Saturday, May 28, 2022




  1. “May the wind always be at your back and the sun upon your face. And may the wings of destiny carry you aloft to dance with the stars.” ― George Jung, Blow by Blow


Daisy was a strong lady

Who played a leading role

With Daisy’s  determination

She always met her goal

She set her sights on victory

Winning never to lack

Daisy was the smart lady

Who kept the wind at her back.

Friday, May 20, 2022


FRIDAY WRITINGS at Poets & Storytellers, and we're asked to consider our observations of the depressing news of our current times.   At 88 years of age, I can hardly lead a march or run for office, but I can do my small part to spread a bit of cheer and kindness at any opportunity.  I was reminded of this poem about a lady whose small act was to plant a rose bush and bring some beauty to her part of the world.  Her thoughtfulness lingers on, and so might ours.



Mary planted roses by the door

In that time so long ago

Through lace curtains at the window

She watched them bloom and grow.

Those days are long since gone

Faded into pages of the past

But still the roses vine and bloom

Each year as beautiful as the last.

The lace now hangs in tatters

The cottage vacant and still

The oaks still overlook it all

From their spot upon the hill.

Mary is but a memory

To those who loved her best

But still her roses vine and bloom

Since she’s been laid to rest.

So we, too, leave a legacy

In small things we have done

And we leave a gossamer footprint

That lingers after we have gone.

Friday, April 15, 2022


FRIDAY WRITINGS   Magaly suggested we find something old and give it new life.  I found this golden oldie from my days as a lady executive longing for some peace and quiet.  Now I'm on the other side,  having the time to savor I longed for all that time ago.  There seems little that needs to be changed!  It's a nice reminder of how I looked forward to these quiet times....a peek at the me who used to be!   I'm sending good wishes to Magaly for a quick recovery!


As I speed along the highway

In the usual morning race

My thoughts turn back to other times

When life had a slower pace

When there was time for dreaming

And wriggling my toes in the mud

And close examination 

Of each leaf and flower and bud.

For listening to autumn breezes

As they rustled through fields of grain

And for smelling the wondrous fresh bouquet 

Of a late spring evening rain

For idling under a shade tree

When no one knew where I was

And studying the intricate mechanics

Of what makes bumblebees buzz.

For listening to trills of songbirds 

As they flit from tree to tree

While I looked for four-leaf clovers 

In grass like a great green sea.

It seems now my days are so busy

These pleasures are things of the past

I try to find time for dreaming

But life races by too fast

I think of the time when I’m older,

With time on my hands again.

How I’ll treasure those special moments

Much moreso than I did then.

For God in his infinite wisdom 

Has bestowed a very great favor

What in youth we take for granted

In old age we have time to savor.

Saturday, April 2, 2022


 Sunday Muse #205

I remember the diner

We sat in “our” booth

in the back

oblivious to everyone

Your eyes were

the bluest of blue,

your lips like

sun-ripened strawberries

waiting to be plucked

It was then we decided 

to be married

and to live




What happened

to those young lovers?

Where did it all

go wrong?

Our dreams like “our” booth

now empty and bereft

charred in the

pages of time 

Was it all

smoke and mirrors?

Friday, March 25, 2022


FRIDAY WRITINGS.   Magaly suggests we put a twinkle in our wrinkle.  I incorporated it into a poem of things I wonder about.  If only we each acknowledged the power of one!  (The art is my own).  Submitted to Poets and Storytellers United, March 25, 2022



How are you, we ask …
Do we really want to know
or is it just another way to say hello?
Are we too busy to listen
or merely too self-absorbed?
Could we save someone’s life
merely by listening to unsaid words
Could we make the world a better place
simply by each taking time to care?
Could we start a kindness pandemic
and spread kindness everywhere
Could we take time to put twinkles
in our time-worn wrinkles

Can we ever learn the power of one?

Tuesday, March 22, 2022


 Sarah invites us to put a little color in view, and gives us a delightful bouquet of words to use for our poem.  We can use any or all, and I had a bit of fun with them all.   Submitted to dVerse 3-22-22.


