Category Archives: Poem

Humble Up to a Point

Humble Up to a Point

I’m not noted for my moxie. Not famous for my wit.
When I tell a joke, I rarely get away with it.
My asides are not whimsical. They’re lacking in their zest.
The laughter they occasion is optional, at best.
When they hold a contest in delivering a line,
I promise you the loving cup never will be mine.
And though it would be wonderful to be life of the party,
I’ll have to make do with being brilliantly arty!


Prompt words are contest, whimsical, optional, moxie and wonderful. (Amazing that three of the five prompts, all taken from different sites, actually rhyme with each other! ) What are the chances?




We perambulate the meadow, our eyes drinking their fill,
our memories straying farther up over yonder hill.
The tirades of an angry world do not survive the climb,
leaving us to peacefulness simple and sublime.
The higher up thoughts wander, memory grows hypoxic,
screening out the terrors of a world that has grown toxic.

Wild poppies sway and bend to currents fresher than below
as what we both remember overtakes what lies below.
We draw fresh energy and joy from everything we pass.
The cicadas churr rain’s promises from the obscuring grass.
Small creatures race for burrows, unaccustomed as they are
to the human menace that approaches from afar.

But our thoughts pass without harming, for memories pose no threat,
and we shed years and worries the higher that we get.
Remember all those years ago, those passions that we shared
with each new faltering kiss and each new secret that we bared?
Though the present is what nourishes, youth vanished way too fast.
What harm can be in going back for a light repast?

Prompts today are memory, passed, thoughthypoxic, tirade, perambulate, fill.

Picking Your Pieces



Picking Your Pieces

Invest in possibilities and bifurcate your worries.

Soon enough these balmy days will change to winter’s flurries.
But why let future problems intercede today?
Best enjoy the present and put future woes away.

Being in a smaller pond makes you a bigger fish,
so whatever your situation, exercise your swish
and live your life with flair and joy. Wring all the zest from life.
It does no good to drown yourself in thoughts of gloom and strife.



Sometimes I find that in this life I get what I expect,
so when life hands you troubles, why don’t you just object
and turn those woes to prospects and insist on being chipper?
Why choose to be a pessimist when optimism’s hipper?

You might call me a dreamer, but that’s okay with me.

Why be imprisoned by your doubts when you could be free?
Life needn’t be a puzzle. It can be a quest.
Pick out the parts that you prefer and throw away the rest.





fish, bifurcate, invest and object.

Morning Chorus

Morning Chorus

Our rate of arboreal motherhood is getting out of hand,
with every brand new nestling cheeping to beat the band.
They lift their buoyant little songs to bob upon the air,
at least three tiny gaping beaks in each lofty lair,
pleading for some sustenance—a cricket or a worm
gathered from a garden plot or a roadside berm.
Mother bird and father bird chirping out their greeting

as though to give assurance of every round of eating.
This ear-splitting chorus merely nature’s way
to provide an overture to announce the day.

Prompts for today are buoyant, brandarborial and motherhood.

Directional Confusion

Photo by Daniel Giannone on Unsplash

Directional Confusion

The part of my brain that is least to my pleasing,
(most limited and therefore fodder for teasing,)
is my sense of direction, which isn’t the best.
I simply don’t know which way’s east, which way’s west.

Thus, between friends it is frequently spoken
that I am geographically broken.
When it comes to driving, I have the dexterity.

It’s just a matter of lacking temerity.

Such things as location and proper direction
just seem to be out of my reign of detection.
Expeditions to L.A. end up in Long Beach—
my talent for getting there just out of reach.

It’s not that I’m dumb, but it seems that the section
of brain that determines location election
just didn’t develop in the usual manner.
I lack other people’s inbuilt radar scanner.

I don’t mind the driving if you’ll man the maps.
From the start to the finish, just fill in the gaps.
I’ll turn when you say to. I’ll exit with ease.
Just do not demand that I navigate, please!

Photo by Joshua Coleman on Unsplash

(Unfortunately, although hyperbole, this one is not fiction.)

Prompts for today are expedition, dexterity, teasing, fodder andsection. Photos from Unsplash used with permission.


Happy Hour

Happy Hour

Let’s get together to workshop our souls,
then toss our past regrets back in their bowls.

Though life’s a lottery, full of calamity,
we are the agents of all of its amity.

Choices we make determine our ends.
Fate’s only responsible for its trick bends.

