Saturday, February 29, 2020


Sunday Muse #97  wherein we write
as inspired by the photo presented.
Submitted February 29, 2020
I dressed for the dance
  but I cannot go

Will you be there with her?
Will they play “our” Chopin nocturne
recalling our passion as it played
soft accompaniment back when we
made midnight magic together …
before my world fractured …
before her

I dressed for the dance
I cannot go

Thursday, February 27, 2020


We Meet at the Bar, and Frank
requests a triolet.  Rules and
restrictions seem to stifle the poet
in me, but here’s the old school
try, written with the concept that
trioilet rhymes with way.  Now, if
it actually rhymes with toilet, I’m
obviously in a heap of trouble!
Submitted to dVerse
February 27, 2020

So it’s to be a triolet
Write eight lines and pray
Try to make some sense of it
It’s, after all, a triolet
No need to chose a theme
There’s hardly time to scheme
When you write a triolet
With only eight lines to say

Wednesday, February 26, 2020


Weekly Scribblings #7 asks us to write
as inspired by red fruit, and my brain
was flooded with a stream of consciousness
of all things red.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
February 26, 2020



Crimson poppies in Flanders fields… carmined
lips of Scheherazade … roses are red and I love
you .. right turn on red … blood of legions of
young men and women spilled in countless
 wars … sweet, tart strawberry ripened on
the vine …  color of the dress my mother wore
the first time my father saw her …  sun-warmed
tomato from the garden … scarlet letter of Hester
Prynne …  ruby flash of the wing of a cardinal
on a snowy day …  rosy red apple that fell far
from the tree … russet red breast of the first
Spring robin … warm cherry pie with dip of
ice cream …  red, white and blue my country
‘tis of thee … the crimson tide …Dorothy’s
slippers … Superman’s cape … and, lastly,
 read is what I hope these words get (groan).

Image is my own digital art.

Tuesday, February 25, 2020


Poetics Tuesday and we’re to consider
the state of impermanence, which has
been much on my mind these past few
weeks as I’m preparing to move.  There
 comes a time we realize the things we
felt were permanent, that we couldn’t
live without, are simply that … things.
Submitted to dVerse
February 25, 2020

It’s an antique stepback cupboard I acquired
many years ago. Inside a door is scripted
 “A Christmas gift for Mr. and Mrs. (Name Withheld)
from Mr. and Mrs. (Name Withheld).  Christmas, 1888”.
I wondered how such a treasured piece of family history
ended at an antique auction house.  Of course I brought
it home with me.  Polished and much loved, it was part
of my life for the next 25 years, displaying china and
glassware. When I sold my home, I sold my collection
of antique furniture, except for it, and I brought it with
me when I moved in with my son and his wife 6 years
ago.  But now we are downsizing, and there will be no
place for it in our new home.  I’ve sold it to the daughter
of a friend who has a booth in an antique mall, happy
to see she regarded it as I had all those years ago.  It is
permanently impermanent, this old cupboard.  It will
collect the memories of yet another family.  How I wish
it could tell me the story of its last 130 years! 

Saturday, February 22, 2020

Sunday Muse #96

Sunday Muse #96 wherein
we are inspired by the
photo below.
Submitted to Sunday Muse
February 22, 2010
Photo by Sarolta Ban

Is it there, old woman,
written on the final page
answer to the age-old question
pondered by sages since
the beginning of time

What is it, old woman
that life is all about
is it correcting the wrongs
of yesterday in some
preordained karmic waltz

Or is there no plan at all as we
stumble onward seeking answers
and creating new wrongs for the
next karmic chapter

Is it I who will have the bench and book
and you who approach with questions.
Treat me kindly, old woman
tomorrow it may be you 
who howls at the moon.

Wednesday, February 19, 2020


Weekly Scribblings, and we're asked to
consider the word "tribute".  I seem to
be headed for irreverent comic relief ...
as usual!   I coined the title word.  It
seemed to fit.  I also had some Photoshop
fun with a recent newspaper headline.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers
February 19, 2020

A tip 'o me hat, a nod o' me head
It' time to pay a tribute
No need to consider our president
He's his own horn to toot.

And now, heaven help us
He says he's high sheriff of the land
No need to pay him accolades
He gives himself a hand

All his crooked white collar cohorts
Think in him the sun has risen
That comes as no small wonder
He's released them all from prison.

I'm just a little granny
But I'll still have my say
I plan to  save my tribute
And pray for a brighter day,

Sunday, February 16, 2020


Sunday Writers’ Pantry, and I
look back on lessons learned.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers
February 16, 2020

He sits, a verdigris object
my constant reminder long since
of the time I succumbed to the fatal charms
of the frog, formerly known as prince

I believed his lies duplicitous
I was gullible, naive and dense
I was enamored, he was ubiquitous
the frog formerly known as prince

I was his Scheherazade
and he my handsome prince
passion burned within my heart
I've not seen the likes of since

My friends just shook their heads
and thought I'd slipped a cog
they all knew before I did
that he was just a frog.

Now out beyond the garden wall
Just inside the fence
Lie the words of that worthless miscreant
The frog. formerly known as prince.  

