Monday, April 12, 2021


It's Prosery today at dVerse, and Lillian has given us If you are a dreamer, come in from a Shel Silverstein poem to be included in our prosery.  I played with some idioms, which fascinate me, for a bit of nonsense advice..  Submitted to dVerse  April 12, 2021


                                           IDIOMATIC ADVICE

Don't judge a book by its cover.  Watch out for truth seekers, tale spinners, 

losers and winners, black sheep, lovers and dreamers.  There’s more than

meets the eye, and smooth talkers are a dime a dozen.  If you’re a dreamer,

 come in, but they'll have a nail in your coffin before you can hit the sack.   

Take it down a notch, zip your lip, and play safe.  Good things come to him 

who waits ……if he’s not riding the elephant in the room.


Sunday, April 11, 2021


 Writers’ Pantry #65 and I find myself in a bit of a funk, and my muse wandering off in the rain somewhere.  Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United   April 11, 2021



Another dear friend has transitioned

to the what-comes-after


is filled with so many goodbyes.

If karma exists,

it’s taking me longer 

to learn this life lesson than they.

It is comforting, however, to know

when I arrive 

there will be a veritable chorus

of welcomes awaiting.

Saturday, April 10, 2021


The Sunday Muse #155


Wafted away in my poppy red dress 
carried on a current of summer breeze, 
up, up and away and free as a bird, 
with the eye of a great bald eagle.
Just as I dreamed it, I soared away
high above troubles and woes
hearing the voices of those below
Saying “Here she comes, there she goes”!

Friday, April 9, 2021


 It's Meet the Bar at dVerse, and Grace has asked us to consider poems about our body.  Growing older brings some indignities it's best to consider with humor, otherwise they're a bit depressing!  Here are my thoughts on the  subject.  Submitted to dVerse  April 9, 2021



It’s wonderful to be older, 

And oh, so very wise

…but I observe I have acquired 

    some bags beneath my eyes.

My years of diligent labor 

Have made me efficient about the house

…but now, when I look in the mirror

   my knees appear to blouse.

After all my years of practice,

I know quite the proper thing to say

…but I note on close inspection, 

   my hair is turning gray.

Seniority has its privileges

Of travel beneath foreign flags

…but, when I check my silhouette, 

    I believe my bottom sags.

When youth defers to me,

I think it’s really sweet

…but along with that, it’s sad to see

   my skin’s begun to pleat.

I’m now  loaded with self-confidence

When before a group I speak

…but, as I leave the podium,

   I hear my joints begin to creak.

Yes, aging has its privileges

And all in all they’re not so bad

…but they would really please me

   with that youthful body I had.

Wednesday, April 7, 2021


Weekly Scribblings #64, and Rosemary has asked us to feature some non-human pet or "beloved companion".  Through the years there have been dogs and at present there are two cats who allow us to live with them, but I've chosen to write of a inanimate object that accompanies me from abode to abode. Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United  April 7, 2021



Eons ago, when I was fleet of foot and haunted antique shops in quaint little towns, I spied a porcelain bluebird looking forlorn on a shelf.  I brought him home, and dubbed him my bluebird of happiness, and gave him a choice spot in a decorative birdcage. That was over 30 years ago.  In the ensuing years when I moved, he moved along with me.  As age crept up on us, he left the cage and moved to a bookcase shelf in my library, and now resides on a sunny windowsill in my office/den.  We both have the patina of age,  He remains my talisman, my friend, my reminder to be grateful for the gift of life. 

Monday, April 5, 2021


Quadrille #125  and Linda Lee gives us wine  or a form thereof for our quadrille of exactly 44 words, not including the title.  Submitted to dVerse  April 5, 2021




On the garden arbor
sun ripened plump
purple clusters hung
ready for plucking,’
an afternoon treat
while reading under
the old elm, or destined 
for sparkling jars of grape 
jelly.  In years of innocence 
I had no idea they were
              wine on the vine.                 

Sunday, April 4, 2021



“I’m King of the Jungle“, the lion roared.
“We rule the jungle, my pride and I.”
“Baaaa humbug", replied the lamb. "Everyone
knows pride goeth before a fall.  ‘Tis I
and my flock who rule the jungle.  We’re
the flockin’ greatest of all.”

So it continues, the age-old conundrum
as old as the tick of the clock……
who is it that rules the jungle…..
Is it the pride, or is it the flock?

