Wednesday, March 22, 2017

Like a river flowing


  Columbia River  between Oregon and Washington States

Birthed in Canada,
pure drops of water,
crystal clear,
trickle from portals
in glacier-sided mountains,
filling secret streams
Emerging hastily to catch up with
her many tributaries
Like her children,
all join her as she mightily
travels through the emerald
Cascade mountain range,
quenching her land's thirsty throat

Home to Chinook salmon and
Indian spirit lakes mirroring the sky,
'tis where I hail from,
where I was raised by
her coolness bathing my mind,
instilling in my heart passion
for pristine waterfalls,
places named for legendary chiefs -
Multnomah, Sealth, and

It led Sacajawea
and Lewis & Clark on virgin trails
through tall timbers
along its route winding to the sea
Roll on, goes the song,
roll on Columbia,
roll on

She engages along the way,
ghosts of history
who inhabit her banks
Train tracks on either side,
gigantic dams constructed,
speak of energy supplied
to people living far and wide
Separated by heaven and earth,
she is the main artery,
churning sustenance
from darkness to dawn

She is the life blood, vein in some cases.
She journeys west, nourishing
as she creates bounty galore -
apple orchards, produce,
vinyards and wild huckleberries; from mussels and clams to cedar and fir boughs, from elegant elk
to wildflowers and forests.
The population writes, reads and paints her beauty
While continually,
she flows easily into
the wide sandy
mouth of the Pacific
ocean with
sighs of relief...


Thursday, March 16, 2017



At today, Bjorn asks us to write or paint with words of impressionism in art, where the essence of the subject is brought out with light and brush strokes that draw us in. There is a freshness about the art that is easy on the eye and evokes strong emotions.

                                                                                              by Jean Mannheim

Emerging gracefully from 
around a grey corner,
spring arrives at a bleak time,
taking to task for 
not leaving sooner, hail, and
winter's slippery grime
 - where maroon vines of heartache 
now creep,
Spring bliss will line the street
birds trill in concert
with stained glass chimes
Still, hands reach for other hands 
to grasp; arms stretch for 
other arms to hold
Pink snow appears all around;
light plays with slender
beams of gold
White wisps of cotton ridges
dab the sky, breezes nudge
longing for softer days,
to stroll heathered paths
looking for the one thing that 
really matters
Removing her hat to let
sun kindle her cheeks,
she drops easily to the ground,
sensing awakenings 
Braced by one elbow,
she rests on rounded side in
a green grassy lea
 She waits for
to fill her garden bed 
After all,
Spring is appreciated

Tuesday, February 28, 2017

A Treasure to Keep

  A Treasure to Keep

Somewhere between mountains
palisading -
where rivers
serpentine safely to sea -
I stood once,
on a front porch
Three steps,
pillowed with snow,
down to the yard
-another 50 feet walk
in the whiteness
to the lean-too barn

At age two or three,
I was keen to help
Grandpa milk the cow
from his stool
Crouching down,
I knew what to do
my small hands grabbed,
pulled down, and
squirted warm milk
from speckled udders-


into a tin bucket

I learned about
loving life,
where summers tinkled with flower bells
Unaware of chasms
on the way,
storms that would ensue,
my eyes full of wonder,
eggs, chickens,
scent of hay
dreams yet to dream

"Too deep to walk in", said he.

I said, "B-b-b-but Grandpa...
you can carry me!"

Poetics at the pub today  dVerse is about a special memento,

Monday, February 27, 2017

Blowing bubbles

                            Monday Quadrille

Blowing bubbles,
 light and clear,
breeze barely touches them,
lighten me

Smooth stones between
giggling stream,
murmuring trees calm me

Nature's hush,
 sum of moonlight,
bring out
the mystic in me

Content to feel
 the reality
of life -
like a waterfall
over me

Friday, February 17, 2017

Crystal Avalanche

Crystal Avalanche by Barbara Andolsek

Walking into my dream,
 a gigantic white avalanche
spraying outward
I am the volcanic explosion
of a white mountain
Angry, my lungs scream
my chest aches;
impelled to escape the turmoil 
of my existence thus far