When the trumpet sounded, it was time for my

tea with Florence, so I donned my best chemise.

and checked the mirror.  I was beautiful, and

it was a glorious tea which ended when the 

rolling fog was coming in.   Time to throw

 confetti on the goblin masquerade,  and 

head for my hidey hole until first light.  After all,

tomorrow is another day.

Monday, March 21, 2022


Quadrille Monday at dVerse, and our word is paper.  A long-lasting debate about bathroom tissue comes to mind.  Submitted to dVerse on this firsr day of Spring,  3-21-22.


Some say they are “ready to roll”

all well and good

but which way?

Many discussions

have led 

to little


Should it roll over

or under

if you’re an over

and you marry 

an under, what then?

Ah, the great toilet paper controversy!

Saturday, March 19, 2022


Revisiting and adding a stanza to something from tje archives, for Friday Writings.  Submitted to Poets and Storytellers United on March 19, 2022.



Once I was like the rock that fell

from the mountain face into

the stream… all sharp edges,

seemingly unchangeable. 

Life happened.  Like the rock in the river,

I was tumbled , bruised and battered

on my journey, edges smoothened

and honed on my passage.

Moments of  joy, moments not, … change

softening and polishing my sharp edges, 

my solid core remaining, but enforced

now with lessons learned.

Approaching the last chapter

of my long journey, a bit weary

and contemplating 

what comes next.


Friday, March 11, 2022


 FRIDAY WRITINGS  .The Ukranian situation leaves hearts heavy all over the world, and those who look to a higher power pray for a peaceful ending.  My thoughts are with the Ukranian people.  Submitted to Poets and Storytellers United, March 11, 2022.


Broken dreams and fallen heroes

Heartbreaks by the score

People pray for peaceful ending

No more misery anymore

Save the mothers, save the children

As the fathers go to war

People pray for peaceful ending

And no more misery anymore

Strike the evil one from power

Cleanse him to his very core

As people pray for peaceful ending

And no more misery anymore.

Bring wisdom to world leaders

Help them find peace, we implore

People are praying for peaceful ending

And no more misery anymore.

Saturday, March 5, 2022



We walk about 

In our chosen shoes

to keep us

quite protected

from mud and such

there are times, however

we have a need

to dispense with them

and wriggle our toes

in the mud of life.

to  remember 

what is real

and be reminded  

to walk in faith

and never lose

touch with reality.  

Tuesday, March 1, 2022


I'm always fascinated with the way trees bend to the wind -- sometimes gently to summer breezes, sometimes tossing in spirited March bursts of energy.  My photo is of a bench under an old oak on a hill in Salem, Oregon, taken by my daughter.  Something about the bench inspired my poem...and maybe it was an impish March wind that inspired the last line! Submitted to dVerse 3/1/22.

I was there today at our oak on the rise
I remembered your tears as we said our goodbyes
I vowed to be back as soon as I could
Life got in the way, it took longer than it should
But I never forgot you and your sweet smile
Somehow I expected you’d be there all the while
Now my friends tell me I was gone too long
That our love turned into a boring old song
They say another fellow has caught your eye 
Seems I’m the only one wondering why
Some say I’m bitter and have no right to judge
I have to admit I’m carrying a grudge
But I’ll always remember the oak and the bench
And wish you’d waited……you heartless wench!  

Sunday, February 27, 2022


                                                  A BIT ABOUT ME

I was born in middle of nowhere Illinois 88 years ago, attended a one-room country school and, after highschool , Brown’s Peoria School of Business. From there, on to Miami, Florida, secretary to the administrator of Variety Children’s Hospital, worked in the Surgical Dictation Pool at Jackson Memorial Hospital, then returned to Illinois when my father had life-threatening surgery.  When he regained health, it was on to Indianapolis, where after a brief stint as secretary of the associate director of Lilly Endowment, Inc. Along the way I married and had a son and a daughter and took time being a mother.  Later  I started as medical transcriptionist and climbed the corporate ladder of Medical Records Inc. to the position of regional supervisor until I retired in 1999.  I’ve dabbled in oil painting, miscellaneous arts, creating journals, recreational writing and, of course, poetry.  I live with my son and wife in an over-55 community in Plainfield, Indiana.   I chose the photo of the forgotten villa by Romain Thiery, which inspired the following poem:

Show me a photo of something old and abandoned

And I lapse into what used to be

I wonder at what viewers will conjure

At an abandoned old photo of me.