Thursday, April 1, 2021


Open Link night, when we post a poem of our choice.   The grass is greening, the trees are budding, and my innate optimism is flourishing.  Abraham Lincoln said "A men is about as happy as he makes up his mind to be". and I think Abe might have had something there!  Submitted to dVerse, April 1, 2021



I looked inside to find despair
And found it simply wasn’t there
I thought perhaps that I could dredge
Some past affront and bitter edge
Maybe some hated dreadful wrong
That I could pack and take along
A personal loss on which to dwell
Some bottomless pit into which I fell
Surely if I think long enough
I can find some agonizing stuff.
But, try as I might to take a tumble
Into a hopeless, tangled jumble
Faith picks me up and takes me on
To each new and special dawn.
And life continues in beautiful prism
Buoyed on by endless optimism.

Wednesday, March 31, 2021


Weekly Scribblings and we're asked to feature trees.  I have always looked at a weathered old tree and wondered at the story it might tell.  My poem is inspired by Wallace Stevens "13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird".  Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United  March 31, 2021



                  It falls from high,
                        small, brown, inconspicuous,  
                     containing promise of mighty oak

                        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


Tuesday, March 30, 2021


Tuesday Poetics, and De has given us a laundry challenge for inspiration.  “Back in the day”, washing was on Monday and ironing on Tuesday, a schedule my mother honored without fail!  Times have certainly changed!  My thoughts turned to clothes lines for some odd reason.  Submitted to dVerse, March 30, 2021.


Oddly, the challenge brought to my mind the clothes lines and not the laundry!   My first thought was of the beautiful morning glory vine that flourished on the clothes line pole at my grandmother’s house.  It was a vision to behold and impossible to ignore, since one was required to pass it on the way to and from the little outhouse with the half-moon window.  Next I thought of the grapevines that grew on the arbor beside my mother’s clothesline. The plump, deep purple clusters were a treat, once the clothes were taken down and placed in the clothes basket to be taken inside.  Aside from treats, many were destined for the jars of grape jelly in mother’s fruit cellar.  Another odd memory is of the winter laundry days when taking down the clothes included my father’s overalls, frozen stiff as if he were still inside them. 

Monday, March 29, 2021


 It's Haibun Monday, and Frank asks us to consider cherry blossom time , a favorite of poets.  There are several species of cherry trees, and I'm reminded of the wild cherry in the valleys of the Great Smoky Mountains.  Submitted to dVerse 3/29/21.


Deep in the valley where the shadows are long and the sun sips the morning dew from the wildflowers, the mists on the mountains give way to azure skies and puffy white clouds skid their way across the heavens. In the valley the wild cherry blooms, and on the hillsides the trees grow tall in their quest for the sun.  Its rays dapple the forest floor leaving warm pools of sunlight where small creatures scurry as their day begins and overhead the owl and the hawk eye them for their morning foray.  It’s a Spring morning in the Great Smoky Mountains and the ritual as old as time begins once again.  

mountains call my name
their ritual old as time
my spirit  refreshed once more

Sunday, March 28, 2021


Writers' Pantry #63 and I've had a bit of fun with Little Red Riding Hood.  (I always like a happy ending!)   Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United March 28, 2021.


The little girl with coat of red

Tucked in her basket a loaf of bread

Set off through the woods with a hop & a skip

She always enjoyed the forest trip

To her grandma’s house, all snug and warm

With never a thought of fear or harm.

The wolf himself was in the woods

Seeking his dinner and other goods

He stalked through the trees with heavy tread

Until he saw the coat of red.

She skipped so happily it warmed his heart

And he stopped in the mischief he’d thought to start.

Smiling to himself, he said

“I think I’ll not bother the girl in red.

It’s elsewhere I’ll look for what I seek

I’ll let her pass by with only a peek.

Her smile made for me a brighter day

So I’ll not bother her on her way

And so it is, and the rule is thus

What we give to others, comes back to us.

Saturday, March 27, 2021


The Sunday Muse #153   Inspired by some  words of Chief Seattle, a native American, and the image presented.   Submitted on March 27, 2021.


Great Spirit, grant me the wings of an eagle 

whose feathers I hold to carry me above this 

white man’s cacophony.  There is no quiet here, 

no place to hear the sounds of small animals 

in the woods, the quiet call of the owl to his mate, 

the sound of breezes in the elms, fragrant and 

cleansed by gentle spring rains.  Once my people 

here were plentiful as the buffalo that roamed 

these plains, now all gone and replaced by these 

who have no care for Mother Earth.


Grant me wings, Great Spirit, to rise above it all.  

