21 August 2010

Great Granddaughter's Visit

dip a paddle deep in time’s river
mirrored wormholes lure through
tomorrow’s stars yesterday
great granddaughter tells tales
of glass encased cities spread
over crumbled dead Earth
eyes wend a destruction story
already several months in

older than you she begins,
“It starts with a slow dying ocean,
until all that’s left is a shell. . .”

Visit Writer’s Island for more interesting, bizarre, and delightful takes on the prompt: Time travel.

For a little something different, visit Prompts for G10(linked on blog sidebar).

20 August 2010

Heaven's Peak

my two men
break trail to heaven
through brush
over deadfall
branches furrow skin
blood drips a story of ascent
marking machismo
bonding father & son
feeding Earth

stand tall
breathe thin summit air
raise your arms to unrivaled views
honor your mother

beat a track back home
where blistered feet breathe relief
and red trails blazed in heaven
razor your shins

secrets spin around
sweet enigmatic eyes
mysteries revealed 
if you only
touch the sky

The prompt for Poets United Think Tank Thursday was pain. When my husband Len and stepson Arthur came home from climbing Heaven's Peak in Glacier National Park, they were in pain. Although this isn't a piece about pain, I started writing it thinking about the state Len's shins upon their return.

19 August 2010


silken stream
moisten my spirit
soften its 
pineapple thorns

plant me naked 
in baked fields 
bouldered with 
broken cars 
near Juniper’s 
deep-rooted soul

hose the spot 
make me summer clay
shape me into earthen pots
render me useful

hand blown zeroes whisper
infinity,       infinity 

This is one of two pieces I wrote for the Big Tent Poetry prompt wordle. Visit the Big Tent link to read some more poems. You'll be glad you did.

I wrote one other piece earlier in the week using this wordle. It's called Huh?

18 August 2010

Echoes of Summer / ABC Wednesday E

echoes of summer
ripple in snapshots
still water
laughing girls
lovely lilies
 lilt a leitmotif
lingering images
echoing summer

Shout out to ABC Wednesday!  Be sure and visit their site for more Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees.

17 August 2010

coffee & cake: a soul spilling

At Grandmother’s kitchen table
cardamom coffee cake splits to
expose cinnamon walnut veins
twining through moist yellow fields.

French pressed grinds infuse darkness
that heavy cream clouds unfurl.
My heart spills concentric rings
across Grandmother’s smooth water soul.

She unbolts my floodgates
to decontaminate discontent;
she verifies my life.

We sit in satisfied stillness.
Out the window, a warbler sings.
At Grandmother’s kitchen table,
hearts and stomachs purr.

Shout out to We Write Poems for the picture prompt. 
The picture is Mom's House by Sarah Regnier.

16 August 2010


hose off your pineapple dude
knock off the silk mumbo jumbo
you think zeroes streaming outta your mouth’ll make a difference?
the baked days of summer are blown
the gig is up
moisten your pencil lead
plant yourself deep
pot’s not gonna save you now
stop driving your brain car
through barren tundra
learn to deal
get a towel and
dry off

This came out as fast as my fingers can type. Bizarre, but it makes sense to me.

My only prompt to myself aside from a wordle at Big Tent, was to write something in an angry tone. I'm not sure this is really angry...but that was my starting intent.

If you haven't already, check out the prompt at Big Tent Poetry. That way you can contribute your own whacked writing. Or perhaps something deeply moving and profound. Either way, wordles are fun. I'll try my hand at another for Friday's posting under the Big Tent.

I also posted this in Poets United Poetry Pantry. Go there to check out some awesome work!

15 August 2010

what i see

Out my front window
Hill 57 rises above houses
rust colored boulders
pepper summer dried grasses

neighbor voice echoes,
“Useta be injuns lived on that hill,
damn squatters.”

Little Shell tribe
of the Chippewa Cree
seeks federal recognition
landless they hit fences
honor denied
people denied

spirits dance
through grasses
atop 57
sweating story in glory of place

a man speaks of
one room plywood shacks housing
12-18 people
living breathing starving


walking the dogs
through remnants in 57’s low spots
toilet seats, high chairs,
stoves and tvs
debris reminds me
this is my lifetime
this is my world's
response to people

lack of recognition

We are sorry
but you
do not

Check out Sunday Scribblings for more responses to the prompt: view.

