Saturday, December 26, 2020


Sunday Muse #140, 2020 ending and Chrissa challenges us for our in-between poems.  My plethora of scattered thoughts seem to fit the year just past, scribbled in my bedside notebook of midnight epiphanies.  Happy New Year!   Submitted December 26, 2020.


2020, year in review

what a dreadful, mixed-up stew

tumbling thoughts in a soup tureen

isms and schisms, and in between 

pollywogs, goldfish and carp

the dulcet tones of a distant harp

frosted windows and naked trees

butterflies and honey bees

sound of a jet flight overhead

scrambled words from a book I’ve read

I’d like to meet a chimney sweep

why oh why can’t I get to sleep. 

Sunday, December 20, 2020

Mrs. Claus Speaks

Poets and Storytellers #51 Year's End, and I'm sharing an oldie and wishing everyone happy holidays, all safe and well!   We seldom get to hear Mrs. Claus' side of the story. 


 ‘Tis the night before Christmas, I’ve just cleaned the house

Now I find Santa’s been drinking, the louse

He’s been into that bottle of Christmas cheer

I’ve been using for cooking since some time last year.

So, now the sleigh’s loaded (and so is he)

There’s nobody left to drive but me

There’s no place to sit except on his lap

And he’s probably lost the blasted map.

Well, giddy-up Prancer, and Blitzen too

We’ve got an important job to do.

Just fly high and fast as in days of yore

We’ll go really fast, so they don’t hear him snore.

We’ll deliver these toys with all possible class

In spite of this tanked-up irresponsible ass.

Who’d have thought when I married my handsome prince

He’d turn into the bum I’ve been living with since.

Rudolph, I thought I could count on you

But I see by your nose you’ve been hitting the brew

Oh, how will I travel this highway of stars

When even NASA can’t find Planet Mars.

I’ m only one woman, but can’t you see

All the boys and girls are counting on me?

Well, here we go fellas, it’s a leap of faith

Pretend you’re up and it’s the last of the eighth.

...I knew we could do it, I just love you guys

In spite of our troubles, you were wonderfully wise

The toys are delivered, we’re almost back

With this besotted tippler, and an empty sack.


We rose to the occasion and we did it all right.

He’s beginning to wake up….Oh you lecherous rake!

Not tonight, Santa, I’ve got a headache.

Saturday, December 19, 2020


Sunday Muse #138  This should be an ode to all dance-away lovers!  Submitted December 19, 2020
Once you said you loved me,
claimed me for your very own 
now you’ve found another 
and left me here alone 

 I feel so discarded 
thrown out like the trash 
all that’s left of the flame of love 
is bitter, lonely ash 

Once you were my handsome prince
I loved with all my heart 
now I see your true self 
that was hidden from the start 

 I should warn your new love 
your conquests are merely numbered 
conquered and then discarded 
as you go on unencumbered 

You really need a bumper sticker 
to go with your perfect face and hair 
it needs to have but a single word 
and that word is BEWARE!

Thursday, December 17, 2020


Oh my!  Line endings.  Me, who only knows precise rhyming lines, is asked to step out of her box.  I have taken a phrase from Mary Oliver's "The Gardener" ... "Have I experienced happiness with sufficient gratitude"  and wandered into where I am lost!  

The little slate reads

"Count Blessing

Choose Happy"

my mantra, my daily reminder recognize if I have experienced

a simple moment of happiness

that might have passed unnoticed with-

out pausing to practice sufficient

time spent in humble gratitude.

,,,to recognize blessings 

are small and simple things

I am grateful 



Wednesday, December 16, 2020


 Wednesday Scribblings, and we’re asked to consider and/or include the phrase “down in my bones”.  I share a visit to Louisiana many years ago, and an experience that taught me the meaning of déjà vu!   Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United. December 16, 2020


Oak Alley.  The travel guide describes it as a grand example of an antebellum plantation.  I stand spellbound, gazing down the alley of majestic ancient oaks leading to the bayou, from which visitors and supplies arrived.  A soft breeze stirs wisps of Spanish moss on the trees, and I feel a chill.  Deep down in my bones I know I’ve stood on this spot before.  On this very spot.  For an instant I seem to see young ladies in elaborate ball gowns and young gentlemen dressed in Confederate uniform grey.  Only for an instant, then the image fades.  I turn and join the tour group as we ascend the steps.  The eerie feeling of familiarity stays with me as we tour the rooms of this relic of pre-Civil War days.  All my life I’d been a skeptic.  No more. 

