Wednesday, October 5, 2016

Lunch with Metallica..not what you think...


Lunch with Metallica ..not what you think..

Midmorning sun slants
through the dusty window pane
onto a red tableclothed table
I'm drawn to sit there 
for the garden view outside
Water served in a corked bottle,
white napkin, "Let it Be" on the CD

Scents of freshly baked 
savory pies hang under my nose, 
drift into autumn air
I squint out at Giant sunflower heads
set against outstretched blue sky;
newly mowed fields lead my eye
to the mirrored duck pond

A cup of green tea 
served steaming in front of me,
a slice of  warm loganberry pie,
two dollops of vanilla ice cream
sandwiched between buttery crusts
Against the barn wall,
dusty pink roses still blooming

Outside, two dragonflies
dance up to the glass,
agile movers between sun and leafy
shadows, jewels blinding me
Teal sequined bodies shimmer, 
Darting back and forth, 
Anisoptera wings maneuver into
a holding pattern

Finding me,
emerald eyes seem intent on
studying me,lingering curiously, hovering,
Mermaid-like, their iridescence dazzles me
Earthmates, we commune for an instant
Then, they dash away across
the mirrored pond

It is Open Link Night and I am posting what was supposed to be for another prompt. See what others are writing about by visiting

Wednesday, September 28, 2016

How is your life aligned?

At today we are writing in response to photographer  Emily Blincoe's project,  "Arrangements"  Please check out the rest of her art on her website.

Interpretation of art
is very personal
I love how similar objects
beg to be arranged.
Each photo is its own

Images invoke certain feelings,
memories, touch a nerve,
categorized by themes
For instance,                                                                 
Picasso had his blue period,
Warhol his extremes

Musicians may express
themselves in theory only,
Graphic artists in basic
Impressionist are more
focused aesthetically

An artist's eye for color and hue,
juxtaposition and shape
appealing is the affinity with order;
beauty is in the positioning

Balance is crucial,
colors in rainbows aligned
Like next to like,
a story is told
yet differences abide

I, myself, fall into
a more abstract category,
or random gatherings
No, not chaos, nor rigid form;
more, in a clump,
a state of upheaval,
naturally found, in its own way,
sublimely divine


Thursday, September 15, 2016

Collaborative Haiku 

With bright red-cropped hat  
through green leaves staring at me
Pecker find old tree

Three Clerihews

At today we are asked to write as a challenge, a Clerihew, a poetic form invented by Edmund Clerihew Bentley (187 5 - 1956)  It is a short and fun biographical verse with two rhyming couplets.

       Amal married George Clooney
       He certainly is no gooney
       She wears tailored two piece suits
       Her persona was enough to seduce


       Most traveled was Marco Polo
       He sailed and explored the world solo
       From his escapades inspiration was drawn
       What women did he discover in the land of Khan?


        Oh, how I loved Santa Claus,
        his rosy cheeks and schnozz
        Always jolly, in his red suit ate popcorn
        His whiskers like a snowstorm




Wednesday, August 31, 2016

The Woman in the Moon..

The Woman in the Moon...

I am slightly out of the circle,
yet hold two poles together
I always take a neutral stance
I've searched the world for meaning
and rode on a bicycle in
the Tour De France

On pure, clear nights, I watch
true love bloom at water's edge
as men stoop to one knee
I fill souls with romance
I am the woman in the moon
watching my own shadow dance

Making my rounds, I pull tides 
and pour moonlight on the sea
I show off my radiance
I am mainly in a state of flux
Concerned about my privacy,
I take breaks to reflect

I observe crucial world events
Buttermilk tears in vanilla eyes
I see such suffering and pain
I hope for peace, but in vain
Tides and calendars I chronicle,
my moods are illogical
Follow me as I wax and wane

I steal across curves of the earth
My role and face change frequently 
I am a prop for owls and bats,
you see,
and frequent listener to lullabies
Find me in Tarot Cards and art
I love pussycats and sunrise

