

Saturday, April 25, 2020


It's Sunday Muse #105, and
we're inspired by a photo.
Submitted to Sunday Muse
April 25, 2020

Following instructions
She shelters at home
No social contact
Undeniably alone

She peers longingly
At the world outside
Thinking what pleasure
Just to go for a ride

It’s as if the world ceased
Its clamor and din
She sits in silence
In her world within

No one to talk to
No one to hug
She longs for contact
As if for a drug

When the day comes
There’s an end to this trouble
She’ll appreciate life
Being free from her bubble

The simplest things
Will give her great pleasure
A smile and a handshake
Will bring joy beyond measure

One thing she’s learned
As day followed day
She’s been fooling herself
Her hair’s really gray!

Wednesday, April 22, 2020


Wednesday Weekly Scribbling and we're
asked to choose from a list of re- words
for our poem or prose. I've chosen reveal.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
April 21, 2020
She awakened to the plaintive wail of the 7 a.m. train.  The view from her window revealed yet another of those gray, bleak winter days, remnants of the last snowfall now dingy and gray.  Sighing, she arose and shuffled to the kitchen, where she set about making her morning coffee.   How she longed for the sense of well-being that comes with the first hint of Spring! In the long winter, each day seemed the same as the one before, a progression of sameness which left her struggling with depression. The door gave its usual complaining squeak as she opened it to pick up the newspaper. Morning coffee was always accompanied by the daily crossword. She opened the paper, picked up her pencil and began the ritual.  One across.  Five letters.  “A pervasive sense of boredom”.  She penciled in the letters E-N-N-U-I…and the irony of the word did not escape her.

Monday, April 20, 2020


Monday Quadrille #102, and the
word is FLUSH, which we’re to
use in our poem of exactly 44 words.
Submitted to dVerse
April 20, 2020
on nights
when the sky
is a carpet of stars,
I think of you
and the long ago
flush of golden moments
we shared
before it all went away.
I wonder,
when your sky is a
carpet of stars,
do you think of me?

Tuesday, April 14, 2020


It’s Tuesday Poetics at dVerse
and Laura asks us to consider
our relationship to order… do
we need it, want it, or ….
Here are my thoughts.
Submitted to dVerse
April 14, 2020

Consider the communal dishwasher
I don’t know whether to kick or punt
It seems so obvious to me
To load it from the back, not front

And then there’s the bathroom story
And the case of the toilet tissue
There’s no way but to roll from the top
Who’d think that would be an issue

Let’s keep things in order
That’s just what I think
So I find it quite stressful
Finding dishes in the sink

I’m such a simple person
And my weary heart sings
When everyone understands
The required order of things.

Monday, April 13, 2020

Sunday Muse #103

Another Sunday muse, this time on
Easter Sunday, and we’re inspired by
a beautiful photo. 
Submitted to Sunday Muse #103
April 12, 2020

On days when it all seemed too much
Hurtful words and deeds and such
The girl fled into her forest glen
Cool and green and safe therein.
Creatures welcomed the maid so fair
With crown of twigs upon her hair
The bunny snuggled soft and warm
In her place of safety, free from harm.
The trees stood guard, strong and tall
And she had no worries, none at all.

Monday, April 6, 2020


Writers’ Pantry #14.  A rhyming midnight epiphany
occurred last night, half scribbled in the dark and
finished this morning.  There is no accounting where
the brain goes when the TV turns off!
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
April 6, 2020

an advantage of being old
if any advantage there be
is contemplating the many faces
the world has presented to me

dream catcher, shady lady
tale spinner, and singer of songs
web weaver,  rough rider
collector of multiple wrongs

smooth talker, heart breaker
old timer and nervous nellies, a few
big spender, great pretender
a fancy dancer or two

city slicker, cotton picker
sharp dresser and magic bean buyer
fast talker, slow walker
do gooder and occasional high flyer

nincompoops and popinjays
and wolves in sheep disguise
bootleggers, fancy dressers
and soothsayers wonderfully wise

this led me to the conclusion
made as simple as I can
after all this time, it seems to me
we’re all of the family of man

stripped of our fancy clothing
and our grooming so meticulous
stand us in a naked row
and we all just look ridiculous

I don’t know why we bicker
and fan the flames of war
we’re all on the same journey
aiming for the golden shore.