Family Show

scissors rip wrists until
blood pulses red streams
that pool in linoleum shallows
silver flashes in a falling hand
eyes hollow
everything stops

outside my window
rain comes
rain goes

The first stanza is a poem created while I watched Law & Order on American TV. This is a show that airs during top family viewing hours. I am not sure of the title and am willing to entertain suggestions.

My intent with the piece was to make every word count. So it’s sparse.

Thank you to the Poet’s United Poetry Pantry for providing a space to share this poem.

14 August 2010

"The office doesn't teach you, I do."

teeth set against me
inception of initial angst
remains hidden
behind a laser gaze
burning holes in the wall of our classroom

while the rest of us carry on
you’ll show me
(and absorb what we do through osmosis

just wait
one day participation will surprise you
when it springs without thought
from your mouth)

Check out Writer's Island for more responses to the prompt, inception.

12 August 2010

may hope spark in hollow eyes

in less than two weeks
Teacher Me will be on stage
for many pairs of eyes

eyes with
stories behind them
stories temporarily sealed
in stone cold pupils

eyes with
stories inside them
stories shooting daggers
through Reader Me’s heart

eyes with stories
waiting to be screamed
stories flowing freely
from far too few
little writers waiting to
set words to page
to let it out
to tell stories of moments of lives

all eyes on me
I will find a way to rivet you
to make you want to tell your story
until you can hardly wait to create
to write what could quite possibly be
the greatest story ever told

it’s the dead eyes that worry me
the eyes with nothing there

This piece is in response to the Poets United Thursday Think Tank prompt: The Eyes.

treasure, black & white

A turquoise
holds the first picture
of you and me.

Look at you.
So tiny.
So new.

I tried to
smell you into me as
everything about you
enveloped who I am.

A shout out to Cynthia Short, who provided the Big Tent Poetry prompt this week, to write about a possession. I chose this picture because I needed to write something affirming.

11 August 2010


I am afraid 
Enlightened people, 
will opt out of childbirth 
knowing Earth 
won’t sustain 
growing populations.

I am afraid
welfare doles will continue to grow
teaching children 
to rely on a system
       to hate a system
            to believe a system owes them.
I am afraid
that rather than relying on themselves
       to contribute to society, 
          they will expect society 
                to contribute to them.

I am afraid
education lacks importance 
to illiterate masses
taught to hate the hand that feeds them.

I am afraid
that Muslims will breed more Muslims
Christians will breed more Christians
Mormons will breed more Mormons
Jews will breed more Jews
Athiests will breed more Atheists
Welfare moms will breed more Welfare moms
          and the walls 
                   won’t tumble down.

     One against another people break turtle’s shell.

I am afraid 
that our mother grows weary.
Without her, we are nothing. 
Without her, we are nothing. 
Without her, we are nothing. 

I am afraid.
We are killing our mother.  
We drain her oily hollows.
We are too many ravenous mouths.
We vomit her contents in greed.  
We are parasites We.  

Smell the sulfur 
rising from her inner thighs.  
Watch her wither slowly 
beneath deep polluted skies. 
I am afraid.

If you love our mother,
speak out.
Be a warrior.
Change the world.
Taint the milk supply.
Sterilize the masses.

Turtles need clean water to
strengthen mother’s shell.

I am afraid.
Humanity puts itself before everything else.
Where does that leave our mother?  

Shout out to Mallery at We Write Poems for the prompt:
For this prompt let’s define the topic to be a list of “things you’re afraid of”, or alternately, “things you’d never do”.

05 August 2010


The Big Tent Poetry prompt this week had poets check back on their previous dozen or so poems and write something different.  Metaphor is different for me in two ways.  I wrote it with the intention of creating a metaphor for the prompt itself.  I also played with the structure of the piece.  I don't do a great deal of either.  Formatting text for blogger can mystify me so I used my computer's snipping tool to take a picture of the piece and ensure its integrity.  (That's how I turned the downside-up, upside-down, too...pictures can be manipulated.)

Through the process, I explored the way I use metaphor in my writing.  More often than not they come naturally.  To force the process is something I'll try again.