And I? I'm much the wiser
I've taken the lesson thence
I've become quite amazingly astute
at separating frog from prince

Saturday, February 15, 2020

Sunday Muse #95

Forgive me, I've altered this week's photo
a bit to fit my Sunday prose.  It's been a week
of momentous change, and I felt the need to
record it for history!!
Submitted to Sunday Muse #95
February 15, 2020

I sold my 2001 Buick LeSabre today.  It was like parting with an old friend. 
My trustworthy and loyal companion, it carried me and my travel buddies 
many times to the Smoky Mountains for our annual autumn trip, to Eureka 
Springs, Arkansas,  to Williamsport and Yorktown, to the Ohio Amish country, 
to Minnesota’s Red River Valley, to Savannah, to Door County Wisconsin,
 to Derby, Indiana, on the Ohio River, and Galena in Illinois.  We meandered 
down country roads to obscure little restaurants and  antique shops tucked 
away.  It carried us home with quilts, crocks and all manner of treasures.  I hope 
it’s next owner treats it kindly, and I hope he doesn’t get too uncomfortable 
when he detects the slight scent of White Diamonds perfume and faint raucous laughter.


Tuesday, February 11, 2020


Weekly Scribblings #6, and Magaly
asks us to write cliché in poem
or prose.  What fun for my birthday
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
February 12, 2020

hey diddle diddle, I’m fit as a fiddle
I seem to be thinking in rhyme
it must be my day to think in cliché
and just in the nick of time

when I was young, the cat got my tongue
I couldn’t rhyme to save my soul
once the dam burst and I’d written my first
sure as I stand here I’m on a roll

good things come to those who wait
fool me twice, shame on me
can’t say that I’ve been left at the gate
while on my rhyming spree

love is blind and ignorance is bliss
what doesn’t kill will make you stronger
if more clichés had come to my mind,
this poem would surely be longer. 


Tuesday Poetics and we’re challenged
to acknowledge Black History Month,
and be inspired by two moving poems
by black poets.  We’re left with the age-old
question … will we ever learn?
Submitted to dVerse
February 11, 2020
If you knew me only by my voice
Would you make unbiased choice

If you judged me only by our touch
Would my color really mean so much

If you were blind and could not see
Would you then know a different me

Monday, February 10, 2020


De hosts today’s Quadrille #97.  We’re
to feature the word FILL in exactly
44 words.  I took a bit of largess with
the spelling.
Submitted to dVerse
February 10, 2020

Philomena tired of Phillip’s philandering
his forays would fill a book
Phil was a rank philogynist
she was bereft, betrayed, forsook. 
Philomena turned to philosophy
sadly her options seemed to be nil
at last she became so desperate
she decided to call Dr. Phil.

Image from CanStock ClipArt

Sunday, February 9, 2020


Writers Pantry #6 and I'm feeling nostalgic
on this snowy Sunday.  Here's something
from a few years back that comes to mind.,,
an idyllic bit of suburbia that's difficult to
find in life as it is today.
Submitted to Poets and Storytellers United
February 9, 2020


It was the prefab suburbs, our house came on a truck
They put it together in a single day, with any kind of luck
Our view was of the farmer’s barn, we were in an open field
He’d determined selling out would be the greater yield.

And so the streets appeared and marched in identical rows
With identical little houses,  except for color, I suppose
Our street was full of dreams, obtained with GI loan
But we all knew in 30 years, they’d be our very own.

Soon the babies came along, we raised them all together
They roamed the yards in safety; no need for electronic tether.
They knew well that any mischief, be it this, that or the other
Would travel up and down the street, passing from mother to mother.

We taught them all respect, and to obey the golden rule
When autumn came, we dressed them up and sent them off to school
The big ones watched the little ones as they walked along the way
The world was safe and life was good, in that suburban day.

Wednesday, February 5, 2020


Weekly Scribblings #5
Poets & Storytellers United
February 3, 2020


It was a slim, blue volume of poems by my favorite 1950’s author, Don Blanding, found one afternoon in a used book store.  Once home I settled into my easy chair with a glass of wine beside me, prepared to savor the work of this vagabond poet whose words never failed to capture me. Between the pages I was surprised to find pressed the delicate petals of a single  gardenia.

Who put it there? I mused.  I lifted it to see the title of the poem below.  “To a Lady I Loved”,
a brief story of a friendship spoiled by romance, ending with the line “I liked you so much better when you were just my friend.”  How I wished the gardenia could speak and tell me of the lady who loved the poet, and where it all went wrong.  I turned the pages and read on….but I left the gardenia where I was sure it belonged, with the secrets it held.

Monday, February 3, 2020


Haibun Monday and Frank asks us to
consider Spring.
Submitted to dVerse
February 3, 2020

There’s increased anticipation of Spring in my personal world.  We are having a
home built in an over 55 community, due to be complete by May.  We are eager
to see the greening of the trees that screen the walking trail behind our proposed
new home.   Downsizing is a time of letting go, parting with the miscellaneous
detritus gathered through the years.  Like the daffodils that push their way up
through winter’s carpet of leaves, I look forward to a fresh start and a new
chapter … no doubt the epilogue … of my journey.

eternal promise
Winter’s end, onset of Spring
a new year unfolds

Sunday, February 2, 2020


Writer’s Pantry #5, wherein
I indulge in a bit of political satire,
although it’s hard to find the light side
of the present situation in my world.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers
 February 2, 2020

With his pomposity
and juvenile viscosity
the king was feared by all
The men of the kingdom
soon formed a gangdom
its purpose the king’s downfall
They sought a way
with bluster and foray
to displace the king from his seat
The king unaware
with no words to spare
continued to rule by tweet
with rampant defamity
and threat of calamity
for those who would dare disagree.
Meanwhile people prayed fervently
and dreamed urgently
of the land of the brave and home of the free.

   The end of this story
ignominy or glory
ultimately remains to be seen.
The dilemma continues
touted loudly on venues
Could we trade a king for a queen?