Writer’s Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompt #356, Theme: Getting (Blank)


Getting it Done

She prints the last page of
“Beauty and the Sexy Beast”,
adding it to the “rush pile”.

220,000 words of either
literary genius or salable prose—
she’d take either,
as long as it got published,
and not by self.

In her customary cursive,
wearing her lucky colander,
she addresses the envelope,
when out of the corner of her bleary eye
from too many hours of staring at the screen,
she catches a typo.

“Oh, my, FSM,” she says,
and corrects it,
printing out another page
while calculating ink costs.

She stuffs it all in the envelope,
hopefully not sealed with a kiss of death,
and goes to bed,
only for her eyes to pop open as she wonders,
“Could there have been others?”




#Fiction Friday: #Novelines from the Book


As I was an outsider in our town, so was Caitlin in our family. A single bloodline was all that tethered her to us.

I was the white chocolate shell of my mother, my sister Caitlin, the creamy center.

My sister, the only one who ever really knew me, stays away, and sometimes I believe it is because she knew me.

My sister twinkled like the little star she was, my daughter dancing in her light– a moonlight sonata.

I saw loving my daughter as atonement for not loving my sister when she needed me. I’d left God out of the equation.

Like Scarlett O’Hara, I had a child’s understanding, for I thought that saying “I’m sorry” would make it all go away.

Sometimes, a memory is the only way I can have someone back for a moment; a dream, for hours.

My sister prayed to our dead father, even as she prayed to the Saints, or idols, as our stepfather called them.

She clung to her father, whose memory was like dandelion seeds blowing in the wind.

The fragrance of peach blossoms floats through the French doors, like the spirit of one who died at the height of her loveliness.

Writer’s Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompt #355, Theme: Cravings


Airing Network Grievances

Bloomberg isn’t running for President after all.
Will Biden run for President?
Will Romney run on a third-term ticket?
Classic stock market speculation.
It isn’t news if it doesn’t bring in the ratings.

The manufactured feud between
Megyn Kelly and Donald Trump
has ended in a kissy-face one-on-one.
Since when did bar-hopping attire
become the cable news anchor look?

A celebrity has died.
Not exercising is bad for you.
O’Reilly has written another book.

Another celebrity has died.
Five days later,
we’ll stop hearing about it.

“Breaking News” has become
“The Boy Who Cried Wolf”.

Through the haze of punditry,
and over the babble-bobble of the talking heads,
I begin to have cravings for real news,
but, like a gold miner of yore (or ore),
I must sift through the infotainment—
many times on fast-forward—
to find the nuggets of truth
that have been crushed to dust.


#Micropoetry Monday: Law and Order


He’d paid someone else’s debt to society,
& when he’d found the man who owed him,
the debt was paid in full.

She lied to her lover, who avenged the alleged,
& there is no sadder tale
than the one of unintended consequences.

She could separate the oppressed he once was
from the oppressor he became,
& only he knew the moment he had crossed that line.

Because of his nurture,
nature never had a chance.
To punish the guilty,
would be to go back generations.

It didn’t matter he was the last straw;
it mattered he was one of the straws that broke her,
for killing Abby had been a collaborative effort.

#Fiction Friday: #Novelines from the Book


I had lived without fear of divine punishment; I’d judged Jesus by His few followers, not His many.

God—subject to bouts of wrath & labors of love. A Being Whose personality was split in twain, & which one I met, depended on me.

I could never equate the angry, vengeful God of the Old Testament to the Jesus Christ of the New Testament.

I thought one had to find God within themselves, but twas outside myself I found who I thought to be Him.

I learned that God was the most misquoted entity Who ever existed, but then, He had been around since before time began.

He’d redeemed me from the abstracts of religion, but in doing so, he had elevated himself—a concrete being—as the center of my universe.

My mother & sister had found solace in Catholicism; I had found mine in the humanism of my stepfather, whose doctrine was, “Do no harm”.

As some saw God in different ways, the Nolan women would come to see David in so many ways, none could answer, “Just who was this man, David?”

I had once accepted the Bible as the infallible Word of God–a divine history book–until in the name of David Dalton I was baptized.

The House of David was a glorious temple for a god among men–reminiscent of one of the many mansions the God in Heaven promised His people

Before the fall of the House of David, I knew little of God. Perhaps that was why I had made David into His image.

#Micropoetry Monday: Love and Anti-Love


He was fire,
she was ice,
& together,
they created a new gene pool.

Her first taste of love was bitter—
like a pill she couldn’t swallow.
Her second taste had the aftertaste
of the first.

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

When the new model took him,
only to discard him like a broken toy,
he came back, only to find
she had outgrown the toy.

He had the facts,
she had the figure,
& together,
with a dozen eggs
& a little seed,
they created the
12 Tribes
of Utah.