Thanks for the prompt, Deb!

04 August 2010

ABC Wednesday C Refrigerator Canyon & Caves

 I took these pictures in July 2010 in Montana's Helena National Forest. The limestone formations create Refrigerator Canyon, which is typically 20-30 degrees cooler than the outside temperature. Carved through limestone by a small mountain stream, the canyon is 10-feet wide and 200-feet tall. It cools when air moves through the canyon and evaporates water from the stream.   The creek is high enough this year that parts of the trail beyond the canyon are washed out.  
This is one of the walls of the canyon. Do these caves connect?  Intuition tells me yes.  If I visit again, I'll go when the sun is higher in the sky to see if it provides any clue. 
This little cave is on the canyon wall opposite the one pictured above.  The dark stuff way in the back center is a patch of bat guano.  Bat guano contains guanine, a key ingredient in mascara.  Yes ladies, some mascara is made from bat shit.  Don't worry, I'm sure it's sterilized.  Below you'll find a close-up of a patch for your viewing pleasure.  ;-)


You can see these caves way over to the left on the picture above with the possible connecting caves.  I think they look like lungs or maybe turkey legs.  All these caves got me wishing I was a little critter, so I could check out inside.  Spelunking isn't really my thing.  I like to see the wide and wild world, not descend into its depths.  I'll save that for my final curtain call.  Thanks for stopping by to visit.  Your comments make my day!  Please be sure to visit ABC Wednesday for more explorations of the letter C in picture and word.

03 August 2010

Danny the Woodsman

Gruffling snuffling snoring snorts
brought Danny the Woodsman near
to the cottage of widow Johnson,
window glass against his ear.

Sounds that did not seem human
made Danny peek inside
where whatever lay in the widow’s bed
bore a hairy bristled hide.

The woodsman pulled his knife from its sheath,
exposing its silver bright shine
he snuck in the cottage and sliced the wolf
and saw Little Red inside.

She twisted herself up from his stomach
breathing and laughing and free
while Danny helped her Grandmother
disengage from the wolf’s debris.

Together the trio commenced
to fill the wolf’s belly with stones
then the widow stitched him together
and now he’s a pile of bones.

Danny the Woodsman received no acclaim
for freeing the fabled twosome
though he won the heart of Little Red
when he freed her, gastric and gruesome.

They settled down with Grandmother
in her cottage near the wood.
The pile of stones and bones out front
kept wolves away for good.

Shout out to Irene Toh at We Write Poems for the prompt:

“Write a poem that revisits the Red Riding Hood fairy tale. You can change the story, or question the assumptions behind the fairy tale, eg why doesn’t the wolf eat Red Riding Hood in the forest when he first met her?, why does the author allow fantasy, such as that the wolf can be cut up and the grandmother and the Red Riding Hood emerge unhurt, or wonder what Red Riding Hood stands for, such as if wearing a red hood is significant, or question the innocence of Red Riding Hood, eg why does she not go straight to grandmother’s house as her mother instructed but chose to wander? Or you can revisit another fairy tale altogether!”

This was difficult for me, until I took the children’s rhyme route. I also read the Brothers Grimm version of the story here. The huntsman received little notoriety for saving the day, so I focused on him, but changed him to a woodsman.

nunca mas juntos POW # 14

  for  t. c.

one last time we   
fall into bed and
heave an ending          to us 
spent,  I look at you
still beside me

surfing down wispy cirrus clouds
our dream selves talk about friendship and love
You say, “We’ll float apart now, but we
will both still float.”
I say, “Sing for me one last time.”
“Chantilly lace, with a pretty face…”

your singing stuns me awake
“Were we just . . .”  
I pause to look for words 
 “. . . in the sky?”
 You answer,  “Yeah,  
we’ll float apart now, 
but we’ll both still float.”

Rallentanda had poets write pieces with a Spanish flair.  Nunca mas juntos means, never again together.  Visit Rallentanda for a peek at Antoino Banderas, and more takes on the prompt.

02 August 2010

Microfiction Monday #42

AJ promised me that the new house would be perfect. Yeah, if I were a deer.

This is my first post at Microfiction Monday.  Visit the link for a plethora of delightful takes on the prompt.

