SUNFLOWER SECRET

The Sunday Muse #123, and our
photo of inspiration is the sunflower,
which holds nature's secret in the spiral
of its seeds.  The Golden Ratio is an
irrational number,   approximately 1.618,
which is prevalent in nature, art, architecture,
and design. (Other Names  for it are golden
mean, golden section, Phi (in mathematics),
divine section, golden number,  Fibonacci
sequence.
Submitted to The Sunday Muse
August 29, 2020
and to Poets & Storytellers United
August 30, 2020
******************

The sunflower stands tall and proud

So beautifully serene

It’s turns its face to the sunshine

And displays the golden mean

Its seeds hold nature’s secret

Within their spiraling chains

Fibonacci's series is hidden there

The hand of God remains

RE-VERBERATION

More fun with noun-verbing ... or is it
verb-nouning?  I couldn't resist
another try.
Submited to dVerse
August 28, 2020
*************

Harriet ladied the fellows

when she dimpled and coquetted

until they were all swained

and Harriet was never forgetted

ENIGMATED

Meeting the Bar at dVerse
Verbing nouns is the challenge.
My tongue is cheeked.
Submitted to dVerse
August 27, 2020
**********************

She succumbed to his charms

she hadn't fireworked in years

surprisingly she passioned

after only three beers

MYSTERIES OF TIME

Wednesday Scribblings #34.  Magaly has
issued the challenge to base our poetics on
the wound "foundation".  My love for the
mysteries of time took me to the cliff
dwellings.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
August 26, 2020
**************

Spruce Tree House on the mesa verde of Utah had solid rock foundation. 
The approximate size of a football field tucked under a cliff overhang, it was
thought to be home to 60 or 80 people.   They farmed the land above and made
their homes in the safety of the overhanging cliff for over 100 years, sheltered
from the desert sun, lightning strikes and driving rains.  What happened to these
peoples  remains for conjecture.   Perhaps drought drove them from the dwellings.
For whatever reason, they vanished, and the cliff dwellings are left to history,
a remarkable monument to the peoples who constructed them.   They left little
else  but for  broken shards and  mystic glyphs to mark their passage in the pages
of time, no scribes to record their journey, a mystery for armchair travelers.

The Field

It's Poetics at dVerse, and Grace has
challenged us to write of WHEAT,
which took me to a magic place.
Submitted to dVerse
August 25, 2020
******************

I walked the wheat field at dusk, azure skies dimming into evening. 

Perhaps I wandered farther than I thought, but it seemed a mist settled
over the golden grain and I had entered a Brigadoon, a lilt of
song and laughter far away.  I turned to find the mist surrounded
what seemed an alternate universe, and my homeward path lay
beyond the mist.  Becalmed, the cares of my world a distant memory
I sat amidst this paradise and counted the stars as they appeared one
by one, and the harvest moon  rose high in the sky. I remember naught
til I awoke at dawn, rested and bemused, my path to home before me.
Walk among the nodding heads of ripened wheat, my friend.  You too
may encounter magic.

THE BUM'S RUSH

Quadrille #110....Exactly 144 words and
the key word is BUM or a form thereof.
Please excuse my language .... but it's
such a perfect rhyme I couldn't resist.
 Submitted to dVerse
August 24, 2020
***************

Oh Great Poobah of the Universe

your plan is troubling me

I'm 86 now, on borrowed time

And plenty bumfuzzled, you see

How can I fill these final days

Marking off my bucket list

When you've arranged my sequester   

Leaving me most royally pissed!

FELINE PHILOSOPHY

It’s Writers Pantry #34 where we choose
to share a poem or prose on a subject of our
choice.  I've chosen to introduce our
resident cats.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
August 23, 2020
******************

Two cats allow us to live with them….an orange male named Destin, and a lady gray
named Tandy.   Destin, of course, is the alpha male, or so he deems himself to be.
He is no athlete, having fallen from the loft railing to the floor below with a mighty
thump, from whence he hid under the table in great embarrassment.   He is
shamelessly needy, and always on the prowl for a lap, any lap, where he will be
properly adored and stroked.