Voices scoff and scorn me
to never come back;
forces pluck at me, pull me apart 
like pork, rip my body
into shreds in brutal 
tearing motions,
never to speak to me again
In a flash I am flying freely
fleeing a supremacist's 
no man's land

Riding my kite's tail as it
soars into crystal ice blue sky,
I pass through sunset in a bottle
 of a marmalade mosaic
As I hold on, winds carry me
far above the snow water,
beyond my wildest
expectations to land
softly amidst love's first light

Attracted like magnets
drawn together by similar politics,
we lay semi-naked in white
chenille robes and ruby silk sheets
He is handsome, stable,
half my age, of another race
we are not a disgrace
His arms protective and strong,
his finger soothes as it traces
my face

In an awake state of illusive exultation,
I find love is ALIVE, I Am  ALIVE!!

At   we are writing with EXPRESSIONISM...expressing art with bold feelings of love, hate, anger, other emotions.


Wednesday, February 8, 2017

A cordial holiday...

Today we are prompted to use drinking words in ways that have nothing to do with the bar scene, alcohol, or drinking.


                          A Cordial Holiday

Sweet Sherry and salty Margarita sailed away
for a cordial holiday.

Leaving Manhattan, they were to meet Jim Beam
and John Collins.
At the port of Madeira, came the dismay.
Stood up...the boys obviously held a double standard.
They saw pink champagne colored reefs,
and cockatiels nesting by day,
They slurped sour lemons, ate melons with chard
They paddled into olive green Kahlua shaded water,
thick mangroves by the black velvet night.

They huddled between the sheets ,
bitter but cooler.
On the fifth day they met Rob and Roy for Irish coffees 
With the high ball of sun above,
Sherry was beciderself.
Margarita licked the salt on her arm.
A dream  fizzled, they sugar coated their error
and set sail for Curacao
in search of  the twisted Merry Widow,
met her at old fashioned Mr. Boston's wake,
partaking of  a blended absinthe milkshake

Tuesday, January 10, 2017

Grannie's roses...


Haibun prose is composed of terse, descriptive paragraphs, written in the first person singular. The text unfolds in the present moment, as though the experience is occurring now rather than yesterday or some time ago. In keeping with the simplicity of the accompanying haiku, all excessive words should be pared down or deleted. Nothing must ever be overstated.

Haibun Monday - designated day for writing a short prose story, today of a childhood memory, good or bad. This I wrote last summer and thought it fit today's prompt over at The pics are from the small farm my grandparents had during the 40's and 50's in Underwood, WA. This is my great-grandmother, Blanche, born in 1877, who once was a nurse and married a Baptist minister when living in Pennsylvania.   


My Grannie's garden boasts deep colored roses born of richly toiled soil. Their heirloom scents fill my nostrils. Reds, yellows and whites, shades of pink, orange, and mauve, we cut flowers for vases to put in the house. Some climb over the split rail fence where wind flaps dry pillowcases and sheets hanging from the laundry lines spread between two wooden poles. Crows perch there and loudly caw their song.

Her wrinkled hand touches my brunette hair, pushing back my bangs. She wipes my nose and kisses my cheek. After we pick peas for dinner, we fill a bucket with raspberries. Her arm around me we sit on the old porch swing; she reads while we rock. Sometimes we sit under the moonlight.

It was where I planted my first pansies, sweet peas and beans and stepped on an angry bumble bee. Grannie measured and marked my height by that of a lilac tree. She nurtured and mentored me in those early days as we washed and wrung clothes on the old washing machine. My dreams and ideas grew from there. No wonder I love to be in a rose garden.

A young Irish lass
grew from Grannie's rose garden,
herself now a rose

Friday, January 6, 2017

Seasons of a gang of elk...

Today we are writing  a Choka over at has a long Japanese history and is made up of un-rhymed lines or  5 and 7 syllables and can be any length.  Nature's four seasons are represented in the one I wrote below.