I scowl at storms who keep me
from sending inspiring quotes
to Yeats, Gibran, and Anin
I breathe Lennon songs across 
a celestial terrain,
encourage spirits pioneering

I cast moonbeams in subtle ways,
I blend with any crowd
Of dreams I am a weaver,
sailors sing Amore' out loud
I invite believers
I grab stars and rearrange them,
 put them back again

People in Miami boast of my eggs
I eat grapes, rye bread and cheese
Wine causes me to blush
the shade of an orange martini
Cows jump over me
I've seen the birth of a hermit thrush

Before I slip beyond the horizon
or disappear in wisps of blackberry smoke,
I kiss all the children goodnight
Proud of the guidance I provide,
I am the woman in the moon,
Lucky lady, shining bright

Today we are writing about the moon over at dVerse
Take a peak and read other poets' posts

Wednesday, August 17, 2016



...where we write today about sounds of love...


In Malaga, 
lips quietly sipped wine
Strings, piano, 
and bandoneon unearthed inside her 
new thunder, penetrated tender 
chambers of her heart 
Bodies, boots and heels 
tangoed an angry, yet innocent 
poetic cadence, 
resonating across shiny tile floors

Rustic arias 
floated in the night,
descending on the terrace 
of Torremolinos, 
where they stayed
Noise of clanging swords embattled 
in Quixotic dreams of chivalry 
echoed in her delicate ears,
her senses overcome with images 
of giant windmills

She was not deaf to 
the sonic whispers of dolphins,
or the sighs of distinguished red roses 
rising to screams of pleasure, 
then cascading over 
the garden gate.
From a church above, 
morning bells tolled
lingering till the hum of release

She awoke in the arms of her lover
overlooking the Costa del Sol

Wednesday, August 3, 2016

Fear of not finding the truth...

Today we are writing about fear, in any way shape or form....

Fear of not finding answers ~

I wish to be unfettered by the news 

of plague amid all manner of rumblings 
of the earth
From my helpless, hopeless feelings toward 
an angry society,
I turn only to what I know to be true, 
my experience and what is at hand

I place my pen down on the blank page of 

my notebook, where I sit on a twisted 
driftwood log, 
unable to write my life as a book, 
or any book, with beginnings, a mid-life, 
and a smashing ending.

I pluck yellow flowers, mini-spindled 

notwithstanding their deep running roots, 
growing from under 
the sand at my feet, between wood and smooth rocks 
close to the waves

I place the stems on the same page beside 

the pen in the book
as the flowers already begin to wilt
Flowers pressed temporarily inside a book, 
await rediscovery 
as I check my mind again for unfound words

How will I know how it all unfolds 
after I am gone?
Faint gull calls, a distand train whistle
ride a brisk winds to my ears
Perhaps traveling longer the path I am on
will provide answers, an easing of  my fears

I take detours through what is left of the 

forest of elegant ideas and 
unfulfilled dreams
I fear not knowing everything, the sum 
of the equation, the punch line of the joke
Is there more? Why or why not nothing else?

I build a small fire with wood shavings and

tinder gathered from the forest's dry floor 
I blow on it, hastening the warmth for cold hands
I feel a oneness come over me as 
the essence of pine penetrates my soul.

Friday, July 15, 2016

July's Dance

Robert Hagan 1947 - Australian Impressionist painter -

Driving the convertible 
with the top down
along the coastal highway,
mirages shimmer while hinged 
to hot asphalt before me
familiar aromas of the seaside
and on the radio -
 a blitz of summer hits 

White sand on my nose and
between toes, cures woes 
lingering near me.
Andalusian colors and 
ambrosial scents of rose hedges 
meet billowy clouds 
at mfavorite beach and 
sail into my heart 

Caressing my ankles, 
sparkling sea gems circle 
in water;
  ringlets of cares 
subside in sea foam
With sounds of gulls and waves
my sadness leaves me.