Wednesday, March 24, 2021


 Wednesday Scribblings and we're challenged to feature DANCE.  My sympathies to Rommy at the loss of her dear friend.  My advanced years have occasioned me to experience such a loss many times over, and I well understand her grief.  Considering dance at different chapters of my life, my poem ends on a rather melancholy note.  Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United. March 24, 2021



Dance memories unfold

as if in a kaleidoscope...

The first awkward steps

at the school sock hop

Arthur Murray lessons

opening the door to happy

Miami nights of fun and

friendships explored

The first slow dance 

with the man I would marry

many dances following 

safe in his arms

The pain of watching others dance

after he was gone all too soon.

Longing for that safe feeling once more.

It’s no fun to dance alone

Tuesday, March 23, 2021


Poetics Tuesday, and we're asked to consider ekphrastic inspiration.  I've chosen Gerhard Richter's abstract.  Immersing myself in its color takes me away.  I think I misunderstood the challenge, so this would be Part II, ekphrastic.   Submitted to dVerse, March 23, 2021 



Abstract celebration of color

taking me to breathtaking autumn

pristine silence of snowstorms

smell of green in Spring

colors in Mother's garden

ebony eyes of my grandchild

flaming colors of sunset

nuances of blue in skies

twinkle in my husband's eyes

I absorb myself in color

for this moment in time

Monday, March 22, 2021


 Quardrille #124, and our word is "knot" or a form thereof.  The word takes me to an evening campfire, and peace settles all about.  Submitted to dVerse, March 22, 2021



fingers of flame reach skyward

scent of wood smoke soothes the senses

concerns of the day follow sparks aloft    

knotty wood burns long and best 

                   faint breeze rustles leaves overhead                   

somewhere in the shadows 

the fox is an interested observer   

      peace settles over all                

Sunday, March 21, 2021


Writers' Pantry #62.  This is an excerpt from a poem I wrote as part of a short story some time ago.  As I look out my window on this beautiful, balmy, sunny first day of Spring I'm reminded of it, and the treasure we so often take for granted.  Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, March 21, 2021


 Fiddle de dum, fiddle de dee

there's a secret to be told

to those who are seeking treasure

in search of a pot of gold.

In my lifetime there's a lesson I learned

riches aren't found in money

but in the wildflower meadow

where the bees collect their honey

Down the hill to the little creek

and the sound of its gurgling tones

as it flows ever so gently

over time-scarred and weathered stones

In the distant sight of birds on the wing

and the sound of their warbling trill

as they stop for lunch in the tangle

of blackberry vines just down the hill

Savor the colors that are yours to see

Grass so green and sky so blue

These are the treasures about us,

more than we ever knew. 

Friday, March 19, 2021


Sunday Muse #152  


                                                            Furrowed brow, steely eyes

                                                            Maybe motivated, maybe wise

                                                            Missing two important components

                                                            Noticed early in a few scarce moments

                                                            Absent are all-important eye twinkles

                                                            Lacking as well must-have laugh wrinkles

                                                            Even though you’re pretty to see

                                                            You’re simply not the guy for me. 

Thursday, March 18, 2021


 Open Link at dVerse, when we post a poem of our choice, new or old.  Mine is a new poem filled with old things!  Submitted March 18, 2021


                                                    Nazca lines and Angkor Wat

                                                    Circled stones, hallowed spot

                                                    Petroglyphs on sandstone cliffs

                                                    Oceans hiding sunken ships

                                                    Pyramids in desert clime

                                                    Hiding secrets old as time

                                                    Signs of men who’ve come and gone

                                                     Leaving their footprints as time moves on

                                                     Dreams achieved and dreams defeated

                                                    History made and history repeated.

                                                    Time to ponder and search my heart

                                                     What have I done to do my part?

Tuesday, March 16, 2021


Poetics Tuesday and Kim has challenged us to write a metaphor for being human that begins with the wrds "This being human is ..."   Submitted to dVerse, March 16, 2021


This being human is like the rock 

that breaks from the face of a 

mountaintop, landing in the stream below. 

Well-defined, shiny and sharp-edged, 

uniquely formed like no other, it begins its

journey to the valley below, gathering 

green moss from the sparkling waters, 

unaware of the rapids that lie ahead. 

The waters grow deep, sometimes murky

 but ever pushing it on its downward 

journey.  Tumbling, bruised and battered, 

its sharp edges grow smoothened and polished. 

It arrives in the valley, at last honed and pristine, 

aged from its journey, and. if it’s a lucky rock, 

enjoys a quiet time to bask in sunshine and revel 

that it survived the trip.  

