#Fiction Friday: #Micropoetry from the Book


Long after David finished speaking,
his words were like an echo that followed me,
for they had nestled themselves in the folds of my brain.

He was Professor Dalton to all who knew him,
but David to those who loved him.
He was my father & friend—
he was my everything.

David was a thoughtful artist, a creative intellectual.
He didn’t teach poetry,
he was poetry.

They knew me as his niece,
but we were closer than even a father & daughter—
we shared neither name nor blood,
but an unbreakable bond.

When Mother said she’d never marry him,
I asked him if he would marry me—
if only I got older as he got younger,
but such was an impossibility.

Writer’s Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompt #3, Theme: One word you might use to get someone’s attention



The spiritual sister of ditto,
it lets the pastor know,
just how far he can go.

Feedback from the flock—
a barometer of not just his words,
(cited from narrators,
be they reliable or unreliable),
but also the deliverance of those words,
and his interpretation of them.

The secularism of the divine,
the divination of the secular,
is becoming omniscient,
and omnipresent,
in this Age of Technological Trans-Humanism.

The man of the cloth
cannot be divorced from politics;
just as the politician
cannot help but marry religion,
for they are two sides of the same coin.
Heads or tails,
no one knows,
which one has more control.

Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 360

Another Addition to my Author Platform


After pushing back on the idea for months, I created an author Facebook page.  I had reached the point where I knew I could commit to adding to it twice weekly.  (One thing I will never do is send links to it en masse via direct message on Twitter.  99% of DMs are the equivalent of junk mail, especially if you don’t bother to read my description, which clearly states “No DMs, please”.  I rarely ever read any I receive, and delete most of them on sight.  It’s not that I don’t want to be supportive of other writers, but I don’t like being bombarded with impersonal messages.  That’s what your Twitter feed is for.)

Starting this page was quite a bit of trouble, because several profile photos wouldn’t do, as they tended to chop off the lower half of my head (I had to do some creative cropping).  I also had to make sure my cover photo wouldn’t be partially obscured by my profile pic.  Eventually, it all came together, using my limited online photoshopping skills and neat penmanship (may cursive never die!).

When I hit my blogging stride (posting thrice weekly on a regular basis, as regular, scheduled posting is indicative of a serious writer), committed to writing an original article for LinkedIn once a month (as I am just not as passionate about business/technical writing), and gained a few literary wins under my hat (among other endeavors), I felt I was ready to commit to yet another revolving project.

Please like my page (and engage).  Post your Facebook page URL in the comments section below, and I will return the favor.



#Micropoetry Monday: Love, Simply


He loved her for who she was,
not for who she could give him.
He chose the woman, not the womb.

She’d always thought the married
lost their autonomy until she met Her Intended—
who supported her strengths
& strengthened her weaknesses.

She forgot dates,
but not memories;
she forgot times,
but not moments.

He couldn’t give her the world,
but he could share the world that was his—
the children that would be hers.

She built a little bitty house,
but a great big life.
She met an average man,
& became his wife.

She sacrificed her children yet-to-be
for the sake of the child she held
in the cradle nest of her arms.

The love of my life was the love of someone else’s life.
When she passed away,
I became his.

#Fiction Friday: #Micropoetry Based on the Book


By nature, I was as Mother;
by nurture, I was as David.
It was the water that became thick with blood.

A shiney diney,
nestled in a twiggy wood—
like a silver bird egg,
awaiting a confused golden goose.

Over pie & coffee
we spoke of philosophy,
ancient religions, & dead languages.
Vibrantly alive, yet ashes of the past
poured from our mouths.

Through summer storms & winter’s blue,
through the fall & spring that never came,
Foster’s Diner stayed the same.

White chocolate with a dusting of cocoa
was how David described my skin.
I called him a gastronomer—
for I felt my freckles numbered the stars.

Writer’s Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompt #359, Theme: Uncontrollable



The Voices told him not to take his medication;
they were like angels, God, & demons.
Did he speak in tongues or gibberish?
Had the veil that had been placed over his mind at birth been torn—
the veil the Saints of Latter Days spoke of—
allowed the spirits to slip through and torment him—
extremely frightening and incredibly real?