Sunshine's cutting bent 
on snow, sounds of surefooted
elk moving closer,
finding where the group gathers,
striking a still pose 
Winter bells ring in the spring;
when hearts break in spite 
of flowers' desire to grow,
 supported at both 
ends by millions of stars on 
strings of gold. When it
must rain we need umbrellas
so as not to miss 
hearing the band when malaise
sets in for summer
Only God knows what colors, 
hues, shades and shadows to use
Steal away time to
look for the hidden rainbows,
hear the crunch of fall

Tuesday, January 3, 2017

Back to the Drawing Board...

Beginning the new year at today, Misky asks us to write a poem for any of the art titled 'beginnings' by various artists she has posted.  I chose this "Daliesk" painting by Shay Davis :

Back to the Drawing Board...

I fell in love with you when 
you were newly born,
captured on camera
outside the window in a tree,
through the lens of history
I watched your snowy head and
fresh bawdy limbs crack open 
the shell, set yourself free
Little did you know 
how important you would be

You've already born 
our battle scars; your keen eyes 
have seen it all, the entire 
picture unfolding, 
the damage done across the land 
Flora and fauna wish you could 
save our planet from dying
We have a brave new 
generation of 
babes in the woods waiting

The world is in their hands; 
the job is immense,
but you are an icon of 
You know how to keep 
our homeland free, you will lead 
us back to our beginnings
Across the firmaments you 
will soar to restore the spirit
that built this nation before

Paint what you will on 
a new blank palette,
colors of a more perfect union
In all realms of justice, 
take away the face of evil; 
erase acts of bigotry,
undo the pain and wrongs
We are at your regal side,
ready, determined to take on
monikers of hate and inequality

Since the time the constitution was 
signed by giants of men in wigs,
  never has there been such a 
dire threat to democracy; 
those extraordinary keepers of dreams 
 gave birth to a nation of 
great hope and expectation
So don your hero's cape 
and humble fez, my eagles' son, 
and lead us in our revolution

Tuesday, November 15, 2016


At dversepoets.comdVerse today we are writing about the super moon.

Clouds covered the super moon last night where I live. Disappointed I was not in a place where I could see the moonrise, I imagined it emerging from the east, filling half the sky - when the curve of the earth is such that it appears to be much closer than it actually is. As in the movie "Moonstruck", with 'Amore' as the theme, the moon took center stage as it appeared from outside a bedroom window, while others sat down for a meal, and while the old man was walking the dogs at night. My, how they howled at its sight.

With scenes filmed in an old New York, it could have been set at the time of the last super moon in 1948 , a period story of Italian families caught up in the many sided emotional angles of love. Producers can be creative with cameras, and to me, it was the ideal big yellow moon for lovers, one I hope to see someday with someone special.

A settling down time
the full harvest moon honors
our plenty, our love


Thursday, November 10, 2016

Skylarks after the storm..

  At today we are writing an Alouette.....two or more stanzas of 6 lines each, with the following set rules:    Meter: 5, 5, 7, 5, 5, 7    Rhyme Scheme: a, a, b, c, c, b             

Skylarks After the Storm

Morningsong delight
for Isle of the Right;
trumpets' troubled notes of rain
led by a drumline
marching out of time,
flying above the terrain

Lightning edges flash
blink of an eyelash
Waterfalls beckon the flock
to bathe in the sun
The war must be won
before one man stops the clock

Miniature kites
tumble from the sky,
larks pirouette 'round corners
spreading their goodwill
throughout vale and hill,
messaging beyond borders

Harbingers of peace
warn wars meant to cease
The world has been mismanaged
Fire spits from within
to mend what's fallen,
gold leaf to fill cracks damaged

Resolve unsurpassed,
each man and each lass -
heed the call to assemble
Gentler leadership
greater fellowhip,
gleaned when earth Tuesay trembled

Tuesday, November 1, 2016

Bridges lead the way..