Sunday, March 14, 2021


Writers' Pantry #61...Rainy days always take me back to the rainy days of childhood, still vivid in my mind.  Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, March 14, 2021


“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, sweet 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 field, 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. 

Saturday, March 13, 2021


 The Sunday Muse #151.  Isn't that just like a man?  Just as we're approaching summer, he's leaping back into winter.   I considered some Photoshop chicanery to get him headed in the right direction, but then decided he deserved whatever he got!  Submitted March 13, 2021


ah, the folly of foxy fellows

gamboling gaily on lazy summer days

she succumbed to his devilish charm

believing their love would last forever

but summer waned,  and so did he

with scarcely the flash of his magnificent tail

he leaped off in a cloud of good intentions.....

to find himself, he promised

but she and the kits knew

himself was ever a liaison away

populating the prairie 

Thursday, March 11, 2021


Grace has presented a new and different format called a Seguidilla, the restrictions of which were a bit beyond me, I fear.   Submitted to dVerse 3/11/2021 .



How can my words be tailored

To fit the detailed

Demand of minutiae


Savoring springtime

I rise to the occasion

Jubilant am I 


Wednesday, March 10, 2021


 Wednesday Scribblings, and Magaly asks us to consider broken relationships in this week’s scribblings….a painful place to visit.  I leave it to the reader to decide whether "the girl" is fact or fiction.  Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, March 20, 2021


The girl managed to reach the age of 45, still filled with blind trust, somehow never encountering duplicity and deceit nor expecting it.  How devastating was the deception and how overwhelming the knowing she was the last to know the betrayal of her trust.  Slowly, methodically rebuilding self-esteem, she ultimately became a wiser woman, but sadly never again  so open-hearted and trusting. The girl guards well a part of her self, vowing never to be betrayed again.  If you met the girl today, you would think her a strong and self-confident woman.  You would not know she carries within the deep and lasting scar.  

Tuesday, March 9, 2021


Tuesday Poetics, and we’re to write a verse epistle, the subject to be our choice.   My choice is personal and heartfelt.  Submitted to dVerse, March 8, 2021.


My dear one, my hero in blue~~

You carry me where I wish to go.

We enjoy our solitude, you and I

and yet our togetherness brings us joy.

Together we  savour country lanes,

visits to deserted cemeteries,

quaint villages and shops filled with  ephemera.

Our camaraderie improves with the years.

We both ripen with age, like fine wine.

If  I have not remembered to tell you

I tell you now,--- your faithfulness enriches me.

Of them all, you are my stouthearted favorite~~

my own dependable, reliable Buick LeSabre !

Monday, March 8, 2021


 It's Quadrille Monday, and the word of the week is inspired by the arrival of the swifts in Spring in the UK.  Our word is "swift", and our poem is limited to exactly 44 words. There is biblical reference to swallows/swifts. who are said to have appeared and removed the thorns from Jesus' crown.   Submitted to dVerse, March 8, 2021


swift as an arrow on the fly

dipping and darting

lark high and free wheeling

on a tide-looped journey 

seeking love and dinner    

on the wing 

scarcely time 

for the mud castle

            and the family               

born to fly, 

born to fly

born to fly

Sunday, March 7, 2021


Writers' Pantry #150. Sometimes dreams are so vivid we don't want to wake up. I had such a one last night. It was wonderful being young again.....if only for the moment! Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, March 7, 2021 *****************************
I was walking 
down the street 
on a sunny day 
striding along 
full of youthful 
 I saw my reflection 
in the shop window--
 back arrow straight 
butt tucked 
stomach in 
chest out.
 I owned the world! 
 Then I woke up.....

well, damn!

Saturday, March 6, 2021


The Sunday Muse #150, and we're inspired by a photo filled with mystery.  Submitted March 7, 2021


 A time capsule with mystery left unsolved. Whose fingers last touched the keys, and did they know they would be the last?  When music filled the house, who descended the stair?  Did they know it was the last time?  Did they leave together, the musician and the listener, lock the door and walk away leaving the stage set for supposition by some anonymous descendant who now holds the key?  Do their spirits lurk in the dust motes in the sun's rays through the shuttered window?  Will the secrets be divulged?

Wednesday, March 3, 2021


 Weekly Scribblings features some phrases from the Broadway Musical “Hamilton”, the story  of one of our founding fathers, and  a view of American politics at the time of the American Revolution.   My random thoughts about the pandemic feature options #3 and #4.