You bring the biscuits and I’ll provide wine.
We’ll discuss life as we sip and we dine.

No better remedy for life’s aversions
than hors d’oeuvres and drinks to provide our diversions.


Prompt for today are workshop, lottery, biscuit, calamity and agent.

Plum Pit, Apple Core


Plum Pit, Apple Core

Never saw an apple tree, never saw a plum
that I didn’t want to reach out and get me some.
Bite into the fleshy fruit. Chew around the pit.
Spit it out into my hand to get rid of it.
Dig a hole to bury it. Smooth it with my heel
to grow another fruit tree for a future meal.

Such a simple motion in a world grown gross—
most folks isolated, fearfully morose
about  nature’s rebellion against humankind.
Reaching deep within her and taking what we find
without giving back again—everybody keen
on scraping out her riches with some grand machine.

For manifold acts of mankind, dangerous and mean,
nature has not found an adequate vaccine.
But, by giving back again, we signify devotion

to start to rectify our sins with a simple motion.
Let’s help her out by simply remaining aware
that each and every one of us needs to start to care.

By every single action, let’s demonstrate our wills
to rectify our heedlessness, atone for all our ills.
For everything that we take out, putting something back.
To therein change our dangerous course and take another tack.
Just a simple gesture, signifying more.
Building back our world pit after pit, core after core.

We talk about solutions, never coming close—
spewing words not actions, maddeningly verbose.
But if every person just took their life in hand,
polluting less, enriching their surrounding land,
perhaps we’d shift the balance, tree by tree by tree,
restoring our world to what it’s meant to be.

Prompt words today are plum, motion,  vaccine, verbose and never

Runaway Bride

Runaway Bride

I hear church bells in the distance.
Yesterday I thought I would be there,
but here I am, the runaway bride,
standing by the side of the road
with the suitcase I’d packed so carefully for my honeymoon.

I try to imagine what Richard is doing right now.
What he might be thinking.
Is my mother regretting the money she spent on my gown?
Is my father wondering about the reception—
whether they will just carry on
since he will have to pay for the hundred meals
whether they are eaten or not?
Will my sister blame me forever
for the dress I’ve made her wear with no payoff?

Who will announce
to the assembled guests
that the bride will not be in attendance? 

A truck slows. In the back are cages of chickens
and one muddy pig.
The old farmer asks where I am going.
“Anywhere you’re going,” I announce,
and hitch up my skirts,
flip my bridal veil over my shoulder
and climb up into the pickup. 

As we take off to wherever,
I notice that my veil has come off my shoulder.
Through the side rear vision mirror, I can see it 
flapping cheerily in the wind
as we drive past the church,
and I see the groom, mouth agape.

I do not wave good-bye.

Narrative Poem for dVerse Poets. Photo by Dylan  Nolte on Unsplash, used with permission.



Peeky-Kitty’s surveying all
from his nest up on the wall.
He hears the car before it enters,
then sees his mistress as she centers,
trying to avoid the case
that serves as Peeky-Kitty’s base.

Balanced there upon the shelf,
he does not deign to stir himself.
He only opens one green eye,
raising his head only nose-high
over the corner of his bed,
for he has already been fed.

Though he’s been waiting, hour on hour
here in his padded leafy bower,
his lady’s home now, finally,
and since he has no need to pee,
he’ll close his eyes and sink back, curled,
content that all’s well in his world.

This is often the sight that greets me through my windshield when I drive into my garage. In this case, Pasiano had balanced the bed of the kitties up on the  top of the storage cupboards to make room for three big garbage bags full of mother-in-law tongue plants my neighbors had weeded out of their garden and contributed to me to put down in the lot and along my front wall. At other times, they owe their lofty perch to the fact that Yolanda has swept and swabbed the tile floor and put their bed up there so it won’t get wet.

May/December Marriage

May/December Marriage

She rises up from her repose,
kohls her eyes, contours her nose,
puts on the diamond and the gold
for which her liberty was sold.

Dons her linen, silk and fur.
Puts on fresh perfume to obscure
with bergamot and rose and myrrh
those memories now but a blur.

This will be her life hereafter:
less spontaneity and laughter.
All her beauty and her charms
cradled in an old man’s arms.

Prompt words today are repose, gold, laughter, fresh and blur. Image by Bibek Thakuri on Unsplash, used with permission.