At night, a tiger sky 
descends around me
Ancient whisperings
lead me to dance in firelight
I sleep in tall grass 
bathed in moon light,
awake to a new dawn
These things complete me 
and restore my soul

Tuesday, July 5, 2016

How stars are born..

Posting today over at imaginerytoads website where you will find more poetry with ditties and other images of frogs and stories..

Within the sanctuary of the soul
abides a spark,the innermost ache of
love -
infinite stories of all the ages,
joys, tribulation, sculpted images
of shed tears 
And when one feels forsaken, and does not
fathom the reasoning why, miracles

Acceptance transforms us, in contrast, to
a state of sheer delight in living through
grace -
light from trillions of stars touches us, spills
into our divine space, and splashes our
into tapestries of art all around,
surrendering to the echoing songs
of eternity

Wednesday, June 22, 2016


To the tune of the song Summertime in Porgy and Bess, I've written another version of how it might read; I doubt there is nothing quite like the original, however....such images it evokes!

Summertime, and the cool lake beckons me
Days are lazy, and fireflies are nigh
A pole to push 'n' pull the raft round the bend
Feel the breeze blowing,
hear the magpies cry

Summertime, and the earth hums tenderly
barefeet and rain, and smell the crayfish fry
Bait on a hook, as you lean against a tree
bees making honey,
kisses your nose, a butterfly


Friday, June 17, 2016

End of the Affair...

I could not say goodbye
to my lover
"Hasta la vista baby" was my mantra
Ties broken, desire receded
into the bleakest bleak oblivion

No longer arrive sweet spicy letters;
there is no 'keeping in touch',
yet lingers the smell of
heady cigar smoke
Out flame! Out spark!
Forget the number I wrote
on the menu 
in a French restaurant

My heart sprang free today
I'm dancing across the moon now 
with a mad Sicilian
Forgive my callousness,
my dear....but oh, 
by the way, 
how is Vivienne?

Wednesday, June 15, 2016

Southern Comfort...

At We are writing about statues, breathing life into one of our choosing


At midnight, soft moonlight
accents her halo
where in the garden she stands
balancing, with each arm,
two bowls, 
offering water
and seeds to the birds
Long ago, she was named Wendy,
by people who commissioned the work
of this lovely maiden
in her stone skirt...
could she have known Captain Hook
and Peter Pan?

The hauntingly young girl 
had ironically 
just begun to live
when 'Old Black Magic' cast a spell 
her way
Locals subjected her 
to embellished stories 
of forbidden fruit and gossip
In awe, they imagined
who she was
Why did she die so young?
Was she a victim of 
a bizarre or elaborate plot?

She attracts photographers
and dreamers alike
Like the scale of justice and Libra
Her tilted head pose 
and winsome gaze
could mean a choice was made 
between "Good' and Evil"?
Her posture could symbolize
a fork in the road, 
or a road not taken?

Arms bent at the elbow, 
in a park in the deep south,
mystery lies in folds of her attire,
 untold secrets covered
with new green moss
On one hand, 
it could imply unrequited love; 
on the other hand,
suggest she met a nefarious fate
In Savannah live characters
 of all kinds 
where Voodoo has a way 
of influencing things
In the inscription
carved in the footstone,
 it reads not of  suspense or murder
or illness, 
but states her ordinary yet artful
tapioca resolve

We are confident, I say, and willing rather to be absent from the body, and to be present with the lord.
Corinthians II

Thursday, June 9, 2016

Can you hear (see) me now?

What innovations lie ahead
as cell phone capabilities advance?
Our main connection
to our friends, they're handy
for news at a glance;
for emergencies,
aid is close at hand
Faster, pulses race!
What about a slower,
more personal pace?