Friday, February 25, 2022


 I am sometimes bumfuzzled with poetic challenges at various sites, and I analyzed one of my own story poems to see how it would be described as a challenge. To my amazement, it's a story poem of six tercets with AAB rhyming pattern, the B's of the six tercets to rhyme!  Funny thing is, I wrote the poem as it came to me, and analyzed it afterward!   I think my poetic style (and I use the term loosely) must be  derived from 80 years of reading all sorts of poetry.  I'm quite chuffed with myself, so I'll share it here in FRIDAY'S WRITINGS at Poets & Storytellers!   Submitted on February 25, 2022



Consider the talented spider

Who, with only genetics to guide her

Creates delicate lace filigree

Her industrious endeavor

Is devilishly clever

For she has a plan, you see.

When a curious fly

Comes cruising by

He’s headed for infinity

Before time can ebb

He’s caught in her web

There’s no hope for the fly to flee

For all of her spinning

She’s accustomed to winning

She's an arachnid of celebrity

And the ill-fated fly

Who came wandering by

Is on his way to eternity.

Thursday, February 24, 2022


 I'm always fascinated with the way trees bend to the wind -- sometimes gently to summer breezes, sometimes tossing in spirited March bursts of energy.  My photo is of an old oak on a hill in Salem, Oregon, taken by my daughter.  Something about the bench inspired my poem...and maybe it was an impish March wind that inspired the last line! Submitted to dVerse 3/1/22.



I was there today at our oak on the rise

I remember your tears as we said our goodbyes

I vowed to be back as soon as I could

Life got in the way, it took longer than it should

But I never forgot you and your sweet smile

Somehow I expected you’d be  there all the while

Now my friends tell me I was gone too long

That our love turned into a boring old song

They say another fellow has caught your eye 

Seems I’m the only one wondering why

Some say I’m bitter and have no right to judge

Things are not what they seem and I carry a grudge

But I’ll always remember the oak and the bench

And wish you’d waited……your heartless wench!  

Wednesday, February 9, 2022


Poetics Tuesday at dVerse, and Ingrid is leading us into what for me is the mystery that is an iambic pentameter.  What a frustrating time I'm having.  My quadrille far exceeded 44, so I saved it for Tuesday, but I find counting feet and iambs stresses me far more than syllables.  It renders me full stopped in my poetic endeavors, but I'd like to share my poem which is written to my own personal poetic rhythm. Mea culpa.    Submitted to dVerse, February 8, 2022



I’ll have just a nibble

I wisely said to myself

As I opened the can of mixed nuts

I’d been keeping on the shelf

I settled in my easy chair

Beside me my glass of wine

Who could ask for any more

Life was mighty fine

I think something overcame me

I’m not sure what it has done

But the glass is now quite empty

And the nuts in the can are gone

It’s really a strange mystery

No sign of intruder has shown

How do these things happen

When I live all alone?                                      

Friday, February 4, 2022


It's FRIDAY WRITES at Poets & Storytellers, and I'm in a somber mood.  Snug and warm after the seven inches of snow painted my world, I think of those sleeping under overpasses and in alleys, wrapped in tattered blankets to ward off the chill.  Submitted to Poets & Stoytellers, February 4, 2022



In the wee small hours and silence of night, when insomniacs clutch their remotes, trolling the airways for diversion, it’s the witching hour;  and darkness, black and velvet, envelops the alley.  Beneath a tattered blanket, the homeless man huddles in a doorway.  Soon the trash trucks will clang their way down the alley, collecting clotted and fetid debris from the dumpsters, and yet another dismal day will begin.  The man stirs, and draws from beneath the blanket a stubby pencil and battered journal to record yet another day of desperation.  Little remained of the man he once was but the desire to write.  