First frost on the covered bridge keeps us from traveling far - our trousers stiff already, noses reddened by sharp cold air. A blanket of snow on its roof waits for warmer temperatures to melt it and long icicles hanging from eaves.  I snap a photo as I cross, for what could be a long time, making a pretty postcard scene to paint and send. Decorated with sleigh bells and lights for the holidays, I reset my memories.  Not a bridge to nowhere, but to the unknown, to a future life, travels beyond adolescence.

I recall the river rising, flowers blooming, and being with friends all day at the bridge. I imagine horse-driven wagons, cattle, people parading across the bridge since before the turn of the century. Hazy summers we floated down the river, gliding under it, emerging from its shadowy earthen underside to a sunnier other side.  When fifty mph winds blew through the tunneled building, it was hard to stand up straight inside, especially  when  young lovers would meet there in the middle of the day, sneak a kiss or leave initials carved on a board.

The young do not see the passage of time in the bridge's fading beauty, only decay. Anytime a welcome sight, the old covered bridge yawns as we go along the road on our way.

Life never will be
the same; many dreams born there -
fish jumping all day

We are writing about bridges today in the haibun form, a short tale ending with a haiku.

Turning the page..

Welcome bygone souls
to a jubilant graveyard party
October wanes this night
as we feast,
become something else for a night
Glittered masks, corn mazes,
After harvest is a settling down,
inhabiting another moment in time
in honor of plenty
Awakened familiar ghosts
engage in shenanigans,
trade stories at the midnight hour
Feet kick up burnt umber leaves,
fireworks scatter and pop
La Ledrona's cries enter our chests
like carving knives
Excruciating pain replaced with joy,
returns to sorrow
Cat screeches under moonlight
skeletons hung over fences
moan and groan
Clowns scare themselves
Crow feathers drift in smoke
and ash trails
Down feathers our nests
against morning dew
Clouds break for rainbows
and November's hues

Thursday, October 27, 2016

Little Big Horn, Revisited..

The challenge today is to write using futurism and onomatopoeia in expressing our anger about what we want changed in the world. The main idea is to use tyopography and expletives for interest and emphasis...a bit difficult for me.


                                                                                                             painting by Charles M. Russell

At dawn, a warble
or cock-a-doodle-doo
The screech of a night owl,
a whoo-whooo...
Nightly thumpety-thumps
of coyote or deer stealing nearby,
splish-splashes of men fishing,
soft whispers between women working
For hundreds of years the indigenous 
knew nature's sounds
Smoke signals reigned as mass media  
Life was hard but peaceful -
before the bitter, bloody battles 
when the white man came to town,
before the murder of Sitting Bull,
before progress and
the Dakota Access Pipeline

Escalating winds
 carried echoes of angry men 
 Standing Rock Sioux filed law suits
"Freedom means safe water,
keeping our sacred land!" 
"Halt this building of the pipeline!!
..they proclaimed,
Promises broken, 
sacred land desecrated, 
not to mention more land and gold 
taken from "them thar Black Hills!!"
and building a daunting dam where 
once were only sharp chicken scratches 
and ancient petriglifs
"This stinks!!" locals yelled
Everyday life now,
interrupted by out-of-towners -
the clip-clop of horse's hooves,
the crunching of boots in dirt and rocks
silenced by traffic tie-ups, "HONK, HONK!!"
Police came from out of state;
helicopters whirred in
"They keep upping the ante!"
exclaim the supporting tribes
Tensions mount on both sides

It's not just the fish sizzling in the pan!
Fake photos and lies posted on social media;
"It's a dog and pony show!!"
Phffffst - pepper spray and ZING -
painful tazers 
"There's going to be a battle!!"
Jesse says:  
"It's environmental racism
 at it's worst!"
"Little time to react if there is a leak,"
say the Sioux
Preserving their history 
has been scissored and ground between 
millstones of greed and corruption,
The Sioux are not on the warpath 
(stereotypical bullshit)  yet, 
but it could come to that - 
only by standing up for their right 
to clean, safe water

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.