What about a more intimate touch,
meaningfulness, for which we yearn;
deep conversations,
innovative ideas, great notions,
beauty to discern
Is it enough or too much -
to make life easier,
to now and then allow us to win a game
Siri of iphone fame understands
it just won't be the same

Now when a man asks Siri,
"May I see your breasts?"
she responds with...
"That question does not compute."
For expressions of love,
there is just no substitute
Imagine a future when she appears-
an apparition in front of you,
gives you a sexy glance
and a tender kiss
A chance at romance
But don't expect me to care;
unless, to make it fair,
there would also be an app
from a man called Lance,
who answers with a deep voice-
lets me touch his hardened abs
It would be, of course,
a socially redeeming
and enhanced app -
under the circumstance,

Tuesday, May 24, 2016

Coming undone...replenishing, or repairing frayed circuits..

Today is haibun Monday over at I have not posted in awhile but with a short break from busy recent weeks, I thought I'd give it a try. In prose or poetry form, it reads the same; I'm not sure which sounds better. We are writing about clearing the mind and relaxing.

Her climbing skills curtailed long ago, she travels still short distances. She dares not let up in her persistence,  pauses at a grassy knoll, hears the faint sound of what could be a piccolo. In her calves, clots in twisted veins remain, map of winding rugged roads meandering, the story of her life travels; miles beg to be unraveled, causing legs to bleed. 

She rests by a spring-fed mountain stream; sun-light sparkling from it sends gleams to her hair. She splashes her feet clean on smooth flat rocks, douses with wild roses her worried locks, inhaled scents of wet grass and white pear. Dashes of light meet furrowed brow, where unruly lines spread and  underscore life's quakes; crow's feet extend much deeper now.  

Memories, earliest to the present, careen; years of tears cried are unleashed, freed. The pain in her legs abates as crooked becimes straight. Upon an invisible keyboard scale, notes play in air a melody.  She swims in deep river veins, unafraid, no longer encumbered or cast about.  She turns her back, showingn+ hues of the rainbow; no more flounders a shiny silver trout.

Ablation of veins -
healing portal to the sea
of new clarity                                                              

Monday, March 28, 2016

No Regrets - Haibun Mon. # 10

 We are taking quotes about cherry blossoms by other authors and using them as a cue to our own Haibun today.

“When cherry blossoms

scatter –
no regrets”  Issa

Cherry blossoms remind me of spring days past, pleasant memories of good tidings and long ago Easters, blue skies, and families together. Standing out are the April showers with rainbows, May baskets, and walking through blossoming cherry orchards. The trek home after we got off the school bus was delayed because we loved playing in the neighbor's huge cherry orchard. The grass was green and tall with pink fallen snow all around. We took high steps through it, sat or lay down among them and day-dreamed, and plucked small twigs of pink and white to wear in our hair. Beyond, the mountains and rivers smiled as light breezes flowed through the gorge valley where we were raised as glass chimes could be heard from nearby porches.

As a burgeoning teen, it had such a positive feel. The future seemed endless, bright and full, as if nothing could ever stand in the way of happiness. I'm still unsure if "happiness" in itself is our goal to achieve in life. When other aspects of life seem to dominate, choke out the feelings of elation, rejuvenation and newness, it is a big challenge to maintain. Routine activities, work and study are necessary in our lives. Then crisis, ills and otherwise bad news follow us all the days of our lives. Anything is possible to happen at anytime 

Instead, we understand and accept that as we strive to experience happiness, it arrives in brief segments, opportune moments of sheer delight that come to us unexpectedly. We savor the small simple joys and make them last as long as possible. We try to view all events with courage, with wishful and hopeful thinking and therefore, positive outcomes. Cherry blossoms symbolize this eternal struggle to smile amidst the grief. 

When life is less bright,
cherry blossoms at your feet
uplift and comfort

Thursday, March 24, 2016

Awakening - a Quatrain Refrain

Awakening ~

Vistas from snowy mountain tops
seek balance with greening valleys
She emerges blitheful from sleep

Undercurrent powers shifted,
winds blow, new life set free to grow
Edges swell, winter's palm lifted 

Unstable avalanches steep,
changing vistas from mountain tops

Today at we are writing quatrain refrains:
A quatrain refrain comprises eight lines:  two tercets and a couplet, eight syllables per line or iambic tetrameter, your choice, first line is a refrain, repeated as the last (some variation acceptable).
Rhyme-scheme: A-b-b
A = refrain line. c/c refers to line five having internal rhyme which is different to the a- and b-rhymes. The midline rhyme does not have to fall exactly in the middle of the line

