#Micropoetry Monday: Realms of Motherhood


No two snowflakes are alike,
& she melted in her mother’s arms—
not the designer label she had hoped for,
but the special label
that made her love her all the more.

Her orderly little house had been turned
upside down,
her life inside out,
& she fought to keep up with the tot
she prayed would one day outrun her.

Homeschooling would protect her
from the products of ill conception,
but she could not teach her everything,
& so she had to lead her to the ones who could.

I loved the child that was a part of me,
& equally part of the one I loved.
I loved the child I knew yesterday & today,
but would not be forever.

She is just what I would have chosen,
& yet she was created without conscious thought
the product of an autonomic, biological response
to an act of love,
ignited by whiskey.

#Fiction Friday: #Micropoetry from the Book


Sister Grahame was the moderator
Sister Hatcher the observer
the elders, the participants—
all in an effort to socialize us into the Church.

Caitlin was 13 going on 17,
I was 18 going on 14.
I was sexually naive,
even as she was sexually savvy,
& it was, in this way,
I outpaced her.

When I accepted there might be a God,
I had all the answers I needed.
When I began to dabble in religion,
I was more confused than ever.

Though Mother was the solely converted,
we all changed by her changing.
The Mormons took her places
we weren’t sure we wanted to go.

Christ’s blood had been turned to water,
His body into leavened bread
that had been torn to pieces.

Writer’s Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompt #387; Theme: A One Poem


“The smallest minority on earth is the individual.”  –Ayn Rand

Margo’s Mitosis

One cell.
XXXXXOne birth.
XXXXXXXXXXOne rebirth.

One body.
XXXXXTwo purposes.
XXXXXXXXXXBirthed three.

One heart.
XXXXXTwo loves.
XXXXXXXXXXThree lessons.

One mind.
XXXXXTwo sides.
XXXXXXXXXXThree changes.

One death.
XXXXXOne destination.
XXXXXXXXXXA multitude of legacies.

The Power of One.


*Disclaimer:  I am not a fan or follower of Ayn Rand, but the quote perfectly illustrated the thought behind the poem.

#Micropoetry Monday: Our Beautiful South


Over sweet tea on the verandah,
two Southern belles
& two Southern gents,
decided to be Yankees for a day,
& butter was no longer a staple.

Growing up working class,
with collars as blue as the Bonnie Blue flag
& politics scarlet-red,
with a bloodline as white as Irish potatoes
that ran through their veins,
the O’Mara family was becoming gone with the wind,
their Confederate grey ashes blowing in the breeze.

Wilting on the front porch in blue rocking chairs
with sweet tea in Mason jars,
Miss Iris & Miss Lily spoke of the war no one felt anymore.

Ida Claire, a Southern belle
who identified as a Yankee—
suddenly found that her time was
cut by half & unable to roll her r’s,
for they had disappeared.

They ate grits sweet & savory,
in the sweet & low country,
elevating them with the spice of life,
& the herb that grew in Bubba’s hanging garden–
a potted plant or a planted pot–
they never knew what.

#Fiction Friday: #Micropoetry from the Book


Their culture was Norman Rockwell-ish,
their language, without offense,
their borders open to all who would
obey their commandments.

The genders were distinct—
from heads of home to hearts of home.
They were black-&-white about such things,
the world, 50 shades of grey.

The Mormons saw the family
as the foundation for salvation, whereas
I saw families as something invented
for the orderliness of civilization.

The Separation of Men & Women
was like the Separation of Church & State,
of Law & Medicine,
for in separateness,
there was no Equality.

Men were home teachers,
women, visiting teachers,
& every member was a missionary.
In Catholicism, you went to Church
& then you went home.

Writer’s Digest Wednesday Poetry Prompt #386; Theme: Good (blank)


Good Life

The good life is one that is lived,
not through a screen,
but with hope of things unseen.
It is lived with purpose,
but without everything having to have one.
It is understood that every day
doesn’t have to be a holiday;
it is understood that holidays
don’t have to be the best ever.
The good life,
like any good poem,
doesn’t have to rhyme,
but is lived knowing that
one has a reason
for being here.
The good life is often lived never knowing
what that reason is,
but accepting by faith that one,
does indeed,