The drink allowed him the Quiet,
the drugs, the Peace.
He did not know who he was—
either dosed or without the Anti’s.

Was he the man who rambled about invisible hands
stealing his thoughts while he slept?
Or the man who stripped down his cardboard walls
so that he could run away from the Unholy Ghosts
that were his constant companions?
Was he the man who could laugh with the little child
who had tried to practice witchcraft on him—
the little child who had led him astray?
Or was he the man who no longer believed
that the Spirit of Donald Trump or Bill Gates
watched him through the walls that became separate particles?

His parents had passed on an inheritance
that stripped him of his autonomy,
for he was either controlled from the inside
through little chemical rockets,
or from the outside by the cat and canary scrubs.

Code Gray was called,
and he was once again being pulled,
flushed through the bowels
of the bathroom-tiled basement.

Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 359

#Micropoetry Monday: Faith and Spirituality


Father Time built the bones,
but Mother Nature
added a woman’s touch—
with fur, feathers,
or colorful scales:
The Father was the Author
of Functionality,
the Mother,
the Publisher of Beauty.

In Utah, her eyes were opened
to her lack of faith,
but when went back home
to the South,
she dusted off her old testimony.
It was just as she’d left it.

World lapses into
Aboriginal dreamtime—
when ancestors are resurrected,
their descendants awake
in a subconscious state.
Birth and rebirth;
Heaven and Earth.

When she got saved,
she grew in faith.
When she became Mormon,
she grew in works.
When she left Mormonism,
she became the best of both.

Her Father in Heaven had been an absent one.
Her father on Earth had been there for her;
yet twas the First who sent the last.

#Fiction Friday: #Novelines from the Book


I’d always had a feeling there was a special reason why we went to that little, out-of-the-way diner during the long drive home…

Foster’s Diner was like a place that only appeared when we needed it, awaiting us at the end of a tree-lined road that seemed to go nowhere.

The Diner was like out of a Twilight Zone—it had a timelessness about it that made one want to go back to a place one had never been.

Beth and Gerald Foster were friends of the family, yet they had never met my mother. Somehow, I knew she wasn’t supposed to know about them.

Only David knew where the Diner was; if I tried to find it myself, I’d be as Gretel, lost in the woods.  David was the magic that made it appear.

Years later, I would learn that Foster’s Diner wasn’t our hideaway, but the hideaway of its owners—for the woman David loved hated them.

Twas always summer at Foster’s Diner—the magnolias with their fat, white blooms creating a green canopy like a time capsule, preserving it.

The foliage surrounding Foster’s Diner was thick, so even when it was summer day, it felt like winter night.  We were always the only patrons

Leaving Foster’s Diner was like a drive-through car wash, but with leaves scraping our windows, like fingers trying to keep us there.

The light always blinded me so when I tried to look back, I could no longer see the diner, as if it had been a mirage—one David and I shared.

I’d accepted the mythical nature of my and David’s whimsical retreat long ago, never once thinking I’d try to find the answer to its mystery.

Only David and I knew of the Fosters—of their little diner in the big woods. When we left this earth, their memory would die with us.

Foster’s Diner was our Brigadoon, except it did not appear for a day out of a century, but for us only, for the time we were there.

Writer’s Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompt #358, Theme: Distance

Rock of Ages

Gap Year

He was a sprinter,
she, a long-distance runner,
but he fell for her when
she was the girl next door,
with only a fence separating them.

Now, there were hurdles,
and with each sprint,
she kept going,
while he fought against time
to close the distance.

Out of breath, he finally caught up
just enough to reach out and touch her,
but her hair slipped through his fingers,
and he remembered then
that she hadn’t been a swimmer.

Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 358

#Micropoetry Monday: Realms of Motherhood


I can still hear her playing,
mud splashing up with every jump.
Her laughter is now an echo,
her boots overflowing with rainwater.

Mom made me see
the wonder in everything:
The great big things
& all the little things
that made the great big things.

Flesh of her flesh,
her son was a blank canvas
on which to paint
a new, better life.

Though she wasn’t the star,
she worked behind the scenes.
The lines that came
from the mouths of her creations,
were sometimes her very own.

She loved her baby for who she was now,
not for who she might become.
She’d love her in all her forms,
for every 7 years,
she would be a new being,
with memories of the old.