Thursday, February 3, 2022


It's OLN at dVerse when we post a poem of our choice.   We're in the midst of a winter storm, my world is white and my words reflect the effects as the storm settles over our over-55 community.   Submitted to dVerse 2/3/22. 

Snow covers the nearly identical houses
and caps the identical mailboxes
No usual parade of dog walkers 
Amazon and UPS are not in evidence.
Winter wraps the village in
silence and cloaks it in pristine white,
and in the nearly identical houses
the inhabitants stay snug and warm.
remembering  their sledding days..

Monday, January 31, 2022


Haibun Monday, and winter is bringing snow and frigid weather to many of us.  I am reminded of the story of an old cemetery on what was known as Dead Man's Hill.  Submitted to dVerse on 1/31/22.  


A winter wind blows across the deserted cemetery on the hill.  The headstones are from the 1890s, and legend has it the cemetery is from the days when, for reasons unknown, people believed occasional burials were pre-humously and some were buried in haste.  In order to prevent this dreadful demise, the solution was to tie a string around a finger of the dear departed that led up to a bell attached to the end.  Should there be any movement, the bell would ring and they would be rescued.  Hence the term “dead ringer” and “saved by the bell”. Occasionally, a person would be employed to watch the cemetery at night and listen for bells, hence the term “graveyard shift”.  These days, young lovers like to park near the cemetery on dark and wintry nights.  Some say they’ve heard the distant ringing of a bell.   

while on watch in the graveyard

a faint ring is heard

is it for whom the bell tolls


Saturday, January 29, 2022



Cat wisdom of 10,000 years

(according to Wikipedia)

Man with laugh crinkles

is one who can be trusted

(according to cat)


Wikipedia says cats have been around for 10,000 to 12,000 years.  I believe it.  Ours seem to feel they have the key to all knowledge!

Wednesday, January 26, 2022


 GOGYOSHI  -- A Japanese form of brief poetry in which there are 5 lines and title, introduced by Rosemary Nissen-Wade.   Photo taken by my daughter at Basket Slough in Salem, Oregon.


Reluctant to release the night

fog wrapped the trees

who stood silently

waiting for sunshine 

to set them free.


FRIDAY WRITINGS ... I indulged in word soup for fun,   I love the magic of words, dribbling from fingers to keyboard in an endless stream of pleasantries, mysteries,  subtleties,  vignettes, and curiosities.  The songwriter, Willie Nelson, says the air is full of melodies, just reach out and grab one.   Same is true of stories …..   the words are all there, just reach out and grab some.  If you ever feel like you were in the wrong place at the wrong time, this poem may be for you.  You just may be unlikely enough to qualify…..or not.   I just reached out and grabbed some words!   Submitted to Poets & Storytellers Friday Writing, January 28, 2122

                                                                   WORD SOUP

                                                        Common sense, good sense, nonsense, 

                                                        And those who have no sense at all

                                                        Well dressed, Sunday best, over-stressed

                                                        And those who are late for the ball

                                                        High heeled, well heeled, ears peeled

                                                        Listening for the final call

                                                        Bellicose, verbose, grandiose

                                                        And those who are exceedingly small

                                                        Not here, wrong door, my dear

                                                         It’s the first door down the hall. 


Monday, January 24, 2022


Monday Quadrille at dVerse, and the word is “shivers”.  Brrr.  In the little house on the prairie of my childhood, there was no heat in the upstairs.  Our word today --“shivers” -- reminds me of those nightly scurries from the downstairs by the pot-bellied stove up the stairs to bed on a cold winter night.  The memory inspires a poem of shivers in exactly 44 words. Submitted to dVerse 1/24/22

Remembering the shivers,

running up the stairs

to my bed, diving under 

the covers and putting

my feet on the warmed    

brick mother had put

at the foot of my bed

between  flannel sheets

under the quilts and comforters

made from worn-out coats.

Saturday, January 22, 2022




Funny thing about a candle……

When burning, it emits a warm glow
saying “all is well” and creating 
an atmosphere of content

When snuffed out, as if sending
its  resentment into the atmosphere,
 it emits an acrid scent

And those who’d basked in its warm glow
are left bereft and lost in limbo
wondering where its flame went.

