#Micropoetry Mondays: Faith & Spirituality


She didn’t believe in women pastors,
yet she remembered…
nowhere did it say that the little child
who would lead them,
had been born a man.

There was one Bible, one God, one Jesus,
but she wondered about other worlds,
& realized that not everything was in the Bible—
only what we needed to know.

As they spoke to God, they found the answers to their problems.
They wondered if they had come from Him,
or from something deep inside themselves He had given them.

She was in love with a priest,
who loved God more.
He could not see that loving her—
one of the least among them—
was loving God.

Abraham began to suffer in his old age, to hear voices,
& sought to silence the lamb that was his,
prized above all others,
but the angel stopped his madness,
for human sacrifice was abhorrent to God.




#Fiction Friday: #Novelines from the Book


The missionaries looked at Mother’s wedding ring with relief, but the man they thought her husband, I knew as her lover and my stepfather.

His love for Mother was stronger than a double platinum band; rather than winning her once till death, he won her, perhaps back, every day.

A marriage to David would solidify his place in our family, and yet, I knew he was bound by ways I could not explain.

I had always found it ironic that David’s flowers would live in his garden, only to be plucked and left to die on my father’s grave.

I loved my stepfather more than I’d ever loved my father, for I’d have Patrick die all over again, just to have David near.

David’s love for my mother was what I’d believed had kept him close, when all along it had been his love for me.

When my sister came, so did he, but years would go, before I would know, he’d been there all along, all for me.

David overshadowed my father, who had been nothing but a shadow to me when I had known, and barely remembered, him.

Strange, that a dead man was the sole provider of our little family—a nameless grand-uncle who rained his blessings on us from Heaven.

Writer’s Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompt #364; Theme: Let the Good Times Roll

Every Wednesday, upon waking, I check the Writer’s Digest website for the prompt so I can have all day to brainstorm.  This morning, I simply asked my three-year-old daughter, “So, what do you think about ‘letting the good times roll’?”, and she said, “Play-doh!”, so that’s how I came up with this.


 Play-Doh Fun

A good time is all rolled up
in variety of color and cup—
purple spaghetti with orange meatballs,
kangaroo crackers,
and stickies for the wall;

blueberries that are red,
raspberries that are blue,
cookie cutters that are borrowed,
and peas like pearls in a queue;

elephants with cattails,
horses with ponytails,
and fork work like inverted Braille;

neon green hamburgers and hot pink hotdogs
reshaped into swirly planets with rings,
and stripes mixed with polka dots;

shapeless shapes,
smileys from pencil pokes,
and handprints stained with newsprint;

bows for Minnie Mouse,
plugs for her ears,
and beanbag chairs for the dollhouse;

more bows for Minnie,
something for the bellybutton,
and toes with royal jelly for din-dinny;

it’s all in fun,
only to be stretched and folded,
and put away again.



#Micropoetry Monday: Family Dynamics

Wedding rings

Guess What’s Coming Up for Dinner?
Mom’s goulash fed the dog, the plants,
& sometimes the boy with synesthesia next door.
Now Ida Claire knew why Dad was always drunk before dinner.

Though Dad didn’t know a nut from a bolt,
a screw from a nail,
he knew enough to know they held things together,
as he did his family.

When she was 22,
he was Puddin’.
When he was 24,
she was Punkin’.
At 32 & 34, she was Babs,
he was Pip.
At 55+, it was simply “Hey”.

!@#$ My Dad Did
He didn’t make the bacon,
but burned it.
He didn’t win the bread,
but smashed it.
He forgot our birthdays,
but did everything he could
to make sure that we had plenty of them.
He was Dad.

Mom was the undomesticated goddess,
Dad, the SAHD with a God-complex,
brother Del, with just a complex,
& I, the rewriter of the family history.

#Fiction Friday: #Novelines from the Book


Lush, semi-tropical landscapes, bluesy, breezy seascapes—that was “Our Town” of Green Haven, Florida—Paradise, but at a price.

I dreamed of the Great Salt Lake Valley, where the descendants of Brigham Young, like Abraham’s, numbered the sands of the salted sea.

Maybe Mother had always been a Mormon in spirit, for my father’s death had not ended the marriage contract.

They called themselves “elders”, but they were my age. They called themselves Saints, and they were—for that blip in time.

They had no tattoos, but their words left an imprint. They had no piercings, but their words pricked my consciousness, if not my conscience.

The elders, in their shirts and ties, riding bicycles, was incongruous to me, like when people were more sophisticated than their technology.

They said they had a message about Jesus Christ, but it was the carnal, not the spiritual in me, that let them in.

Hearing about Jesus brought back memories of Sunday school long ago, long before Caitlin’s bones had been knitted in my mother’s womb.

Mormonism would make me believe I was lost, but the truth was that it would be after my involvement I would lose myself in it.

A change of life was happening inside all of us, and I was powerless to stop it; they spoke of things unseen, that couldn’t be disproven.

Writer’s Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompt #363; Theme: Flight



Once upon a time in Nantucket,
there were two brothers—
Joe, the Jacob,
Brian, the Esau;
borne of a mother
who was like a distant star,
and a father who was simply lost in space,
careworn down by time.

There were two goddesses,
Helen with her cello
and Cassandra called Casey—
Helen, who found her way,
Casey, losing herself along it.
The day would come each would
go the way of one of the brothers,
but only Joe and Helen would endure.

There was the artful Mechanic,
the merry Widow,
the unlucky Immigrant,
the female Flyer—
like little charms on an island necklace,
but only two would stay,
for two would go.

In the fantasy world known as Tom Nevers field,
there was the lone David,
known as Sandpiper Air,
and Aeromass—
the seven air devils run by Goliath.

And it was during that time,
not so long before the towers fell,
when airports were the first stop to fun times elsewhere—
the last stop before that place that was like no other—
that this fairy tale was encapsulated,
so that nothing ugly could touch it.

And it was in Nantucket
that the Pilot and the Cellist,
through loves won for a time,
through others lost forever,
lived happily ever after.



#Micropoetry Monday: On Writing


Peyton’s Place
She wrote a book, writing what she knew.
What she didn’t know, she created,
but it was the truths,
prettied up as lies,
that led the ones
whose sins she confessed,
to stone her with tweets.

Newscasters=news analysts, not news readers
Endless spin cycle
Who, what, where, when, why, how, & what if?
Sensationalized for ratings

Nature enables us to see as far
as our eyes can see,
books beyond even that,
but books read out in nature,
bridges both worlds.

Haiku—if a person, not the most attractive proportions
Acrostic—a narcissist, horizontally & vertically
Limerick—witty when drunk
Ode—fetish poem
Sonnet—iambic pentameter hell

When Period met Dash,
it was a string of stops & starts,
until they learned to work together,
creating the Morse Code.