Monday, February 20, 2017

The Best Things are Free (A Haibun)

I had the pleasure of taking a long car ride, yesterday, through the wooded back roads.  We deemed it a shortcut but, really, it was colorful eye-candy.  What I thought about most, though, were all those old-fashioned, abandoned farm houses and antebellums.  As I whisked by each one, I could almost feel their busy ghosts of some other lifetime calling out to not be forgotten.  I thought about all the families, the lives, the births, the deaths, the important memories long-ago lived and probably now forgotten.  It struck a chord in me to write and this prompt gave my words ignition.

Country Mile

This back road spins like a sundial set to fast-forward.  I am driving west, way beyond the peripheral of my memories' hope chest.  The last of an evening sun cuts a line between the prairie, a diagonal orange alongside shadow as if one ray, alone, could not survive inside such solitude.  Dilapidated farmhouses, abandoned of some earlier, busier year, dissect the wilderness.  They sway against the backdrop of hollow meadows and winter wood, hidden eye-emblems only meant to be seen by the random traveling gypsy.

Today that girl is me and I dip into the ancient scribe-scenery of old poets who came before me.  An abstract stillness lays between the hills of my windshield-horizon.  A brown blur eased across the rounded shade of green, as if mother nature got a bit too giddy with her brushstrokes.  Or, perhaps, the early evening shadow skewed her iris.

Each eye is a scab
marred by dark indecision.
Today I shed old skin.

Written for the Monday Haibun at dVerse.

Sunday, February 19, 2017

A Dictionary-Themed Postcard!

Anything to do with writing, scribe, words, and books sort of gives me heart palpitations.  I loved working with this theme.

"The Book Hoarder"

“The world of books is the most remarkable creation of man. Nothing else that he builds ever lasts. Monuments fall; nations perish; civilizations grow old and die out; and, after an era of darkness, new races build others. But in the world of books are volumes that have seen this happen again and again, and yet live on, still young, still as fresh as the day they were written, still telling men’s hearts of the hearts of men centuries dead.” — Clarence Shepard Day

Created for at art challenge at Sunday Postcard Art.


What can be more old fashioned than being on the farm?  Farms recede as far back into history as you can count, really.  But they remind me most of my roots.  And for that, I dedicate this cute picture of a memory.

"Going Back Down South"

If you wanna go,
I'm going back down south now.
Go on take my hand,
I'm going back down south now.
Wait 'til you see the light,
I'm going back down south now.
~Kings of Leon~

Created for an art challenge at Take A Word.


"Girl In An Empty Room"

 “The woman who follows the crowd will usually go no further than the crowd. The woman who walks alone is likely to find herself in places no one has ever been before.” – Albert Einstein

Created for an art challenge at Digital Whisper.

Friday, February 17, 2017

Late-Winter Excursion

It's not yet Spring but it sure feels that way today.  We topped 65 degrees here in Eastern Kentucky.

If you noticed, my weekly writing posts were a few days late this week.  And I'm totally behind on my comments (later this evening, I promise!).

But today I had a break from migraines, and so we enjoyed a late afternoon at the lake.

We fed the ducks.  We ate junk.  We sat and watched the sun dip into the edges of the lakes dark water where I'm sure the fish were swallowing the last of light.

And now?  Now I'm enjoying the great Van Morrison.

Sometimes all you need is to look up to see that life is great.  :)

Wednesday, February 15, 2017

Word List Wednesday #11

EVERY OTHER Wednesday (twice per month) I select a list of at least 10 words (sometimes more).  I pull these words from a favorite literary piece that has inspired me. Usually it's another poem.  I always provide the poem author and title unless you want to go read it for yourself.

The idea is to take those 10 words and create a new, unique piece of writing of our own.

I love word lists/wordles because  they allow me to use words I don't often use, and those new words encourage fresh concepts and ideas for my poetry.

I first created this weekly prompt to inspire myself.  However, I am extending the invitation to others who may enjoy writing with my word list.  I invite you to link your work in the comments section if so!

The Word List for this week is selected from the collection of poetry titled Riversongs by Michael Anania.

This week I wanted to mix things up. So, you can choose between the two prompts, or write with both.

Word List:


Use this excerpt from the poem In and Out by Michael Anania as inspiration for your own unique poem.

She cranks the head up
and turns his face to the window,
late light sluiced past
chokecherry across occluded eyes;

the brown water threads its sludge;
the sprung branches of a fallen elm
trail curls of yellow scum, turning
as the catheter bends southward.

"there warn't no home
like a raft, after all"

Each spring the land spills back
with the receding floods, the slag
of the gray flats hooked with rubble,
stiff weeds strung with drying mud;
the rivers harvest bobs in the dark current.

I actually chose the second prompt and found myself inspired to write my own poem about water.

Here is my contribution:

Flood Waters

I dreamed of
river banks and young ankles,
brown water threading
the edges where the land spills
into a blacktop Boulevard.
Saw myself in the fresh
skin of ten, weeding the water,
blonde head bobbing between
the garden's harvest,
a mere dandelion petal
hooked against the wind,
blowing somewhere far south,
a descent too sharp to remember
even the scent of fresh daisy
and chokecherry, talcum powder
and country gravy;
The girl whose heart died inside
while she was still alive
wants to remember the slippery
comfort of warm algae, the
Korean-war fisherman by the shore,
the kids even younger than
her then-cheap ten
dancing along the pavement
like specters against
the windshield of the moon.
An innocence not yet
dead enough to be reborn again,
a time when my bare feet,
wandering poets even then
who refused logic or authority,
still imagine me in.

The nostalgia choked me up as I wrote this.  I miss the simple times gone by.  Like the blow of a swift wind, unexpected, and something sacred has fled too far beyond your fingertips to grasp and so I touch them inside my dreams, scattered shard of memory that last momentarily.  They touch me like hot hands, a mark with no scar.  An invisible evidence that still lingers, even in the absence of association.

Tuesday, February 14, 2017

Retro Writes (Tuesday) #6

The Rules:

Welcome to my new writing challenge!

Every Tuesday I will post some lovely retro-era eye candy as inspiration (think 50's-80's decades).  I will be posting photographs and advertisement ephemera that, perhaps, is quite different from modern day photography in hopes that it may inspire us to come up with parallels and concepts we might not otherwise make with modern art/photography.

Simply write a piece of poetry, fiction, flash fiction, or even create your own art-work.  Anything goes so long as you create/write something original!

Leave a link to your post so I (along with others) can visit and comment.  Please also link back to this page in your original post so others can find it.  

Most of all, have fun creating!

And now, for the prompt.

Retro Writes (Tuesday) #6

Look at the advertisement photo for a few moments and allow yourself to be inspired.

Here is my contribution:

New Body, Old Soul

Vodka and chocolate
mixes well with everything
except garter lace
and lazy inhibitions.
I cannot speak 
of anatomy,
yet my fingers
long to dance
across his skin,
a carnival of touch,
a secret sort of sin.
I swallow the lie,
I scar my soul,
visions burn
behind my eyes,
as the most risque
sort of housewife,
I still warrant them.
I yearn to
betray myself
for the sake
of sensuality,
for the sip
I long still
to take from the
champagne glass
of some other life.

Monday, February 13, 2017


An Unmentionable

This phantom 
heart string,
invisible vestige,
it spins between
my fingers.
I thrill for
the taste
of touching you.
A love not 
yet in love,
still my secret ties
have come undone.
I inhale as the
ghost of  my 
hearts old breath
beats again.