Tandy, on the other hand, is an independent lady. She likes to find exclusive
hideaways and disappear for hours at a time.  She does not require much attention,
but at such times she feels it  necessary she will announce her presence with a soft
meow.  She’s very fastidious, however, and at such time as the litter boxes need
attention she is known to have a more insistent meow and an intent stare that makes
her point,  Destin and Tandy have their own room under the stairs, which has a
special cat door for entrance to their private club.

My bedroom is in the hall beyond,  and I’m fond of telling people, for shock value,
that my bedroom is behind the cat house.  We live companionably here, grateful
that they allow us to share their home.

The Sunday Muse

The Sunday Muse #122  where
the photograph encourages dreams
of faraway places..
Submitted August 23, 2020
**********************

In my dreams I follow my muse

to Mt. Olympus and meet with Zeus

on to Eldorado, where I’m told

the lake is full of buried gold

Perhaps I’d like to travel on

to the hanging gardens of Babylon

for a bit of mystery, I guess

I might make a visit to Loch Ness

Next it was Shangrila’s remote paradise

a visual treat for my wandering eyes

the knights, of course, I haven’t forgot 

in the magic land of Camelot

of course we went before we were through

to the mythical land of Xanadu

and we made the trip, my muse and I

under a butterscotch moon and a buttermilk sky

we found all the names, or so it seems... 

the names that were ships to carry my dreams.

CORAL

Submitted to dVerse Open Link Night
August 20, 2020
*************

nestled on the ocean floor

spiked fingers appearing

to reach upward

for the warmth of sunshine.

hiding its razor edges

from careless swimmers

home to underwater denizens

guardian of sunken ships

and mysteries of forgotten cities

wonder of the deep.

WHERE DID IT ALL GO WRONG?

Weekly Scribblings #33, and Magaly
asks us to include the phrase “swallow
screams for dinner”.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
August 19, 2020
*****************

Where did it all go wrong?  The
days filled with laughter and nights
filled with passion disappeared like
snowflakes falling on sun-warmed
earth.  His gaze, once mirroring hunger
for her, was now cold and distant.
She pretended all was well for the
sake of the children, but terror of
being discarded and alone with
three trusting babies and no income
left her sipping the bitter taste of
despair and swallowing screams for
dinner. Where did it all go wrong?

SEND IN THE CLOWNS

Meet the Bar at dVerse, and the theme
is “clowns”, a term which has certainly
changed in meaning since the last political
election in the U.S.  Somehow clowns aren’t
so funny any more!
Submitted to dVerse
August 18, 2020
***********************

I guess I’ll always wonder

just exactly why

some listened to “Send in the Clowns”

and thought it a political battle cry

they mounted up their bandwagon

and sure as adultery is sin

we all lazed on our couches

while they voted the monster in

it’s time to get off our arses

and show some sensible clout

by mail, by foot, by wagon train

let’s vote the clown out!

Mountain Memories

Prosery Monday at dVerse, when we're
asked to write no more than 144 words
to include a phrase given us by Merrill,
"when it is over said and done, it was a
time and there was never enough of it".
I turn to my memories.
Submitted to dVerse
August 18, 2020
************************

We bonded as young housewives and mothers. When our children were small
we started a long weekend getaway in the Great Smoky Mountains.  It was our
time to unwind with long, lazy mornings on our deck over the babbling Little
Pigeon River, and afternoons of nosing through shops,  For more than 30 years
we honored the tradition, our friendship honed by life experiences, sharing
laughter, victories and sorrows, never once considering when it is over, said
and done.

It was a time, and there was never enough of it. Children grew and left home,
 our husbands passed on, and still we clung to our cherished tradition,  But
the moving finger writes, and now I alone remain, the memory of our happy
times and laughter stored in the library of my brain. Yes, it was a time,
and there was never enough of it.

BIRD TALK

Submitted to Writer's Pantry #33
Poets & Storytellers United
August 16, 2020
***************

So much we could learn from our feathered friends

They come from different directions

They are of different color

They don't speak the same language

and yet they gather companionably at the feeder

enjoying the feast provided.

The exception, of course, is the occasional rabblerousing

bluejay or grackle 

They arrive with great bluster and disrupt the companionable setting

with raucous comment and irritating demeanor

These, I muse, must be the politicians of the avian world......

