Tag Archives: Ragtag Daily Post

Backdoor Sliders


Backdoor Sliders

I take a break from my last chore
to peer through glass, ceiling to floor.
For though a view I never lack,
my house’s eyes are all in back.
I watch the gardener cut and trim,
the locksmith to the right of him.

One scrubs the algae from the pool—
a craftsman polishing his jewel.
A man on ladder repairs the wall,
the tree-trimmer the highest of all.
See how we tend her outer skin–
they without and we within?

Yolanda sweeps the terrace floor,
then comes inside to sweep some more.
Inside I watch and labor, too,
for there are many tasks to do.
I dust and gather detritus,
smooth out wrinkles, straighten muss.

Three days a week we labor so
until I wonder if I know
which is the owner and which the thing
that luxury and comfort brings?
Dear house, is it you that harbors me,
or am I here to maintain thee?


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The Boss:




RDP’s prompt for today is looking out of my backdoor. Since I did this prompt three years ago, I decided to reprint that post today. I had forgotten it. Hopefully, if you’ve been following me for that long, you have, too.

The Monarch of Plastic: Jan 5, 2019

 The Monarch of Plastic

We’re up against the wall, now—climbing, scratching, pawing,
as behind us in the ice, monsters are quickly thawing.
We have great gratitude for life and all the joys it brings,
but now we have to pay the price for all our pretty things.
Those lovely cars that speed us on toward our various pleasures
now ask their price in taking from us other dearer treasures.—
Breath and water we might drink and swim in with no thought—
those departing natural things our pretty toys have bought.
Plastic for our jar tops, plastic for our carrying,
pretty soon this plastic will be handy for our burying.
In the hilltops safe above our ocean’s spreading grasp,
the king of plastic sits surveying his world’s parting gasp.
Still he does not worry, for he feels safe on his throne.
unaware that one day he’ll enjoy this world alone.

 The prompts today are wall, gratitude and thawing


Random Travel

Random Travel

There’s precious little rectitude in knowing where you’re going.
Straight lines are only called for when you’re writing or you’re sewing.
I think there’s room in travel for a little ingenuity
so long as you don’t coddiwomple on in perpetuity.

The words today are ingenuity, rectitude, precious and coddiwomple. Here are the links:

(To coddiwomple is “to travel in a purposeful manner towards a vague destination.)

Intergalactic Anthropology


jdbphoto, badlands, South Dakota

Intergalactic Anthropology

Our world may be the nucleus of a constellation
viewed elsewhere in the universe, and to their consternation,
they may not be able to determine if we’re able
to support a life form both intelligent and stable.

They’ve watched as we developed fire and the wheel,
the industrial revolution , the ability to heal.
They’ve watched the growth of tyrants and they’ve watched our revolutions—
all our massive problems and our tries for the solutions.

But as the rich get richer, they’re more heedless of the poor.
The more that they accumulate, the more they lust for more.
Heedless of our artful world with beauties unsurpassed,
the practices that they pursue assure that they won’t last.

Should they contact and help us or leave us as we are—
an anthropological study of another distant star?

The prompt words were: contact, nucleus, constellation, practice





When My Sister Plays the Piano


jdb photo

This is  a poem written when I visited my sister in the first stages of memory loss. it is a bittersweet memory that I shared with only a few of you five years ago when I first started my blog but which very few people read, judging from the number of views and “likes.” This memory, as most are, is bittersweet.

When My Sister Plays the Piano

The first notes, beautiful and true, float like a memory up the stairs.
In the week I’ve been here in her house with her, she has not played the piano
and so I thought her music was gone like her memory of what day it is
or whether I am her sister, her daughter or an unknown visitor.

Yet on this morning after her 76th birthday celebration,
music slips like magic from the keys: song after song
from “Fur Elise” to a sweet ballad I don’t know the name of—
sure and correct at first,
then with a heartfelt emotion we had both forgotten.

“Midnight Concerto,”
“Sunrise, Sunset”—
song after song
in an unfaltering language—
some synchronicity of mind and hand
her brain has opened the door to.

While I listen, time stands still for me
as it has for her so often in the past few years
as yesterday and today shuffle together to
crowd out all consideration of future fears.

For ten minutes or more, she segues
from melody to melody
with no wrong note.
Then “Deep Velvet,”
a song she has played from memory
so many times,
dies after twenty-four notes.
Like a gift held out and snatched away,
I yearn for it, pray she’ll remember.

After an uncharted caesura, her music streams out again,
sweet and sure, for a staff or two—
the sheet music giving her a guide her brain so often can’t.
But after a longer pause, I know it is lost
like the thread of so many conversations.
A hiccup of memory, folding itself away.

“Come And Worship” chimes out
like the tolling of a bell.
The wisp of the old hymn, two phrases only—
before it, too, fades.

That sudden muffled sound.
Is it a songbook displaced from its stand as she searches for another;
or the lid of the piano, quietly closing on yet another partial memory?


The Ragtag prompt today was memories.