#Micropoetry Monday: Love & Anti-Love


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

She could have had any man,
but she had to have that man,
so she chased happiness,
rather than let it catch her.

He loved her virginal nature,
she, his forgiving one.
When he discovered her past,
he destroyed their future
by casting a stone.
Neither was what the other needed.

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

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


#Fiction Friday: #Novelines from the Book


Twas a time when the light of Christ within me burned bright, only to burn out like an aging star (both worldly and otherworldly).

Knowing what I know now, I could never go back to that summer, for the future taints the past.

My Kaitlyn is proof that although beauty cannot be built from ashes, it can rise up out of them.

Having a daughter was a life of ice cream socials, tea parties, & fancy shoes—the sweetest thing I’ve ever known.

My canopy bed was like a little girl’s fancy birthday cake—the cradle of a princess, and, unbeknownst to me then, my prince lived among us.

I’d grown up near the Amish, in a Catholic home, & now Mormonism had touched our lives—all because I had answered a knock on the door.

I can still remember the smell of hay after the rain, of shoo-fly pie cooling on a windowsill, the sight of white bonnets dotting the green.

The four of us had lived a wonderful life—a life we’d almost forgotten, a life before the Church.

I had always felt there was more to life, & it wouldn’t be until much later I realized there wasn’t any more—that I’d had it all once.

I became an archaeologist—blowing the dust from the bones of what knitted our family so tightly together.

Steak & ice cream every day—I had been as Pollyanna, until the family tree branch rotted out, caving beneath me.

Writer’s Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompt #351, Theme: Make (blank)


Making a Life

Make lists so you can focus on the big things,
while not forgetting the little things.
Make realistic goals, and a few that are
what smoky pipe dreams are made of—
for life can change in less than a second.
Make wishes—you are not limited to three.
Make plans as a guide,
but not as a rule book.

Make good decisions
by living the kind of life
that will lead you to do so.

Make love without regrets—
meaning with the right person.
Love the one you’re with.
Make babies and you will experience
the magic of childhood all over again.
Make spirituality a part of your life,
for it tends to make more with less—
it sees the glory in a million little things.
It is, like the metaphor, the shimmer.

Make friends, because even your One,
cannot fulfill your every need.
Make connections, for you will learn from others,
as they, hopefully, will learn from you.

Make peace with broken relationships;
sometimes they were meant to be broken,
and gave you what you needed
in the time they were at their peak.

Make conversation with the cashier
every once in awhile.
Make them feel like they matter.

Make movies of your child’s laugh,
but enjoy it outside the frame of the lens.
Make memories through stories
that engage all of the senses,
through photos that capture the essence,
and through being mindful,
of living in the moment.

Make something beautiful,
even if it’s something consumable.
That’s what cameras are for.

Make time for nature,
for it elevates the mood,
and gets us away from the eyestrain
of a screen.
Make yourself put down your phone,
because you will miss out on far more
by not doing so.
Make time for just being.

Make time for food—
let it be an experience,
not just a filler-up.

Make time for books,
for a book can take your outside yourself—
the closest thing to an out-of-body experience
most of us will ever know.

Make time for singing whatever moves you.
Make time for play—
seek out work that feels like play;
life is too short for bad food.

Make music and art,
just for the sake of doing so.
Make poetry a part of your psyche,
for poetry draws one deeper into oneself,
to better understand oneself.
Make up stories, but don’t sell them as truth.

Make lifelong learning a part of your existence.
Make exercise you enjoy part of your routine.
It’s something free to do.

Make things grow,
even if it’s only money.
Make your own destiny and realize
that even if you had help,
you still built that.
We have all had help;
some of us were simply
given the tools.

Make yourself get up at a reasonable time,
and your days will be long upon the earth.
Make hay during the day,
and enjoy the bales at night.
Make every day a holiday in spirit.
Make happiness not a goal,
but positivity a worldview
that no one can take from you.

Make the most of everything—
draw something of value from every experience,
and you will feel that not one minute of your life
was wasted.

Most of all, make it count.
You will receive many second chances,
but only one life.
Make it happen.

This is the day which the LORD hath made;
we will rejoice and be glad in it.
(Psalms 118:24)


#Micropoetry Monday: Our Beautiful South


The geometric sharpness
above the Mason-Dixon line,
softened like charcoal, dreamlike,
as I delved into the Deep South—
a peach going back to pit.

Her husband was a man
of the camo cloth.
Faith was her name,
but Hope was the daughter
she’d given birth to
when she got saved by Grace.

Magnolia blooms are virginal Southern belles-
a pearlescent setting in a ring of fine patina,
like Scarlett O’Hara’s dress with tasseled lapels.

Utah had opened her eyes,
but back in the South,
eyes closed,
she dusted off her old testimony.
Twas like coming home
after a long time away.

Miss Ruby Lee was
a dyed-in-the-seersucker,
red State lady,
serving fried chicken,
hominy grits,
& nanner puddin’–
all on Wedgwood blue.

#Fiction Friday: #Novelines from the Book


There were 30,000 or so residents of Green Haven—none we knew intimately, yet they knew us, & saw the lie that would someday become a truth.

David was a New York liberal in Christian conservative Florida—an oddity. However, in the enclave of academia, he’d found his place.

I felt like Ariel—a fish out of water—who wanted to be a part of their world, but I’d have to take up the Cross, with y’all on my lips.

Caitlin was the Audrey & I was the Marilyn, at least from the neck down.

Maxwell Manor was David’s home, & our little hideaway from the world that seemed strange to us, with its extreme religiosity.

The Nolan women and “that Dalton man” were known as “those Godless Northern folks”, or carpetbaggers, even though we had lived here for years.

We weren’t born-again, buckle-of-the-Bible-belt Christians.  David & I believed in Something—we just weren’t sure what that Something was.

I was the Jacob, Caitlin, the Esau; it wouldn’t be birth order or genetics, but a lie that sealed my inheritance.

Violet Girard, the First Lady of Green Haven—a gracefully aging Liz Taylor—loved David, for he would paint her as she saw herself.

David didn’t see Christianity and the American way of life as superior to anything else.  I daresay now, it was because he’d never known anything else.

Writer’s Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompt #350, Theme: Napkin


The Two-Dollar Counter Tipper

Mr. Napkins came in to the diner every night,
ordering his hacked steak and wiping after every bite.
Too many napkins he would use,
which he would leave like a pile of refuse,
and so the dispensers were recycled outright.


#Micropoetry Monday: Faith and Spirituality


Like Solomon,
God split the baby,
giving them twins–
so that each could be
a real parent to one.

She’d found refuge in the convent—
from marriage to a man who wanted her body,
to a Man who solely wanted her heart.

When he lost his faith Yesterday,
she found hers Tomorrow,
so Today was their Day of Jubilee.

The rich go, & are forever in stone,
where flowers are placed to die,
but the poor, they are as ashes in the wind.

The coexistence of night & day;
the sun is the pearl being formed,
the moon, its fossil.