Saturday, April 4, 2020


It’s Sunday Muse #102 and we’re
given a photo for inspiration.
Submitted to Sunday Muse
April 4, 2020

everyone knows a woman’s job
is to stay home, cook and clean
but, knowing this, one wonders
about this happy scene.

houses clean and dinner prepared
they carefully plan their stunt
their goal is to save the foxes
their men have gone to hunt.

Thursday, April 2, 2020


Weekly Scribblings and we're asked to consider
the importance of small things.  Certainly our
present situation gives us time to reassess our
values and realize the importance of small things
we've taken for granted.  A timely subject for
this week's poems.  The image I found on Facebook.
It seems lightning has truly struck our rainbow.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
April 2, 2020
Also submitted to Bjorn's challenge on dVerse
to write a "pandemic poem".
April 4, 2020

Been living in the land of plenty
If we wanted it, we put it on plastic
No need to save for a rainy day
Nothing would happen so drastic

Our values fell into decline
No time for church or Sunday dinners
The edges had seemed to blur
Between the good guys and the sinners

In the span of a month our lives changed
We’re closeted behind a closed door
Our friends and loved ones are dying
And we long for the days of yore

Perhaps it’s a time to reassess
The things  of enduring value
The people we really care about
And what has proved honest and true

It doesn’t matter if we’ve the biggest house
Or drive the fanciest car
We have time now to think about it
And realize who we really are.

Monday, March 30, 2020


Kim has asked us to reprise an autobiographical poem
from our archives, write a bit of introduction, and
close with a haiku.
Submitted to dVerse
March 20, 2020
 I was widowed at 45 and my life changed suddenly
from married life to single life, which occasioned
this poem.  It's pretty self-explanatory!

I approached forty-five in a manner quite staid
The children were grown, the mortgage almost paid
I had all the answers, I knew what came next
Retirement, grandchildren, just like in the text.
Then Fate shuffled the cards and dealt a new hand
“You’re alone now”, Fate said, “Just where do you stand?”
“I don’t know”, I shouted, as I dealt with my sorrow,
“But somehow I’ll manage to plan for tomorrow”.
So I set out to consider just where I’d belong
“You’ll do fine”, people said, “You’ve always been strong”.
Didn’t they know it was scary out there
Facing life as a single when you’d been half of a pair?
And I, who only yesterday had seemed to know it all,
In my single encounters felt exceedingly small.
Suddenly, in my middle years, thanks to fickle Fate,
To my utter amazement I accepted a date.

And the wizard of the PTA felt once again quite stupid
As now once more, as at sixteen, she’s targeted by cupid.
My thoughts turned back to the late-night talks
When my daughter sat on my bed.
So wise I was then, so opposite now
What great thing was it I’d said?
“Mother’s doing quite well”, said daughter to son.
“It’s good she’s found life still can be fun.”
And they, whom I’d counseled in this, that and the other
Now took up the task of bringing up mother.
“Remember our talks, Mom, when you expected the worst?
They’re the same now”, said daughter,
“But the roles are reversed“.
I’m grateful, Lord, you’ve let me know
It’s still good to be alive.
But, is there some way that we could forego
This puberty at forty-five?

the seasons of life
are incredibly humbling

Sunday, March 29, 2020


Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
Pantry #13
March 29, 2020
My friends, I have chosen not to write something, but to share with you the words of a health care worker.  While we are enduring the inconvenience of being cloistered in our homes, these are the heroes who are fighting this pandemic at personal risk.  I’ve seen my son come home daily physically and mentally exhausted, so I can attest to the fact her account is truthful and sobering. She says,