”Talk less. Smile more”, is a phrase hardly applicable to our pandemic times.   The wearing of a mask leaves us only the eyes to signal a smile, and renders talk to a muffled  monotone.   The problem, however, is not problematic, since we are closeted in our homes and discouraged human contact.   Life, devoid of  human touch . leaves us longing for a simple handshake, a pat on the shoulder, and desperate for a hug,  We order our groceries and shop on line, bank at the drive-up window and, for a large part of our female population, discover our hair has turned gray under the tint that has become our norm for more years than we care to count.   As for the gentlemen, no trips to the barber result in drastically different and sometimes bizarre coiffures.  Our iPhone and iPad become our closest friends, and it is not difficult to believe “dying is easy, living is hard".

Tuesday, March 2, 2021


 It's Tuesday Poetics and we're asked to consider Edges and Fringes.   I choose option  #1.To use"edge" in my poem.  Submitted to dVerse, March 2, 2021.


We have
To the
Edge of
This thing
We called 
The abyss
Is all
Too great.
I can
No longer
Cling to

Monday, March 1, 2021


 Haibun Monday and we’re asked to take a “walk down memory lane” and share some of our memories,  I tried to restrain myself, but I could have written pages and pages about life as it was then in our part of middle Illinois. Submitted to dVerse, March 1, 2021


My memories centered around the little farm which was home until I left for business college.  In the middle of the vast flat corn belt of Illinois, our little farm consisted of a red barn, a corn crib, a machine shed, a chicken house, and a garage.  My father was a tenant farmer on the 80 acres that comprised the farm.  Our nearest neighbors were all half a mile away. Mother raised chickens and sold eggs, we had a half dozen milk cows and sold milk. Mother’s large garden provided virtually all our needs.  Trips to the grocery were for sugar, flour, coffee and little else,  

The downstairs was divided into four room.  In the kitchen, Mother‘s cob-burning cook stove stood at one end, a cabinet, a sink with a hand pump which pumped water from the cistern which was used only for washing dishes, and bathing. Water for cooking was brought in from the well in the front yard.  There was barely room for a small table.  Next was the dining room which had a large table for company, a stove, a console radio, and a rocking chair for each of my parents.  The other two rooms consisted of a guest bedroom, which was rarely used, and a parlor, which was used only when we had guests.  

There were two bedrooms upstairs and no heat!  In winter, mother would heat flat irons on the stove, wrap them in a piece of old blanket and put them in the foot of our beds.  Going to bed was a quick trip up the cold stairs, climbing under a mountain of covers, and placing my feet on the warm spot provided by the wrapped iron.  Should nature call, there was a chamber pot under the bed.  I guess we were poor, but all our neighbors lived in like circumstance.  Social life centered around our one-room school and the little country Methodist church about a mile away.  Life was much as described by Laura Ingalls Wilder in “Little House on the Prairie”.  I have fond memories of being loved and happy.  

down memory lane
little was necessary
life was so simple

Sunday, February 28, 2021


Writer's Pantry #59 and we're asked to consider Love and Loss.  We all deal with loss in a different way, but there is one common thread -- we grieve at things left unsaid.  I've "tuned up" a poem from long ago that addresses the subject, a lesson we all seem to learn.  


We live day by day always thinking

There’ll be time to say things on the morrow

But death takes away all those chances

And we’re left full of words in our sorrow.

I looked at your lips still and silent

And I wanted to shout “It’s not fair!

We had things to be said to each other

How could we know there was no time to spare?”

Did you know when I sat by the graveside

And words flowed that had been left unsaid?

It seemed the world faded about me

And it seemed I heard your voice instead.

It seemed I heard “Life’s for the living.

There’s no turning back, it’s all done.

Hold close what we had while our lives touched,

But it’s time to pick up and move on.”

It’s true time heals, as it’s spoken

And I find life still good day by day

But when someone does something to please me

I try to take time now to say.

For I know our time here is fleeting

And life rushes by very fast

We must say what we feel when we feel it

Lest the moment to say it has passed.

Saturday, February 27, 2021


 It's Sunday Muse #149, and time to be inspired by the photo given.   This week's photo reminds me the veil of restriction is being slowly lifted, albeit with caution.  I'm wondering how I will respond.

The veil is lifting, and newscasts are encouraging.  This has caused me concern about my re-assimilation into life. 

I fear, for example, the first time I’m in a group I will babble senselessly, euphoric at the pure pleasure of human contact.  I will want to hug everyone, shake every hand, and just reach out and touch because I can.  

I know I won’t recognize new acquaintances because I’ve ever only seen their eyes.  