Tuesday, December 15, 2020


Tuesday Poetics and we're asked to step into the gothic realm.  It's usually far from my wheelhouse, but I'll avvago.  Submitted to dVerse, December 15, 2020  


The castle stands silent, foreboding.
Evil dwells here, it’s said
Those who plan to spend the night
Will be found mysteriously dead
Some say it’s the Lady of Darkness
Guarding the castle keep
Fie on those who enter
Now destined for eternal sleep.
None knows what terror comes to pass
Betwixt terrified screams and moans
But morning reveals their fate
In the form of skulls and bones. 

Monday, December 14, 2020


Quadrille #128  I love me a fireside inglenook.  It seems to cast a spell and I’m soon lost in fantasy.  I hope you’ll forgive me for some tongue-in-cheek fun.  

Submitted to dVerse, December 14, 2020 


                                                                      I’m  settled

                                                                      In Inglenook

toasted feet

absorbing book

wine sweet

flames flickering

sleep o'ertakes

soon dreaming

fantasies ensue

sensuous scheming

strong arms

hot lips

feeling music

swivel hips

seeing myself



Greek god

he's enamored

I can tell

I've never

danced so well


Can't say more

stopped cold at forty-four

Sunday, December 13, 2020


I'm feeling a bit sentimental, so I've chosen to share some Christmas Memories from long ago to Poets & Storytellers Writers' Pantry #80 today.  And, by the way, my notes are scribbled illegibly in a little notebook I keep on my bedside table for midnight epiphanies.   Submitted December 13, 2020 


 My Christmas memories are centered around the little one-room school, and the roadside church of my childhood that were the hub of social activities.  Tradition on Christmas Eve was to attend Nigh Chapel for the children’s program, hymns and the reading of the story of Christ’s birth from the old Bible, the soft ticking of the wall clock for accompaniment.   Then the sound of sleigh bells heralded the arrival of Santa with a loud Ho Ho Ho, and a brown paper bag of treats for everyone.  These contained hard candies, chocolate drops, nuts, an orange and a shiny apple.  I never questioned these treats were from the North Pole until the Christmas my parents were on the “treat committee” and, with friends, prepared the bags of treats at our home!  This was most likely the same year I learned Santa was Johnny Cashmer, a rotund farmer with rosy cheeks who lived in the neighborhood.  Who knew?   

Any Christmas shopping had been done from the well-worn pages of the Sears & Roebuck catalog. We looked forward to receiving the package from my father’s mother, which always contained her potato candy (a confection made from a boiled potato, powdered sugar and peanut butter).  Christmas Day was a gathering of family. Gifts were simple, few and well chosen.  The afternoon was usually spent playing games or working on the huge jigsaw puzzle that was always set up on holidays.

Close your eyes.  Imagine no charge cards, no over-spending, no retail mania, no exchanges, no batteries,  children who talked instead of texting, adults who visited instead of watching television, and everyone remembering what Christmas is all about.   Oh (sigh) it was a wonderful time.

Saturday, December 12, 2020

This is Today

Sunday Muse #138,  and our photo of inspiration somehow reminded me of my mother’s battle with Alzheimer’s, as it seemed fog enshrouded her and she struggled to keep track of her days that seemed to pass anonymously in their sameness.  

Submitted December 12, 2020.  



Once she was a multi-tasker

If you wanted something just ask her

But time had taken its toll

It seemed a fog confused her

Everyday things bemused her

Remembering was her goal

She hung a calendar on her wall

To try to keep some sense of it all

Names and faces faded away

Determined to keep it all in line

She wrote on a day with pencil fine

“This”, she wrote carefully “is today”. 

Wednesday, December 9, 2020


Rosemary's letter challenge may occasion my being committed!  I cannot seem to shut off my brain.  Here's one more.  I promise to quit now!


 Arnie from Aukland,  astute and athletic, accentuated his awesomeness, aptly anchoring the afternoon news, his competitor auspicious by his absence.  Alas, Arnie was arrested for assassination.  


Weekly Scribblings, and Rosemary has challenged us to practice repetitive use of a letter.  I've chosen the letter T, and used it in an American sentence, and added a fun bit using the letter L.

Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, December 9, 2020.  


Tasting my tea, transfixed by timeliness, tantamount to test of time. 


Lily was a Lilliputian  lady, luscious and learned . Likely labeled luscious more often than learned by lawyers and legal eagles alike, Lily licentiously laundered money, living luxuriously.  The lecherous gentlemen were ultimately lampooned.


Tuesday, December 8, 2020


 Poetics Tuesday.  I've chosen a line from Gibran (To melt and be like a running brook that carries its melody to the night) and included it in what may be an octave, but lost in the A B C D's. 

 Submitted to dVerse  December 8, 2020 


Carried by the brooklet that rambles the meadow

Riding the ripples, lost in evening's glow

To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night 

Meandering rivulets carrying me where'er they might

I might be a princess under some foreign moon

Perhaps a lass frolicking the mists of Brigadoon

Miracles and magicals, wild and free

Where'er the brooklet has taken me. 