“I have worked for almost 15 years as a Respiratory Therapist. I have worked horrible flu seasons and have never experienced what we are dealing with now. I am tired physically, mentally, and emotionally. It's not stopping, in fact it's getting worse every time I clock in. I don't know when people are going to realize the severity of it all. Do you have to get sick? Your loved one? Or does someone have to die? So yes, you are going stir crazy, we all are by now. Use this time to grow, use this time to slow down and love your family. In fact just to love again. You have been given the greatest gift, time. Utilize it well. Because let me tell you, my heart aches for these patients. We are the ones surrounding them while they take their last breath without their families by their side. We as healthcare workers will never be the same after this is done. So please if you have some time, pray. The power of prayer is amazing, and we need your prayer more than anything right now.”
times that try our souls
may correct selfish goals

Saturday, March 28, 2020


It’s Sunday Muse #101 and we’re
to be inspired by the photo provided.
Submitted to The Sunday Muse
March 28, 2020

I am old, she thought
I am only one voice in the
cacophony of chaos,
How will my voice be heard
by these young people who seem
so bewildered and lost?
Then her eye fell on the bucket of paint,
the graffiti wall and the ladder.
Slowly she climbed the steps, and
carefully she painted …


Thursday, March 26, 2020


It's Meet the Bar, and Frank asks us to
address couplets.  They may or may not
be preceded with prose, but the final
couplet must be of equal meter.
Submitted to dVerse
March 26, 2020

Closeted in our homes, the resilience and
creativity of people rise to the occasion,
and we are grateful for technology and
the ability to reach out and touch someone.
grateful for the health care workers who
work daily in the face of danger, and grateful
for all those in essential roles carrying on
as best they can, often at personal sacrifice.

In these times of crisis we realize
Heroes come in every shape and size

Wednesday, March 25, 2020


Weekly Scribblings and we’re asked to
write a poem using three phrases:
She was warned… she was given an
explanation…and nevertheless she persisted. 
I chose to attack the challenge with a bit
of  humor.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
March 25, 2020

She was warned “He’s trouble!
Completely averse to obligation."
Nevertheless she persisted
when she was given an explanation

"How silly they were", she reflected
"He’s handsome and wonderfully wise
Not at all what they expected
But a gentleman in lothario disguise"

His true colors, however, were soon displayed
In due time she learned her lesson
She was disrespected and woefully betrayed
and fell into deep depression

Eventually she donned big girl panties
and set out to achieve success
She joined the lady vigilantes
Now she’s a force to be reckoned with, I guess.

Monday, March 23, 2020


Quadrille #100.  Our poem of exactly
44 words is to feature "magic" … and
couldn't we all use a bit of that about
now in the midst of this pandemic.
Submitted to dVerse
March 23, 2020

alas the day dawned moon-blown
and I awoke all a-quirk
I knew I’d seen the slimytoes
in the corner where they lurk

I reached for my magic potion
and just sprayed it all around
those besotted grave-groping slimytoes
growled and melted into the ground

Sunday, March 22, 2020


Writers' Pantry #12 arrives in the midst
of pandemic and sobering times.  My
children are both on the front lines and
I hold them in my prayers.  This new
poem is reflective.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
March 22, 2020

where have they gone, the busy people
who were rushing to and fro
the carousel stopped, the world stood still
and they met an invisible foe

they found they were facing pandemic
something they never supposed
their streets became eerily empty
the schools and stores were closed

the strong rose to the occasion
each doing what they could
vulnerability came to the busy people
and at last they understood.

how fragile is their carousel
how self-absorbed  their days
perhaps this is an opportunity
to mend their selfish ways

Wednesday, March 18, 2020


Laura has challenged us to choose three of the provided rhyming sets in a
tercet of our own.   I ask your forgiveness for using galle-on!   I couldn’t
seem to do otherwise without dangling a participle!  My poem is loosely
based on Mel Fisher's discovery of the Spanish galleon Atocha in 1985,
which continues to give up treasure today, only half of its fortune thought
to be yet found.
Submitted to dVerse
March 18, 2020

Beneath waters the dreamer sailed upon
Were long kept secrets of the sea
Hidden in depths lay a Spanish galleon

In selkie tales it’s long been sung
Sea breezes kissed the dreamer’s lips
And spoke to him in Spanish tongue