Prairie Sonata

Sunday Muse #121 wherein we're
 to be inspired by a photo.
Submitted to The Sumday Muse
August 15,  2020
*************

Crop rows seeming to reach infinity

revelled in sunshine

now thirsty for rain

rooted deep in fecund soil.

A hush falls over the prairie

awaiting promise of dark clouds

whose bellies hold precious gift of life.

A sentinel tree

watches the scene unfold

yet again

IDLE THOUGHTS

It's Meet the Bar at dVerse, and Grace
has asked us to create a stream of
consciousness poem. It's surprising what
surfaces!  This was fun.
Submitted to dVerse
August 13, 2020
*********************

I wonder why I’m drawn to abandoned houses

and falling down old barns

and why it is my mind wanders to 

how life must have been 

who was the last person who lived there

and why did they leave

Am I an old soul, wandering aimlessly

in this generation, as if transported

by some mysterious time machine

taking with me the memories

of that time and place in the pages of time

what does it mean to be an old soul

and is there such a thing as reincarnation

Karma seems to make sense

when I wonder why bad things happen

to good people, and if they are

paying back big time for wrongs in some past life

 if we are to learn a lesson in each lifetime

 what am I to learn in this one.

have I learned it or will I have to

do this all again.

VOYAGE OF THE MARY KATHERINE

Sarah enchanted us with a recount of
her narrowboat trip, and challenged
us to set sail in poem.  I'm a total
landlubber with a fascination for tales
of the sea and her mysteries.  This
poem is loosely based on an actual
ocean mystery.
Submitted to dVerse
August 11, 2020
**************

In 1870 on a summer’s day

set sail a brigantine

its cargo destined for a distant port

she was known as the Mary Katherine

All was well as the ship set sail

skidding the bounding main

but captain and crew, so the story is told

were never to be seen again

Aye, the ship was seen, a phantom ship

in quite an abandoned state

When she was boarded there was no clue

as to how they met their fate.

All their belongings were left behind

and nothing seemed awry

It was as if they simply vanished

and none could fathom why

To this day it remains a mystery

their fate has never been learned

and the brigantine Mary Katherine

is known as the ship that never returned. 

I DREAMED OF ANYWHEN

It's Writer's Pantry #32, equivalent to
the free spot in Bingo.  I'm offering what
might be a case study (of me!) or plague
poetry (most likely)....just a bit of
wordplay and nonense.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
August 9, 2020
**********************

Once I dreamed I was in the anywhen, 

the anytime before time,

transported on a wisp of rarefied air

in a stratospherian starmobile.  I was

fleet of foot and keen of eye, acknowledged

ruler in the anywhen.  My weskit,

made of ear of Peruvian yak and hump

of Egyptian camel  protected me from

marauding starchasers and I explored

from the somewhy to the anywhy, taking

notes in my hand-held keeptracker.  It

was a glorious spacetrek until a rogue

rocket wrecked my starmobile and I

fell kerplop into my bunk bed.  

SIGH

FOREST DRAMA

Sunday Muse #120 wherein
we’re inspired by the photo provided.
Submitted to The Sunday Muse
August 8, 2020
***************

She saw him there in the copse

tall and proud, arrogant and egotistic

Isn’t that just like him, she thought,

to think he holds the world in his antlers.

She had fallen for him once

when she was young and naïve

but now she could have any buck in the forest

and she was wise to his duplicitous ways.

He was always looking for a new, young face

and once he’d conquered them

he bounded off looking for newer and younger.

Now his reputation was tarnished, and

all the does regarded him with nothing but disdain.

Once he was a much desired young buck;

now he was just a ragged old has-been

with a pair of tattered antlers.

With a flick of her flash she was off and away

and he was left just where he deserved to be …

Alone

PERSPECTIVE

Open Link Night at dVerse.  This was

written some time ago, thoughts on a

long jet flight inspired by the sight

below.

