Saturday, April 14, 2018


Idle thoughts in rhyme, submitted to Poets United
Poetry Pantry #399,  and to dVerse Open Link #218.
March 16, 2018

Sometimes, as our life progresses
There are moments we show no concern
Absorbed with our busy thought processes
They pass by to never return
    They're the last times

A lunch with favorite people
Lifetime friendships honed by the years
The next time a chair may be empty
And what’s left memories and tears.
    It was the last lunch.

A cheek turned to his goodbye kiss
As he hurried out the door
A screech of brakes and shatter of glass
And life as she knew it is no more.
   It was the last kiss.

She waved as the schoolbus pulled away
A day to be gloriously free
But madness stalked the classroom
And he fell to a bullet he didn’t see.
   It was their last day.

We must treasure the special moments
And consider what we do and say
There is no guarantee for tomorrow
Perhaps all we have is today.
   And the last times.


Monday, March 19, 2018


Haibun Monday, and we’re asked the
Who, When and Why of our poetic effort…
who inspired us, what’s our style, and
why we write.   Surely that sends us all
into the throes of self examination!
Submitted to dVerse 
March 19, 2018

seasons come and go
our life pages turn onward
as autumn turns to winter

When I look the long way back to my childhood, I recall 
my mother reciting poetry to me.  Her favorite was James
Whitcomb Riley’s “Li’l Orphant Annie”.   Something about
the rhythm and rhyme was soothing to me.  There were
other poems she’d been required to memorize in her brief
years of schooling, but the others fade from my memory. 
Surely, though, it was my mother’s love of poetry that was
my inspiration.  My first poem, probably at the age of
about 10,  is lost in the pages of time, but I remember the
first couple of lines, no doubt written after a rousing Bible
study class …
“Is there dust on your Bible
Dust on your holy book
Then there’s dust on your heart, brother
Are you afraid to look?”
For the next 70 plus years (and to this day) I took solace in
the rhythm of rhyming poetry, so my style remains that
somewhat outdated style, which seems to have given way
to open verse.   Why do I write?  Simply because I feel the
need to commit to paper thoughts and events in my life,
sometimes in rhyme and often in prose form.   I like to
think one day some descendant will be interested
in the life and times of a remote ancestor!

Photo is my own digital art.

Wednesday, February 28, 2018


It's Midweek Motif at Poets United.
Carpe diem is to be the topic.  I offer
a poem I wrote some time ago, before
I retired.  Strange to look back at that
younger me, longing for leisure moments.
Now my days ARE filled with leisure, and
I can savor the moments.
Submitted to Poets United
February 28, 2018

As I speed along the freeway
In the usual morning race
My thoughts turn back to other times
When life had a slower pace
When there was time for dreaming
And wriggling our toes in the mud
And close examination
Of each leaf and flower and bud.
For listening to autumn breezes
As they rustled through fields of grain
And for smelling the wondrous fresh bouquet
Of a late spring evening rain
For idling under a shade tree
When no one knew where I was
And studying the intricate mechanics
Of what makes bumblebees buzz.
For listening to trills of songbirds
As they flit from tree to tree
While I looked for four-leaf clovers
In grass like a great green sea.

It seems now my days are so busy
These pleasures are things of the past
I try to find time for dreaming
But life races by too fast
I think of the time when I’m older,
With time on my hands again.
How I’ll treasure those special moments
Much moreso than I did then.
For God in his infinite wisdom
Has bestowed a very great favor
What in youth we take for granted
In old age we have time to savor.

Digital art is mine (with help from
John William Waterhouse)

Tuesday, February 27, 2018


Poetics Tuesday, and Sarah is
tending the bar.  Our challenge is
to feature a concept.
Submitted to dVerse
February 27, 2018

Many things I learned from my mother, not the least of which is the art of “making do”.  A product of the Great Depression, mother learned never to waste anything, and to repurpose everything.  Worn out denims became rag rugs, old clothing went to quilts, the coats became warm comforters.  Mother carried her talents beyond housewifely things.  A woman before her time, she was more comfortable in britches than dresses.  She was a wizard with hammer and saw, and her penchant for repurposing extended to turning old lumber into a doghouse or birdhouse, and an old window became the lid for her hot bed, where she started plants in early Spring.  She was a dynamo in  britches and a genius in her garden.

Sadly, I didn’t inherit her green thumb, and I’m lucky to hammer a nail without hitting my thumb.  But somewhere deep within is her drive to “make do”.   I tend not to replace things, because the old one is working perfectly well, if outdated.   My “entertainment center” was actually an antique wardrobe with shelves installed.  My coffee table was once a “bucket bench” used for milk buckets.  Time turned the pages, and I live with my son and wife now…but I drive a 17 year old car.  Why replace it, I think, it’s working very well.  Mother would be proud!

Saturday, February 24, 2018


A little tongue-in-cheek rhyme
for Poets Pantry  #392
Submitted to Poets United
February 25, 2018









Thursday, February 22, 2018


It’s Open Link night at dVerse, and
I’ve taken the time to do a little
introspection in rhyme. 
Submitted to dVerse
February 22, 2018

I may be the last stone to skip
But it’s been a terrific trip
Now that I’m slow in step
I’ve time for the memories I’ve kept
When young folks hold the door
I know I’ve earned that … and more
When I was young I did my part
I’ve lived my life with an open heart
Now time is short and my hair is gray
There’s time to savor each new day
I remind myself life’s for the living
And spend my time loving and forgiving.

Image is my own digital art.

Tuesday, February 20, 2018


It's Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, and
Paul has asked us to turn our thoughts
to drink ... in a creative way, of course.
I indulged in prose, and memories of
my mother.
Submitted to dVerse Poetics
February 20, 2018

My mother was a tee-total-er to the nth degree.  She
would not eat in a restaurant if it had a beer sign in the
window.  I think the grape juice at church communion
was as close as she got.  She instilled in me such a fear
of alcohol that the first time in my wild youth I went with
friends into a pub in a nearby town I feared the devil
himself would rise up behind the bar and drag me down
into hellfire and damnation.  She also considered bowling
alleys dens of iniquity, and the first time I entered one
I fully expected Mephistopheles himself to be setting the pins! 

For all her long life we honored mother’s wishes, and there
was not a single drop of liquor in her home.  My husband,
who was of Irish descent, loved a nip now and then, so on
our visits he and my brother would often steal away to town
to “pick up something” and disappear for an hour or two.  
I have come to know that, somewhere between my mother’s
rabid abstinence and the drunken abandon of our young 
university students on Spring break,  there is a reasonable
medium where we can enjoy a glass of wine with dinner …
and a visit to the bar on Tuesdays at dVerse.