I have so much information stored to share I will want EVERYONE to come over for coffee and conversation.  

Most worrisome…….. will I adjust to wearing a bra again?   

Wednesday, February 24, 2021


 Weekly Scribblings #58 and we're challenged with a new  poetic form presented by Candy at called the Waltmarie...something new and different.  Submitted to Poets and Storytellers United, February 24, 2021.

abandoned stair to nowhere


once to some man’s dream


who marked this stair with


how many years have passed


they took their secrets with them


Monday, February 22, 2021


Quadrille #122, and the key word is "go" or a from thereof.   While cybersurfing, I cam across a fascinating article on Old English words, suggesting we use them again.  What fun!  I tried some of them out on my quadrille.  Submitted to dVerse February 22, 2021



Alas the day dawned moon-blown

and I awoke a-swerk*

I saw those scythe-eyed she-birds

in the corner where they lurk

singing their dust-tongued dirge

'til I'm ear-rent by their talk

fearful of their intentions

knowing it was me they stalk.

Forsooth,  I say,  beGOne!


* Old English definition of swerk is to become gloomy or sad.

Sunday, February 21, 2021


Writers' Pantry #58.  We're having a heat wave!  First day over freezing temps in what seems like forever.   We even had some sunshine!   My thoughts turn to warmer climes, and the ocean, and to endangered coral..  Submitted to Poets and Storytellers United, February 21, 2021

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.

Saturday, February 20, 2021


Sunday Muse #148.  I like to think that some escape!

Candy wasn’t like the rest

She refused to sell her soul

She did what she had to do

Until she reached her goal

The faceless men would come and go

But she held herself apart

Drawn to her air of mystery

They took her body, not her heart

She’d get her education

Four years to a degree

She said  goodbye to the Black Cat Ranch

And hello to the university.

The Ranch remained still the same

The faceless men still randy

The girls still talk of how they wish

They all could be like Candy.


Wednesday, February 17, 2021



Wednesday Scribblings, and we’re given some prompt phrases for inspiration.  Somehow the phrases brought first love to mind for me.  Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, February 17, 2021  The image  is by Smita Urunkar.

first love is a star-spangled

glorious rush of emotion

that takes the breath away.

suddenly the grass is greener,

the sky is bluer,

the night is bejeweled, 

and the stars burst into

constellations of dance.

grasp this golden moment,

lose yourself in the euphoria

revel in the perfection of loving

and being loved .in return.

hold tight to the golden ring, 

for love can be a monster…

or not.

Monday, February 15, 2021


It's  Prosery we're challenged at dVerse today, our writing to include the lines from Yeats " I went out to the hazel wood because a fire was in my head."  My story is fiction, thank heaven.  Submitted to dVerse, February 15, 2021.



Safe in my sanctum in the woods was my hazelwood tree.  It’s where I hid when my father came home in one of his alcohol-fueled moods.  Too many times I’d felt the cut of his belt for some imagined infraction, too many times I was slapped senseless for trying to defend my mother, too many times I went to the hazelwood because a fire was in my head and I was only a small boy with no where to turn, and only the hazelwood knew the depth of my despair. They’re gone now… he first, thankfully, and she put to rest today.  I return to my sanctum in the hazel wood, free at last of the fire in my head, and renew my resolve to give my own son a home filled with love and assurance, a safe place to be.    

Sunday, February 14, 2021


 Writers' Pantry #57.  In the midst of Covid Winter, where we're predicted 6 to 9 inches of snow by tomorrow,  it is good to revisit the blessed assurance that Spring will come and the world will turn green and full of promise, the pandemic will end and we can once again be in the company of friends and loved ones, exchanging hugs and shaking hands.  Oh happy day!   I've been  battling a bit of depression, so I'm engaging in a little attitude adjustment, and revisiting an earlier poem filled with promise and hope.   Happy Valentine's Day to my friends at Poets & Storytellers United.  February 14, 2021


I stand here in this meadow

where tall grasses nod

my weary soul listens

to the voice of God

Cares fall away

worries seem smaller

my burdens lessened

I seem to stand taller

As Spring follows winter

and day follows night

reassurance surrounds me

I am seeing the light

I listen to birdcalls

I feel the cool breeze

The world’s full of promise

I believe, I believe!

Saturday, February 13, 2021


 It's Sunday Muse #147, and we're inspired by the photograph of the Indigo Sky Mares by  Lauren  Burch.


