In the time of Emily Dickinson . . .

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She stood on the Trader’s Block. Men walked by and stopped to examine her. Many with whips in their hands. Some more gentlemanly with canes. Either way. They stopped and stared. Demanded she open her mouth; forced her to do so. Were her teeth in good shape? They all wanted a healthy robust woman to work in their fields. They didn’t know she could read. She’d seen the poster on display. Slaves for Sale Today. That horrible publication. Is the auction of the mind included with the auction of the body? For her, it will never be so. She can read. She can think. She can read the stars. She will not be long with whomever buys her today. She will try to escape again and this time she will succeed.

It’s Prosery Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.

Today, we’re asked to write a piece of prose (144 words or less) that includes the line “Publication is the auction of the mind” from Emily Dickinson’s poem Publication – is the Auction. We can change the punctuation of the line, but we may not change the order of the words. Emily Dickinson lived in the time of slavery. She was not an activist on the subject however, the subject was actually or metaphorically a subject of some of her poems.

I chose not to include an illustration today.

Mary Alyce and I

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We were
two third-grade girls who often roamed
through a nearby overgrown plot of land.
In our minds, the vast Old West.
That mound of dirt about half-way in?
Boot Hill where we’d tether our steeds.
We were certain the Lone Ranger rode these parts.
We’d gallop many a mile in those days.
We’d capture bad guys with unholstered guns
using only one index finger and thumb.
After a long day of protecting Dodge City,
when the sun was about to set
we’d adjust our cowboy hats
and mosey on home
to Martin Avenue
in Waukegan,
Illinois.



NAPOWRIMO Day 13. Prompt: Write a poem about a cherished landscape. It could be your grandmother’s backyard, your schoolyard basketball court, or a tiny stip of woods near the railroad tracks. At some point in the poem, include language or phrasing that would be unusual in normal spoken speech – like a rhyme or syntax that feels old fashioned or high-tone (“mosey on home”).

True story from my childhood days. I have no idea what ever became of Mary Alyce.
AI image made from Bing Create.

She was my mother. . .

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“He went to sea in a thimble of poetry.” 
Opening line in the poem Poet Warning, by Jim Harrison.

Wynken, Blyken and Nod
my childhood friends,
lived in the well-turned pages
of mother’s Child Craft Poetry Book.
So many friends who made me smile.
The Old Lady who lived in a shoe,
Miss Muffet sitting primly on her tuffet,
Old King Cole and Jack Sprat too.

We laughed about the crazy cow
who jumped over the moon.
I lived in those pages then,
where no one yelled at anyone.
Sitting on mother’s lap
I’d hug my yellow teddy-bear
smeared with mother’s lipstick,
so at least, it always smiled at me.

When mama took out that book
I knew she’d take me
to magical places.
And for those moments
her love for me was real and clear.
So calm, so comforting,
so warm, so fun, so motherly,
in those make-believe lands.

And here I am, decades later
near to being an octogenarian,
wondering why I write poetry.
I’d forgotten this side of her,
so many other memories crowding in.
I live by the words, “no regrets”
always have and always will.
So I am thankful to remember
this other side of who she was.



NAPOWRIMO Day 12. Prompt: Write a poem that recounts a memory of a beloved relative and something they did that echoes through your thoughts today.

Image from an illustration in the book, which I still have. Published in 1947, the year I was born.

The Pall of Grief

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As if struck by lightning
or a slow moving deluge,
watching life’s last curtain call
aches like hell.

Grief envelops like low-lying overcast sky.
Why is the air so thick? So heavy without you.
How can I still feel your embrace?
Death takes so much more than life.

That biblical allusion, the Valley of Death.
More like a chasm with unending depth.


NAPOWRIMO Day 10. Prompt: Write your own meditation of grief. Try using Brock’s form (from his poem “Goodbye”) as the “container” for your poem: a few short stanzas, wtih a middle section in which a question is repeated with different answers given.

Image made on Bing Create.

Street Art in Chile

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I believe this is us forever dear,
painted image on a neighbor’s wall.
We hold hands in permanence,
street artist’s portrait of love.
His rendition, always young.
No furrowed brows from worries,
no age spots upon our arms.
He sees us somewhat oddly though,
large heads upon small bodies.
But we do lean in, faces touching,
projecting forever togetherness.
Feet dangle above his painted ground,
hovering above reality’s sidewalk.
He’s placed us in suspension here. . .
and I can imagine, my love,
this was us so many years ago.
How did he know?