Friday, January 21, 2022


It's the dreary days of winter.  No snow to pretty it up, but the sun is shining and the days are growing longer!  Odd things come to mind.  If my husband were living, this would be his 102nd birthday!   My mind wanders to mystical places and magical climes, so I'll take you along.  Submitted to Poets and Storytellers United, January 21, 2022.   


there’s a Spring called Weekiwachee

 a spiral called Fibonacci

and a mysterious land called Xanadu

there are verdant hills in Shangri-La

dramas and mysteries in Camelot

and behind the mists is Brigadoon

I want to escape the pandemic

visit these lands euphemic

and become carefree once more

in the healing world of Avalon

with Eldorado’s golden aisles to walk upon

come along, let’s escape and explore.

Wednesday, January 19, 2022


Alas, my acronym left me with a single line, tantamount to a dangling participle. What to do with a line which has nothing with which to rhyme.  Forsooth!  This never would have happened to the bard!  Submitted to dVerse Poetics Tuesday,  Januiary 19, 2022



Titillating acronyms capture the mind

Hopscotching from word to word

Each is carefully considered

Savoured, repeated and heard

Aliterations, activations, and such

Undertaken to coin the exact choice

Rendering the ditty so pretty

Upstarting until poets rejoice….

Stunned!  Satisfied!  Scintillated! 

Saturday, January 15, 2022


 THE SUNDAY MUSE ... and I try to wean myself away from rhyme ...

she hung her spectacles on a branch

and lifted her face to the mist…..

a cool cleansing of  worries 

sheltered by the tall trees

as if carefree and born anew

a new year, a new beginning

Friday, January 14, 2022


 FRIDAY WRITINGS  and idle thoughts.  I borrowed from Colleen's wardrobe, Magaly's word, and followed my muse.  I hope they don't mind!  Submaitted January 14, 2122


drooping sox and unmatched mittens

scraped knees and weathered denims

enkindled childhood memories

toasty kitchen, smells of cookies

daddy's chuckles, momma's hugs

battered table speaks of love

brothers, sisters, no matter which

it's our secret we are rich 

Saturday, January 8, 2022



some seem to speed through life like a shooting star

a brilliant light, reckless and driven,

savoring adventure, speed, and chance, 

wild and daring, taking life to the very edge …….

some meet the edge all too soon

and, like the shooting star, fade into infinity.

leaving their horizons unexplored.  

Friday, January 7, 2022


 FRIDAY WRITINGS  and here we are in 2122.  I had a rather rocky ride, which I've tried to put in humorous rhyme.  Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, January 7, 2122



2021 is finally over, how do I begin

to explain the trouble I was in?

Painful as it is to write it down,

my ‘22 ball-wear was a hospital gown!

Seemed they drew blood a million tests about

Thank heaven they finished before I ran out! 

Four days then home, goodbye with a grin

Two days hello, I was back in again

Seemed to me my worst fears now became whole

I’d fallen down the dreaded medical rathole

"Try these meds", they suggested, which didn’t thrill me

I thought to my soul they were trying to kill me.

At last we’ve adjusted, and I’m still alive

My resolution for 2022?  I just hope to survive!

And to my dear friends, all gathered here

I wish you the happiest, happiest new year!

Saturday, January 1, 2022


 THE SUNDAY MUSE, submitted 1/1/22


I  remember once upon a time

(and even then I wrote in rhyme)

the side pocket on my 2001 Buick

LaSabre spoke for places I’d been and

places I planned to go.  It was packed

with memories of good friends and

good times, and plans for further

journeys.  We were trusty traveling

companions, my Buick, my friends 

and I,  until I  finally sold it in 2020 

for a smaller model that would take 

less room in the garage. Thhe years

had passed and I remained the only

traveler.   I sold it to a deaf young 

man who needed a reliable car, and 

reliable my Buick was!  He won’t hear 

the echoes of raucous  laughter, the secrets 

told of our husbands' escapades won't shock 

him…..and he won't hear the dreams we had 

that stayed forever dreams.