01 August 2010

Locked in Freedom

The lock covers Amanda's mind. It stares at her everywhere she goes, her own private eye. Billy deserved it, he deserved it, he deserved it. "Excuse me, Miss, uh--your bag." Cheezums, Amanda almost walked right through the airport scanner. She hands it to security and smiles, "Sorry about that. My mind is a million miles away." He smiles back, like everyone does when she flashes her perfect row of braces free teeth. Everyone except Billy. "Uh, Miss...the lock?" Confused, the lock in her head closes. She looks at security, holding up her bag. Amanda pulls the chain from her neck and hands it to security. "The red one," she says. Security opens her bag, rifles through it, hands it back. "Have a nice flight, Miss."

With an hour to kill before boarding Amanda buys the latest gossip rag, and finds a chair in a corner, away from the throngs of people passing through the terminal on their way away, like her. She wonders if all locks look like eyes...if there's a reason this lock looked like an eye...if she'd be haunted every day she breathed. Billy deserved it, he deserved it, he deserved it. "Is that this week's Go Gossip Go?" A voice brought her back. Amanda looks up at a girl, about 12 dressed to the nines.

"There a party I don't know about?" Amanda says, looking her up and down, trying not to laugh.

"Enough with the wisecracks, smartass, I'm going from one rich parent to the other. A bizarre war wages between them. Who can dress me better? My mother actually hired me a dresser. A dresser! I am THIRTEEN YEARS OLD, I CAN DRESS MYSELF. Bet you're glad you said anything now, huh....Is that this week's Go Gossip GO? Or do you want to hear more about my enthralling life running from parent to parent in the richest of circumstance"

"Uh here...sorry for the wisecrack." Amanda sits back, tries to meditate, but can't shake the image of the lock. If she watches the girl read, maybe the eye will disappear. The girl lifts her head and laughs, looks at Amanda, "This is some good shit. People are sure stupid, listen to this one. She starts to read. 'Living on his boat The Hornet, American playwright Jonathon Henchion…" Amanda wonders if her face will grace the cover of Go, Gossip, Go...but no, she is small potatoes in a world of Henchions “…If the world finds out, may my boat explode.' Can you believe it? He says that, then his boat explodes, with him on it. Do you think it was a set-up?" Amanda sits there, quiet. "Well I know what my friend Gravy Train Jones always says." Billy deserved it, he deserved it, he deserved it. "Don't YOU want to know what my friend Gravy Train Jones always says."

"Huh?" Amanda turns to the girl, "I want to know who in their right mind would name a kid Gravy Train." She has no idea what the girl is talking about.

"That's not the point, it's his nickname. What he always says is,” she slows down and tries to sound mysterious. “Words once spoken take on a power of their own. You be careful Shania, he says to me, any word you say has power, it can make you, or it can break you."

"How old is this Gravy Train Jones?"

"32. He's gay. He's my dresser."

Amanda laughs. "He's right, you know. Gravy Train. That's why I prefer to sit in silence, so nothing life changing can come out."

"Can I ask you something?" Shania says.


"When you were sitting there, before I walked over. You looked so sad, or worried, or angry, or I don't know, I thought maybe, ...uh...haunted? Anyway, I was just gonna walk on by, when I got a glimpse of something, above your head? It was hovering there, like a ghost or something."

Amanda's heart is racing, it's beat is deafening her.  Billy deserved it, he deserved it, he deserved it.  "What was it? What did you see?"

"It looked like an eye, or maybe a lock or something, I couldn't tell for sure."

Groggy, Amanda opens her eyes. The room starts swirling. "You passed out Miss. This is the airport holding area for sick passengers."

She sits up, "I'm not sick, I need to be on that plane, I need..."

"Miss, the plane is gone." He put his hand on hers to comfort her. "The police are waiting outside to speak with you. I'll get them now."

The police ascertain her identity and show Amanda a picture. "Do you know what this is?"

"It looks like a trunk," she says.

"Have you seen it before?"


"Do you know what it contains?"

"Yes, I do. I do know."


“That box contains my freedom, or I thought it did, until its eyeball lock started hovering above my head. Can you see it there?”

Shout out to Willow over at Magpie Tales for the picture prompt.