a cliché-a-day is how to pay the piper

chair in front of filled bookshelves
ignorance is free
while truth costs 30 silver pence

April showers bring only sludge
that slowly birth the sun’s defense

winter cooks hibernate
their tarnished snores fill the air

ungreased wheels forget to squeak
while crowbars pry up penny nails

he burrows deep beneath the roots 
and grants the cat his flapping tongue

questions hide from prying eyes
and books come in one color

the milk’s so thick it will not spill
the hotcakes mold and shrivel

with hair piled high, she sits alone
trapped by her fun-house image

as slow as eyes snared by insomnia
find your strength in sameness

you only need a single hand
to make our circle straighten

Day 13’s NaPoWriMo challenge asked us to play with “turning cliché’s on their head.”

Voila . . . hope it works!



three seeds

flowering branch in early spring
three seeds form
          one to the pop and sizzle of man-made stars above
          one in perfect intent and hope of family, forever formed
          one by a spur-of-the-moment, well-stewed gamble
three seeds sprout
          one uprooted to granite and sky
          two twined together by fear and devotion
          three hopeful buds, long divided
three seeds flower
          one fears the stigma of pollen’s gift
          one longs for pollen’s security     
          one grafts a new bud and seedlings emerge
three seeds mature
          one clings tightly to past joys and tears
          one scorns the common account of years
          one builds up hope, help for posterity

Day 11 NaPoWriMo's prompt inspired a reflection on seeds. Enjoy!


back to ground

bench on path in rain

let me
in search
of robin’s
in my dreams I sit, send heart and spirit to fly –
the bench

Day 6 NaPoWriMo encouraged us to play adventurously
with line breaks. I started with a writing a tanka and then
played with line breaks; definitely more art than science.


merely average

And . . . we’re off! NaPoWriMo challenged us to write a poem based on a secret shame, or a secret pleasure. So, you show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.
I seek the Morning Star delivery
and reverence the King of the Coast;
I snub red and white meat,
for a well-aged substitute
found only under the rind.
Served singly or paired
matters not to me;
the siren song of
my “moreish” delight,
must be answered
and followed 
bite after bite.
Whether with pinot noir 
or between toasted bread,
I skip the roux 
to indulge my al dente. 
Devotee? Mere fan? Enthusiastic addict?
I ruefully ponder how scientists can consider 
35 pounds per year consumed as merely average.



A Brief Ode to Wool Socks

Thou tender encasement of woolen yarn,
Thou cocooning shelter of pooled warmth!
Sturdy cocoon, a harbor ‘gainst frost, your purled patterns
offer refuge for flesh, previously freed
to frolic in mosses and dance ‘round leafleted trees.
Toes dug lightly in the warm scented earth
that bred spring dandelions, nurtured the summer rose.

That same dirt -- now wearied with care – by Issue
fully ripened and birthed, and now full circle carried
to Harvest Home with thankful praise and blessings given,
while Mother Earth quilts herself in rust and grey.  
Her blanket shelters the slumbering Fruits, hiding them
from Winter’s chill that slides past trembling Rays,
ushering in stillness and somber reflection.

As frost lingers and our Fair Sun hides her face,
Grant me Thy armor, Thy cordial affection!
Shield my extremities from Winter’s sly suggestions
of seasonal despair; wrap my numbed feet
in your loving embrace, and safeguard their memories
of Spring, simple joys and youthful pleasures.
By your grace, free them from Winter’s misery.