They’ve long been  my friends, the indigo mares, since my mother told

me of their power.. On dark, stormy nights I leap astride, grasping their 

flowing golden mane as we streak through the starlight on the nimbus 

highway,  dodging lightning bolts, asteroids and all manner of space 

junk, hoofbeats drowning the sound of thunder. I fall asleep cradling their 

warm flanks and wake to morning light, refreshed and filled with indigo memories.  

The storm will have passed, and I will be safe and sound....just as mother said.  

Wednesday, February 10, 2021


It's Weekly Scribblings and we're asked to consider the phrase "pulling your punches".   I've spent a lifetime trying to curb my tendency to verbally punch first and think later, and learn to practice restraint.  I wrote this poem ten years ago, but it seems to meet the challenge so well I've resurrected it (and updated my age).  Submitted to Poets and Storytellers United, February 10, 2021,

               PUNCHES PULLED

I’m the queen of blunt, I shoot from the lip

I’m sometimes the queen of complaint

I’ve spent my life with a lesson to learn

And that’s to use a cup of restraint.

I don’t play poker ‘cause everyone knows

If I’ve a full house or a bust

They look at my face which is sure to portray

My excitement, hope or disgust.

I’ve been trying for years, ever since I was young

To get rid of this inborn taint

To master the skill of holstering my tongue

And just use a cup of restraint.

Time’s running short, I’m nearing the end

Goodness knows, I’m eighty-seven

If I can’t learn how to pull my punches 

Do you think they’ll let me in heaven?

Tuesday, February 9, 2021


 It’s Tuesday Poetics, and Sarah invites us to have fun with fungi.  I took her quite seriously, and my fun extended to a limerick nineling poem……and a bit of a devilish play on words.  I’ve been in a bit of a down mood, so this was a refreshing change of pace.  Submitted to dVerse February 9, 2021



There once was a fellow quite charming

Who went by the name of Bruce

He was attracted to all the girls

But preferred the ones who were loose

Hector was lost in a corn field

Overcome with fear

Desperate, he called for help

Saying “Someone lend me an ear”.

Two fun guys I’ve met

Monday, February 8, 2021


 Quadrille # 121  We’re asked to feature the word “embrace” in exactly 44 words. 


I  embrace the memories

of friendly gatherings

    and hugs all around ---    

a symbol of sisterhood

as lives were shared,

our own joys and sorrows

     and those of our children       

and then grandchildren

and their challenges.

Sadly now, I have only

the memories to embrace.

Sunday, February 7, 2021


It's Writers' Pantry #56, the temperature this morning was 4 degrees (yes, FOUR), and I'm having a spell of Covid blues, so I've written a pity poem.   Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, February 7, 2021. (Digital art is mine)


I’m an affable people person

Exchange of ideas is a fix

Discussion is motivation

I crave a social mix

I need a touch on the shoulder

A handshake or a hug

I want to sit at a table 

And see someone else’s mug

I’d love to see a movie

Most any kind of show

I’d be so danged excited

To have a place to go

Now I order groceries

I don’t shop inside any more

It would be exciting

Just to go to the grocery store

I’m known to be loquacious 

But I’m grounded now, you know

It’s winter in Indiana

Walkers don’t work in the snow

I’m having a pity party

But probably no one can come

We’re busy getting our vaccine

Waiting til we all get some


Saturday, February 6, 2021


It's Sunday Muse #146 and we're treated to a beautiful bit of digital art by Susie Clevenger, which spoke to me in an American sentence.  Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, February 6,  2021.


In Covid isolation, I am a caged bird searching for my song. 

Wednesday, February 3, 2021


Weekly Scribblings at Poets & Storytellers United, and Rosemary asks us to consider how we become like our parents.  This occasioned some soul searching for me.  I loved and admired my mother a great deal, but I tended to be a daddy's girl.    Submitted February 3, 2021


Mother loved everything about living on a farm.  She loved to grow things and my father used to say she'd turn the whole farm into patches if he let her.  She was forever starting what she called patches --a strawberry patch, a blackberry patch, a sweet corn patch, a melon patch and so on.  She loved flowers and she loved to garden.  I, on the other hand, would prefer sitting under a shade tree and reading a book.  During my growing up years I dutifully did farm chores, all the while planning to finish school, get a job, and become a city girl! I have often said my mother was like the little hen who hatched a goose egg,  and looked at me in wonderment thinking "where in the world did THAT come from!"  I do find that I inherited some of her good traits, such as frugality, saving something for a rainy day, and being fiercely independent.  I think it would be a great compliment if someone would say "She's just like her mother", but sadly that will never be the case.  One of my childhood memories is lying next to her in bed one night and saying, "Mommy, do you love me?" and she replied "Of course I do", and I asked "Much as there are stars in the sky?" and she replied "Much as there are stars in the sky"  and I wonder why did the child who was me have to ask......   

