Monthly Archives: November 2013

Slightly Used

The cost of the Nike Lebron 11
basketball shoe
is $200.00.
The world’s largest retail chain
has over 100 kinds of children’s shoes
for less than $30.00 in their
online store.
Twenty percent of the world population
does not own a pair of shoes.

There are at least
four pair in the back
of my closet that I
never wear.



Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts

While a Kingdom Falls

Actors and fools perform in the crumbling halls,
kings of little power haunt corridor portraits
while knights tilt at phantoms beyond the broken walls.

Jesters distract from things of import with their dance and gall,
the court bows and fawns at the throne of the once great,
actors and fools perform in the crumbling halls.

Decadence is an event they can no longer forestall,
mothers shield children –cover eyes and ears — and wait
while knights tilt at phantoms beyond the broken walls.

The elite of academia rewrite a history few recall,
oblivious to the reality beyond the golden gates,
actors and fools perform in the crumbling halls.

The free warrior is outnumbered by the willing thrall,
who abdicates all thought and liberty to monarchical dictates
while knights tilt at phantoms beyond the broken walls.

What was once magnificent has become small,
an ideal replaced with the remains of a royal estate.
Actors and fools perform in the crumbling halls,
while knights tilt at phantoms beyond the broken walls.


Loosely inspired by Margo’s posting of the Danish
Royal family portrait, which is both fabulous and bizarre.
The  form is a villanelle, because Viv said I could.
I still do not care for the rhyming much, and this feels
rather choppy. As always, a work in progress.


Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts

To Hide or Seek

The cautious, ever wary of any hint
of danger, avoid ledges, looking behind
hedges and undo exhilaration.

The curious seek the thrill of adventure
and exploration, search for the taking
of breath and racing of pulse.

The same end is inevitable for both.


for Three Word Wednesday


Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts

Ripples and Reflections

It is fitting my time should end
in this place and this season,
with the waters calm
and the colors fading.

Spare me the musty embrace
of earth’s last grasp,
or the ashy kiss of a final fire.
Instead, place me in a boat
and push me from the shore
beneath an afternoon sun,
so that I may float among
the reflected leaves
until nighttime falls.

May the ripples of my passing
bring more joy than those
of my life.


for the image prompt at The Mag


Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts

A Regular Customer

Margo’s exercise for this week is a poem combining elements of eating and weather, and doing it in third person. I still struggle with doing effective third person. I tend to switch back and forth to the omniscient narrator and overuse pronouns (he/him/his in this case).  Still, a poem is written, which is better than not.


We all recognize him — tips well,
never rude or demanding, nothing
complicated in his order — when he
comes in, by himself late in the afternoon.

He sits at a table facing the sea
and takes his time ordering. The food
may be different — today it is oysters —
but he always drinks red wine.

The surf holds his attention, and I
often notice him following the
progress of the beach walkers as they
fill the void between land and waves.

It is rare for him to have more
than two drinks, always saving
the last swallow for a toast
to the sunset before he leaves.

Today, there is no sun,
and the storms in his eyes
are a perfect match to those
on the horizon.


Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts


They found them — brittle
and brown,
stained by age — pressed
into the pages of books
she would never allow
to be sold;
letters from a lover
none of them had
ever known.


For the image at The Mag


Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts

Comparison and Contrast of the Causes of Tears

Physical pain befuddles thinking,
splashes in a murky puddle,

a race on lanky legs
through marsh land
with no guide, map or directions.

Emotional trauma will isolate
the smallest of sensations,

follows the silky flow of blood
left in the wake of the razor’s kiss.

When you wake with whiskey
on your breath, and her kiss
on your mouth…
you’ll know.


more experimenting: using words from the 
Sunday Whirl, each stanza is in the form of 
an American Sentence…more or less.


Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts

Counting, or Better Living Through Modern Chemicals

one high triglyceride pill,
one anti-biotic,
one pro-biotic,
one antihistamine,
four ibuprofen…
eight hours before dawn,
four of which I will sleep.


Filed under Poetry


In response to Margo Roby’s prompt concerning “narrative consciousness.” One of the steps was to describe an interaction from a distance in third person. I, naturally, did not quite get it right. Instead of a third person narrative, I did a third person observing two others. I guess I will call this an exercise instead of a prompt. Back to the drawing board…or paper…or keyboard…pad…tablet…


Tree limbs and the night obscured my view
and muffled sound, allowing me to only
hear snippets of their conversation,
a stray word with no context.

“Why” I heard several times,
and “love” I think, but in the echoes
of the garden, it could have been
“shove” or “blood” or “dove”.

There was no expression to their silhouettes,
only motion and shadow. His gesturing,
pointing and pacing. Hers mostly an upright
lump, hugging herself tight, until she uncurled

violently, the sound of her hand against his
face the first unmistakable communication.
He was still a moment, then backed up
a few steps before turning to walk away.

He stopped by the rose bush, carefully
cut the fullest bud, inhaled its fragrance,
then slowly scraped a thorn across his hand.
I thought I saw him smile before he

let the stem fall and faded into
the dark of the garden.


Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts

Only One Love

Men are drawn by the magic
of her song,
competing with one another
in the labyrinth of her

frustrated by each
locked gate
on her emotional cage.

Eventually they discover
the only open way
is to return to the wilderness
from which they came,

she is oblivious to their
cries of love,
and only knows
passion when she plays.


For the art of Mike Worral featured at The Imaginary Garden. Some great pieces there, at least two of which are sure to still have poems left in them.



Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts