Tag Archives: mother and daughter

Mother: A Photo A Week Challenge



For Nancy Merrill’s special Mother’s Day challenge, we were asked to post a photo of our mother. This is my very favorite photo of my mother and me. My mother lived to be 91 and never really got old. May I inherit that capacity from her. R.I.P. Mother!!!!  xooxox




For Nancy’s A Photo A Week Challenge.

Sneaking Up On the Muse

Sneaking Up On the Muse

My verses are not perfect. I’m no Dickinson or Byron.
My words are rough and crumpled, in need of a hot iron.
My reasoning is stifled, obscured by feeble brain.
I often have to write a line again and then again.
My successful lines are stealthy. They just creep up on me,
perhaps because my muses hang around insistently.
If I could take a stealthie, perhaps you’d see one hovering
there over my shoulder, inspiring and mothering.
In short, on those occasions when my inspiration’s slight,
and I cannot find a poem, likely my muses might!

Words of the day are stealthie, slight, rumpled, stifle and iron.

(A stealthie is defined as a picture taken by someone, usually a girl, that is clearly a selfie but contains a cute animal or object of interest in order to curb the backlash of it being a selfie, or a picture taken without the subject’s knowledge, especially using a smartphone. Retrieved from “https://en.wiktionary.org/ and the Urban Dictionary. This imaginary stealthie is of my mother, hovering over my left shoulder. She was my first inspiration and conspirator  in rhyme and still, it is her voice I hear every time I write a rhymed poem.)



My mother had a tranquil life the years before my birth,
when I increased her headaches in addition to her girth.

I was a question-asker—a most  impertinent child,
and my ever-present inquiries drove my mother wild.

The preponderance of these queries got greater year-by-year.
Why was my reflection backwards when looking in the mirror?

Where did babies come from and where were they before?
When she and daddy went to bed, why did they lock their door?

It wasn’t until later that we seemed to trade places
and then it was my mother who put me through my paces.

Why was I coming home so late? Why was my lipstick smudged?
By the time that I was seventeen, I was the party judged.

Thus did life do a turn-about concerning endless questions,
with the one who was interrogator now doling out confessions.


Prompt word today are preponderanceimpertinenttranquil and birth.