Written for Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. I’m hosting today, and folks are invited to post one poem of their choosing, no required format, topic, or length. OR they may post to the optional prompt I provide which includes three photos of street art I saw in Valparaiso, Chile some years ago. The one above was one of my favorites.

AN INVITATION TO YOU: I’m also hosting our LIVE session (audio and video) on Saturday, April 11, from 10 to 11 AM EST. Please consider joining us! You may read aloud a poem of your choosing, or just come to sit in and listen! We are indeed a global group with folks from Australia, Trinidad Tobago, Kenya, the UK, Pakistan, Sweden, and across the US often in attendance. The more the merrier! If you’d like to join us, go to https://dversepoets.com on Saturday a few minutes before 10 AM EST, and click on the link provided there.

Sunflower Tanka

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I stand tall and proud.
Yellow petals round my face
mirror my namesake.
I sway in summer breezes,
turning always to the sun.


NAPOWRIMO, Day 9. Prompt is to write a poem in the voice of an animal or plant. Photo taken some years ago in Provincetown, on the very tip of Cape Cod.

Tanka: a Japanese poetic form with 5 lines in the following syllabic pattern: 5-7-5-7-7. Some say it’s a Haiku that has more to say!

Appropriating Charles Dickens

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It was the best of times . . .
USAID shut down caused
global humanitarian crisis.
It was the best of times . . .
ICE agents wreak havoc,
innocents shot and killed.

It was the worst of times . . .
Cataract surgery
reveals brighter world.
It was the worst of times . . .
Family reunion brings
laughter and love.
It was the worst of times . . .
Sunshine always glows brightly
behind the clouds.


NAPOWRIMO Day 7 Prompt: Write a poem using a simple phrase repeatedly, and then make statements that invert or contradict that phrase.

Image by cliffoa from Pixabay

In the imperative way . . .

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directions to self, and you, if you wish.
Stop imbibing Trumpian news.
Take only one small sip per day.
Think revel instead of wallow.
Revel in sunshine, a best seller book.
Walk outside breathing in fresh air,
plan for someone’s birthday surprise.
Arrange day trips away from news.
If you ruminate, Trump wins.
Do your small part pf course.
One political post per day.
Donate to a cause.
But do not allow him to fester in your brain,
to loose fistulas of lies that chafe,
clouding your eyes to the joys nearby.
Take care of your mental health.
That is of prime importance in these days of . . .
well, I don’t know what they are of.
But that’s the point.
It’s our task to define them.
To decide how we change them.
How we live and love in them.
And God knows, we must.


Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe! Today Dora asks us to write a poem using an imperative….a demand of sorts.

Photo from a spring walk last year along the Charles River. A habitual dog walker often takes a rest at this bench….always makes me smile. We need more smiles these days.

Jump Roping Rhymes for the Times

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One, two,
what can we do?
Three, four,
can’t bear any more.
Five, six,
need a fix.
Seven, eight,
it’s not too late.
Jump ahead to twenty-five,
that amendment’s power drive.
Then go back to the standard rhyme,
he exits out in rhythmic time.
Nine, ten,
a thankful amen.


NAPOWRIMO Day 7. Prompt for the day: Write a poem that can be a “song: something to clap, snap or jump around to.” I’ve changed the words here to the childhood rhyme, “One, two, buckle my shoe. Three, four, shut the door. etc”

If you don’t want to read a political statement in explanation of the poem above, stop reading here.

Today, the President of the United States is playing the “proverbial game of chicken” with an unstable and violent regime. “A whole civilization will die tonight” if Iran doesn’t open the Strait of Hormuz by 8 PM EST. Note: the Strait of Hormuz was open until the US and Israel bombed Iran. Listen to President Trump’s recent public appearances: IE standing beside the giant Easter Bunny at the annual Easter Egg Roll, talking about Iran, how great his military is; telling children they can sell the pictures he colors with them because he’s signing them and his autograph is worth a lot of money. But they couldn’t sell anything from President Biden because he had people follow him around with an autopen. Look at his Truth Social posts in the last few days: laced with expletives. The man is more than unhinged. He is seriously mentally ill. He is not competent or fit to be in the office of the Presidency.

It is time to evoke the 25th amendement and remove him from office. At the very least, his family should stage a serious intervention meeting with him; as should members of Congress. Handle it discreetly and quietly if they wish. If he won’t resign, invoke the 25th amendement. We can not allow this man to continue in this powerful position.