Monday, February 1, 2021


 Haibun Monday at dVerse, and Frank has asked us to feature the eagle.  I recently came across the story of drone versus eagle which may be of interest,   Here's my recount of the tale.  Submitted February 1, 2021  The photo was taken by my daughter in Ankenny National Wildlife Refuge in Salem, Oregon.  


Erosion has been a serious problem on Michigan's Upper Peninsula.  The Michigan Department of Environment, Great Lakes, and Energy (known as EGLE) determined to use a drone for mapping shoreline erosion near Escanaba to document and help communities cope with high water levels.  

The mapping began, with environmental analyst Hunter King monitoring progress.  About seven minutes into the flight, reception became spotty and the drone began to twirl.  It sent 27 warning messages, one oF which was that it was missing a propeller, before it splashed down into the cold waters of the lake.   The mystery of its demise was solved by two birdwatchers nearby who saw the drone attacked by an American eagle before it spiraled into the lake, and the eagle soared away, apparently unharmed.   

The EGLE drone team is considering how to change the drone's appearance so that it does not resemble a seagull, and the eagle, no doubt, is wondering exactly what manner of seagull it was he encountered!

above Lake Michigan

technology met nature

where the eagle rules

Saturday, January 30, 2021


 “For in and out, above, about, below, tis nothing but a magic shadow show played in a box whose candle is the sun, round which we phantom figures come and go”  ~~ Omar Khayyam

I know not my place in time.  Have I traversed the great white void, entered the shadows and emerged into the light where I meet the great I AM   

OR, am I spawned by the light, negotiating my way through the shadows to pristine peace, unencumbered with challenges behind and with contentment ahead?

Either way seems an acceptable destination.  

Thursday, January 28, 2021


 The daily news, dreary weather, and enforced solitude are getting to me.  It is good to have an occasional dream of being wild and free.   If it were to be so, I imagine it might  be something like this space trip.  Submitted to dVerse Meet the Bar- Beginnings  and to Poets & Storytellers United Writers' Pantry  Januiary 2021


          UP UP AND AWAY

Up, up and away to the land of dreams

Where the mind escapes, or so it seems

Last night, for example, was a remarkable ride

And oh the wonderful things I espied

We boarded our space ship, met our pilot, Android

Then sped off in our aluminum asteroid

Among all the glorious and memorable sights

Was our stunning drive-by of the northern lights

The star wranglers were busy arranging display

We rode through it all on the milky way

Ursa major and minor, the large and small dipper

Onward we sped with Android, our skipper

In the corner I noted a golden spittoon

Where they kept the skyhooks for hanging the moon

I saw the moon-jumping cow, the cat and the fiddle

The dish and the spoon singing hey diddle diddle

We encountered turbulence o’er the bounding main

The cloud walkers told us it was a hurricane

The cumulus and nimbus soon parted ways

Revealing the sun’s powerful beams and rays

We wanted our trip to go on and on

As we were enjoying the glorious dawn

It was the very best space trip anyone could take

Til the alarm sounded and I was rudely awake.

Wednesday, January 27, 2021


 Weekly Scribblings #54  and Magaly asks us to consider what "if we knew then what we know now",   which occasioned a lot of self examination....and in the end I waxed philosophical!  Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, January 27, 2021 


Truly there is no sanctuary for that from which we run.   Life’s most valuable lesson is perhaps to accept responsibility for our life path.   Whatever egregious happenstance is in our past controls us if we carry it with us like a backpack of angst.  To cast it aside and accept responsibility for what happens next is a goal which brings the satisfaction of achievement.  Some wise one said “No matter where you go, there you are”, and indeed it’s our life choices that determine where we go and who we are when we get there. If I knew then what I know now a decision might have altered the course of my life …. and I don’t think I want to change it, although I might have been gentler and kinder at times!   

Monday, January 25, 2021


It's Quadrille #119 and the word is "way".  Limiting my verbose self to 44 words is always a challenge,  I really must practice being succinct. I may need to explain that the Lone Ranger was a favorite radio show in my childhood.  Submitted to dVerse, January 25, 2021

This way and that way
In and out
Backward and forward
Round about
Befuddled and addled
Struggling to see
Which is the best way
                               To sanity                                  
I once knew the masked man
He was the Lone Ranger
Now I’m confused 
To find he’s a stranger