Submitted to dVerse

August 6, 2020

********************

I flew on the great silver bird

high aloft in the sky

my importance merely illusion

reminded how small am I

Looking down on a crazy quilt landscape

spread richly to left and right

I pondered that all of life’s spectrum 

must lie there below in my sight

Somewhere hearts were happy

as they shared the miracle of birth

while other hearts were saddened

as a loved one passed from this earth

Some were amassing great riches

others were struggling just to survive

some were plotting suicide, 

others were rejoicing to be alive

Somewhere babies were crying

young folks falling in love

and farmers were tilling the soil

I viewed from my seat high above

I said to myself “Remember,

when you question the path you’ve trod

others are facing life’s challenge

you’re but one of the children of God. “ 

************

BACK YARD

Grace asks us to take a photo of the
view outside our window, and to
write a poem about it.  Our back yard
ends at the tree break for a walking
trail which runs behind our house.
Once close enough to read the plaque
that sits on the windowsill, you cannot
see the window, but the view is of our
"bird buffet".
Submitted to dVerse  August 4, 2020
********************************

So much we could learn from our feathered friends

They come from different directions

They are of different color

They don't speak the same language

and yet they gather companionably at the feeder

enjoying the feast provided.

The exception, of course, is the occasional rabblerousing

bluejay or grackle 

They arrive with great bluster and disrupt the companionable setting

with raucous comment and irritating demeanor

These, I muse, must be the politicians of the avian world......

THE MAGIC BOX

Writers’ Pantry #31, and quarantine carries
us into August.  I’ve chosen to share a fiction
story, and I beg forgiveness it’s a bit overlong.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
August 2, 2020
**************************

The box sat on the corner of his desk, as it had for all the years since he’d opened his law office.  His grandfather had crafted the box for him when he was a child.  It was made  from the old walnut tree that had stood in the back yard of his grandfather’s home for years until it was struck by lightning.   It was a simple box, corners carefully mitered,  sanded and polished to a warm glow.   On the front was a brass button which, if pushed, his grandfather had told him, would trigger the mechanism to spring open the lid.    Joel Harmon sat lost in thought as he looked at it, remembering his grandfather’s words.   This is a magic box, Joey. It holds a very special magic.   There’ll be times you find things too hard to accomplish. When that happens, here’s what you do.   On the night of a full moon, you rub the box three times, say “I can do it” three times, and you’ll find you can accomplish that thing that had you stumped.   But remember, don’t open the box, Joey, or it’ll lose its magic.”   

When he was a boy, the box sat on the stand by his bed .  He remembered when he was six and got his first bike. Every time he tried to ride it, it wobbled and he fell.  Every  night he looked out the window of his bedroom at the moon.  It seemed he took a hundred tumbles before finally the moon was full, and he turned to his magic box, rubbed it three times and said “I can do it” three times.  Morning brought excitement, and he quickly gulped his Wheaties and ran outside.  He’d rubbed the magic box, and he knew he would be able to ride without falling  And he did. 

Through the years there’d been other times he’d turned to the box, the last of which had been before he took his bar exams.  Oh sure, he’d smiled when he rubbed it and thought of his grandfather;  thought it really was meant for childish fancy; but somehow, as it had through the years, the box worked its magic and he felt a confidence that carried him through. 

Now he had a successful law practice, and a six-year-old son of his own.  It was time, he thought, to pass the box on to his son.  But, before he did, just once, he wanted to push the button and spring the lid open to see the magic his grandfather had put inside.  He drew the box to him, and pressed the brass button.  The lid sprang open and he peered inside.  The box was empty!  But, on the underside of  the lid, in the burnished wood of the old walnut tree, he saw the carefully carved word BELIEVE.   “Grandpa”, he thought, “you sly old fox.  You knew the secret to accomplishing something is to believe we can.  You wisely gave me the most important gift of all.”

DREAMTIME

Sunday Muse #119, when we are asked
to write a poem inspired by the
photographic image provided.
Submitted to The Sunday Muse
August 2, 2020
*******************

Speak to me Sister Owl of the dreamtime*

and the songline of my people.

Take me back to my belonging place,

to the everywhen before the stolen

generations of my clan.  Fill the emptiness

in my soul.  Sing me back to my beginnings.

****************

*Some terms here are taken from the language of the Australian aboriginals.