Wealth , they said, may come your way
Harkening to their whispered sound
He set sail with hope beyond the bay

The dreamer dived to the ocean floor
Finding the galleon and its treasure spill
Of gold doubloons, emeralds and even more

It’s long lost tomb uncovered at last
The galleon Atocha gave up its treasure
The dreamer's found window into the past 

Sunday, March 15, 2020

Smoky Mountain Memories

Writer's Pantry #11, and I'm waxing nostalgic
 and posting something I wrote after the fire
in the Smoky Mountains in 2016.  I like to
revisit it from time to time.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
March 15, 2020
                                                 SMOKY MOUNTAIN MEMORIES
For more than 30 years, my three good friends and I spent a week every autumn in the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains.  Creatures of habit, we stayed in the same room in the same lodge for all those years.  It was our favorite place.  The Riverhouse Lodge sat at the base of a mountain beside a gurgling little river called The Little Pigeon River.  We spent long hours on the balcony over the river, and slept listening to the sound of its tumbling progress over the rocks below.   We played rousing card games, snug by the fireplace, with the bounty of our shopping sprees lining the perimeter of the room.   We shared our lives, our joys and tribulations, and marked those long hours with sometime tears, but always with much laughter.

The years have passed, and the other three of our foursome have passed on to what comes after.  I was left with my memories and the hope of returning to the Riverhouse one more time, but it was   not to be.  Last year, a careless spark ignited a dreadful fire that swept down the mountainside and burned to the ground the lodge we loved so much.  I was bereft.  One day soon, I thought, I’ll follow my friends, and we’ll all be gone … the four of us, the lodge, and the balcony where we shared our lives.  We’ll all be but a blip in the passage of time.  A new lodge will replace the old, and new young housewives will come for their annual girlfriend getaway.  But I wonder, I just wonder,  if our spirits may not linger in the green hills above, and the sound of our laughter be heard faintly as the water tumbles over the rocks below. 

Sunday Muse #99

Sunday Muse #99, and our
photo of inspiration is that
of a black apple.  My muse took
me and the apple to current
Submitted to Sunday Muse
March 15, 2020

We're living in the weirdest of times
The. world is out of whack
Toilet paper is in high demand
And  the apple is turning black

Yet still we continue to bumble along
Seemingly. none the wiser
Convinced we're combating Covid 19
Safeguarded by sanitizer

Schools closed and games cancelled
Cruise ships in quarantine
Our lives in total disarray
The likes of which we haven't seen

The self-appointed king of our country
Is pontificating wonderfully wise
As if we haven't all figured out
He's the devil in disguise

We're all suspended in waiting mode
Hoping, and wondering when
Things might return to normal
And we have our lives back again.

Friday, March 13, 2020


It's Meet the Bar at dVerse
We're to start with a list and
fashion a rhyme.
Submitted to dVerse
March 12, 2020

A hairpin
A lipstick
A brush for my hair

A notepad
A nail file
Earrings, a pair

My cell phone
Car keys
A packet of tissues

Hand lotion
For virus issues

Ticket stub
Coaster from pub
Coupon for pie

Rubber band
Who knows why

Obvious necessities
I can’t be without
Bag packed, I’m ready
To go out and about.

Tuesday, March 10, 2020


Wednesday Scribblings this week
feature early birds and night owls, about
which I‘ve something to say!.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
March 11, 2020
I've always admired the earlybirds
it’s said they get the worms
but those of us who prowl at night
find it hard to come to terms
with their infernal cheerfulness
when we haven’t had our coffee
they offer inane conversation
and their speculations lofty
it makes me feel all grumpy
and I want to stomp my foot
and tell them their morning demeanor
is something up with which I will not put


It’s Quadrille #99 at dVerse
And the word of the week is
“stir” or a form thereof.  I give it
a limerick and a half.
Submitted to dVerse
March 10, 2020

There once was a lady named Fleur
Who called all the gentlemen sir
She was so well endowed
She drew quite a crowd
She caused, you might say, a stir

But working her corner
Left her feeling forlorner
And so she retired, did Fleur