Friday, February 26, 2016

The cat's meow

dVerseWe are writing from the First person perspective today  @

Of the morn, my gold-green eyes
meet hers, hazel, as we lay supine
Impressions left in bed sheets
when we arise
to a new day's dewy shine
Quivering and cold,
last night outside,
my coat shimmered
under the moon
racing with my shadow
I ran inside to the warm fire,
but none too soon
I see her as an angel,
Our yin and yang in balance,
so no coincidence -
our lives are naturally spun
into our own honeycomb,
Fate must have led her to me;
it's just the two of us,
you see
Her breath is uneven when
she holds me close
I snuggle against her body
to calm her anxiousness

I watch how birds land
on her shoulders when she calls;
with a single wave of her arm,
flowers spring up the garden wall
Seasons collide, the earth moves,
and life goes on,                                                                                              
but we live on Island time
I nap on her lap and we dream
of riding giant mice and
chasing birds back into the trees

I will keep her young by
playing with balls of yarn
I kiss her hand, put my paw
on her arm
She combs my hair,                                                                         
one hundred strokes a day,
serves me a queen's fare,
cream on whiskers with whey
I can't turn back the page to yesterday,
but I will escort her across every
bridge along the way  
A privilege to be with her
(she thinks of me the same)
I lick her tears of joy and sadness away 
This vessel called love transports us
to where we belong,
and where we long to stay.

Tuesday, February 23, 2016

The Mockingbird Song

We are writing a narrative today in response to the death of Harper Lee who wrote To Kill a Mockingbird. We are to honor her in some way depicting a scene or the word mockingbird, or something else. I chose to focus on the theme. Taking place in the Depression Era 30's in a fictional rural town in Alabama, poverty and religion carried with them deep hatred and anger from the events of the Civil War.

She read the book first, of course; it became her favorite. She believed she was Scout, Atticus's daughter. After all, in real life, her father was an esteemed lawyer with his own respectable practice tucked in the back room of an auto parts store in a small town. She looked up to him.

She had a brother like Jem, too. They shared adventures growing up. The anecdotes of Boo Radley storing a small toy Indian and other items in a tree hollow was something she and her Jem could easily imagine. They used to run from the old man who lived in a shack in the neighborhood with upward of 39 cats.

But when Scout observed racial tension and slavery, she learned life is not fair, courage not always rewarded, and justice does not always mean winning, They admired their father for what he dared take on to change, if but a small slice of the world. After all, she grew up in the turmoil of the 50's and 60's.

Surely, the mockingbird referred to in the title had to be the same one in one of her favorite tunes as a child - Patti Page's Mockingbird Hill.  "Tra-la-la....,,.tra-la di dee dee" ....Scout always associated the song with the movie in her own mind, even though the movie was renowned for its beautiful soundtrack as well. Surely there was a real Mockingbird Hill just beyond town.

All said and done, Atticus, was an excellent father and righteous man. He could do no wrong in Scout's eyes.  In the real life story of Scout, the reader, however, racism became the storm that hovered over and the blister that festered between father and daughter. For when it came to his own daughter, her falling in love with a colored man would not do!
"You have no idea what you will be up against," he said. "I forbid it."

A father's love is not perfect; they do the best they can do. We discover they are not always as tolerant as we believe. Without his blessing, it was not to be. But it did not end then, not yet, as the couple fought to stay together and succeed. She became so worn down and resentful, her love let her go. Disappointed and her heart broken, she felt betrayed. The relationship with her father was permanently damaged and she found it hard to trust again.

Hence, no happy ending as in the timely advent to the big screen,"Guess Who's Coming to Dinner"- with Sidney Poitier, Spencer Tracey as the father, and Katharine Hepburn....and what Scout's father did, in her real life, was something I'm sure Atticus Finch would never do.