Monday, December 7, 2020


 Lillian challenges us to write prosery today, which must include a line from Louise Gluck's "Faithful and Virtuous Night"  The line is "Having read what I have just written, I now believe ..."   My prosery is flash fiction, submitted to dVerse December 7, 2020.   


A hand-carved box my grandfather gave me when I was a boy contained magic, he told me, but I must never open it.  When in trouble, all I needed was wait until I saw the first star of night, rub the magic box saying “I believe” three times. Through the years the magic seemed to hold true.  Sheepishly I admit to performing the ritual on the night before my bar exam.  Reading what I have just written, I now believe in its magic, just as I always have. My son is 5 years old, and I’m giving him the magic box.  But, before I pass it on, I’m compelled to see  inside.  Cautiously, I lift the latch and raise the lid.  … to find the box empty!   How wise my grandfather was.  He knew the secret of achieving is believing you can.  Smiling, I re-latched the box and headed for my son’s room.

Sunday, December 6, 2020


 Writers' Pantry #49.  There are days we take assessment of who we have become, and it is often a humbling experience.   I'll share my journey to humility this bleak, Sunday afternoon, and admit my self-deprecating humor may be just a bit exaggerated.

Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United,  December 6, 2020


In youth,  while we revere our elders, smugly most of us think to ourselves we’ll look and act much younger when we reach that age.   But, in subtle and insidious ways, time marches on.   I had always prided myself on having a small waist for my ample body, and I accented it with belts.  Middle age came along, my waist thickened, and belts were uncomfortable so they went by the wayside.  I soon tired of flirty skirts and business suits, and opted to wear pants.  No more worrying about sitting properly and crossing my legs carefully.  In no time I discovered elastic waists were wonderful things, and it seemed less important (if not impossible) to hold my stomach in.  

Being blessed with small eyes, for years I wore artificial eyelashes to make my eyes appear larger.  Soon my eyelids sagged to the point the artificial lashes appeared to be slings, so I abandoned that habit.  I had always worn bras that gave me a perky, pointy profile, but soon I could find no man-made spandex strong enough to fight the slow droop of age.   I opted for something comfortable that contained my breasts and gently lifted them to the point I didn’t step on them. 

Speaking of steps,  middle age blessed me with generalized arthritis.  It seemed my feet came to feel like bags of miscellaneous bones.  Today I'm lost without my Easy Spirit shoes.  Their arch support, sensible soles and laces gather up the miscellaneous bones, and guarantee I feel grounded. Gone are the sexy pumps and delicate sandals, gone are the belts,  gone are the flirty skirts and business suits, gone are the perky breasts, gone are the artificial lashes.  I peer into the mirror and see exactly the same elderly woman I vowed I wouldn’t become.  Life has a way of having the last laugh.  It's called humility.

Wednesday, December 2, 2020


Weekly Scribblings wherein we're to consider the new words of 2020.   Heaven help us they are all words we wish never to hear again!   My poem is at once pithy and theoretical moonshot for escape!    Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United   December 2, 2020


 I used to live in Smilealot

It was a carefree town

Now I live in Anthropause

and blursdays tend to get me down

Doomscrolling makes me morbid

There seems no good news to find

The plethora of infodemics

Endangers my soundness of mind

I refuse  to let the messages

Of death, despair and rumor

Lead me to drinking Kool-aid

And losing my good humor

I’m checking out of cyberspace

No computer, no iPad, no phone

Just come knocking at my door

When the bird of madness has flown.

Tuesday, December 1, 2020


Poetics Tuesday at dVerse and Sarah has challenged us to choose one of seven lines to use for our title or a line in our poem. I've chosen "Lead dogs are very smart", something we have all grown to question in the last four years.
 Submitted to dVerse December 1, 2020 

At least that’s what’s been printed
But our sled is out of control
Our lead dog seems a bit demented

When fate put us all in time out
(Something we could never foresee)
All of our best laid plans
Were obviously not to be

No more lunches with friends
Our groups don’t meet any more
Now our only outing
Is going to the grocery store

Some of us are working at home
Some are not working at all
There seems little to occupy our time
Except wait for the other shoe to fall

We seem to feel all at loose ends
As if we’ve been left in the lurch
Good heavens what’s to become of us
We can’t even go to church

Our president has gone to play golf
The press are clamoring to meet
He refuses to vacate the White House
And simply won’t admit defeat

Heaven only  knows
Where all of it is going to end
We long for simple things
Like having lunch with a friend

We look to the Lady of Hope
You know the one I mean
Soon she’ll make an appearance
Her name, I’m told, is VACCINE