A Haibun: Family Tradition

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From the time our children were two and four, we’ve held hands before our evening meal and sung a song called The Circle of Love. With a simple and happy tune, the words go like this:

“The circle of love goes around and round
the circle of love goes around.
Reach out your hands someone needs you.
The circle of love goes around. Amen.”

It’s not by others’ standards, a real table grace. Grace is often defined as the free, unmerited favor and love of God toward humanity. And a short prayer before a meal is often called “saying grace”. For us, this singing together before supper was and always is a moment to celebrate family. Smiling at each other, sometimes grinning, we sing loudly and with energy. What we’re really singing about is the unconditional love and happiness we share. No matter the food – from cheesey chicken casserole to shrimp scampi to Thanksgiving turkey, The Circle of Love was always the first course of the meal.

Now, approaching our octogenarian years, with five grandchildren who are twenty, eighteen, and fifteen, and our children and their wonderful spouses in their fifties, we treasure the rare times we are all together. The eleven of us, or a fewer number on occasions when busy lives and miles intervene, still carry on this tradition. When we come to the table for an evening meal, no matter the happenings of the day, the first thing we do is join hands. And then we sing, loud and clear. Grateful for each other and for the meal we share.

Wild flowers in fields
different shapes, sizes, colors
always face the sun.


Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Punam is hosting Tuesday Poetics presenting us with the following prompt: “For today’s Poetics, I would love a presence of food in your poems. You can employ any form but touch upon food; vegetables, fruits, meat, dairy, desserts you love or hate. It could be about why you love/abhor cooking/baking, your most memorable/miserable meal ever, your relationship with food…the possibilities are endless.” No particular form or length is required.
A Haibun is a Japanese poetic form that combines prose with a haiku.
I guess you could say I’ve written about my family’s relaionship with the evening meal!

Photo is from a family gathering about six years ago.

Silence on the Page

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A mistake above?
Delete that empty space.
Backspace until it disappears.
Or fill it up with words.
Add words.
Lots of words.

Or recognize its value.
Listen to its open silence.
Spend time there,
relax in empty space.
No judgement.
No expectations.

Just be.


Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today I’m hosting and asking folks to include the word “silence” or a form of the word (not a synonym) in the body of their 44 word poem.

Quadrille: a form created by dVerse. The poem is composed of 44 words, sans title. Within the 44 words, one word given by the pub tender, must be included.

Photo from Pixabay.com

Plethora of Lightness

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Sun shimmers through forest’s canopy.
Moon cuts path across ocean’s abyss.
Infant’s mouth opens to circle small,
pink tongue slides in and out and in again.

Girl grins, pumping swing as pigtails fly.
Puddles appear inviting all to splash.
Child’s momentary shock as bat hits ball,
then small feet fly to first.

Thick carpet of pristine snow
invites children of all ages
to lie down, swooping arms.
Create guardian angels among us.

Folks sway in jazz club,
hear saxophones mellow out.
Watch nimble fingers create piano riffs,
brushes rhythmically swish on snares.

In the midst of ever present news,
cacophonies of catastrophes.
Find space to feel lightness,
safe harbors for hope.

Hushed Stillness Resounds

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Moonlight shimmers softly.
Snowfall recently ceased, shrouds trees,
covers small town’s street.
Traffic absent save one car’s tell-tale tracks.
Owner, probably settled in reading,
nods off by flickering fire.
Lone man savors silence walking slowly.
Two dogs on extended leash,
content with no distractions
pause only to sniff the cold.
Winter’s quiet stillness reverberates
in late hours of this night.


I’m hosting OLN at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Open Link Night means writers can post any one poem of their choice: no required format, rhyme scheme, topic or length OR they can write to the optional prompt I’ve given. The optional prompt? To write a poem motivated by the painting above, entitled Hushed And Still by artist Simie Maryles. The scene is representative of Provincetown, MA on the very tip of Cape Cod.

To learn more about Simie Maryles and see more of her paintings go to https://simiemaryles.com/artist/simie-maryles NOTE: writers only have permission to use Hushed and Still for their poetry.

Silence Is Not Golden

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Sound muted.
Cacophony of silence.

Words spilled on a page,
sentenced to death.
Alphabet stews
bleeding false truths.

Democracy verbified.
Present tense
slanted to the future,
diagrammatical correction needed

Guide to collective nouns.
Bloat: hippopotamuses
Murder: crows
Bed: sloths
Shiver: sharks
Scourge: mosquitoes
And

Petrified: today’s Republican Congress.
Sound muted.
Cacophony of silence.
This is the saddest story
I have ever heard.

Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Punam provides us with a number of opening lines from various books and writings. We are to take one of the opening lines provided, and make it the closing line of our poem. We must use the line as is..no addition or subtraction of words. The line I’ve chosen to use is “This is the saddest story I have ever heard,” from The Good Soldier by Ford Madox Ford. Image by John from Pixabay

Haiku Reference Guide

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Prickle on parade.
Suddenly frightened, fluffs quills.
Porcupines ready.

Squawking, gawking fun.
Flamboyant cacophony,
flamingos’ party.

Tower strolls slowly
searching for acacia trees.
Giraffes’ favorite treat.

Bloat walks to water,
waddles with heavy slow steps.
Hippos seek cool bath.

Troop hops high and long.
Daily constitutional,
kangaroos’ amble.

Black and white striped suits
mimic Armani’s men’s wear.
Zebras’ dazzle style.

Alfred Hitchcock’s muse,
murder gathers on roof tops.
Crows screech, caw loudly.

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, Bjorn is hosting Open Link Night from Sweden. OLN means we are not confined to a particular form of poem, or rhythm, or rhyme scheme. Image created on Bing Create.

FYI: I’ve used the group names of animals here: a group of porcupines is a prickle; a group of flamingos is a flamboyant; a group of giraffes is a tower; a group of hippos is a bloat; a group of kanagaroos is a troop; a group of zebras is a dazzle; and a group of crows is a murder.

Set Aside

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Summer of letters.
Days of thinking slowly,
rolling words around
until they landed just right.
Days of ink to vellum,
sometimes blurred by tears.
Hidden away for so many years.
Flowers beneath ribbon ties,
now brittle and dry.
Love never consummated,
memories still blush.

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. It’s Quadrille Monday and De asks us to include the word “flower” or a form of the word, within the body of our poem of just 44 words, sans title. Image created on Bing Create.

Built to the Glory of God

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La Sagrada Familia,
Barcelona’s stunning basilica.
Antoni Gaudi’s unfinished masterpiece.

Mesmerized, we walk in quietly.
Step ever so slowly between
thirty-six supporting stone columns.
Like mighty Redwoods
they tower silently overhead.
Sprout branches arching higher and higher.
Artistically created moldings crown them,
some crowded, some overlapping like leaves.
Sunlight streams between and through them,
as if in a forest’s royal canopy.
We marvel at the sun captured within this space.
Its glow. Its mystical aura.

How can one man dream so big?
Dead decades before its completion,
his body lies within a crypt below.
Surely his soul lives and revels there.
Uplifted, if somewhat humbly,
witnessing others fulfill his dream.
For here we stand,
above where his body sleeps.
And this place is magnificent.


Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Dora asks us to write a poem that includes at least one simile. A simile is a comparison of two unlike objects using the word “like” or “as”.

Images taken at La Sagrada Familia in Barcelona this past November.

La Sagrada Familia is a Catholic basilica in Barcelona, Spain. It is the unfinished masterpiece of architect Antoni Gaudi, although it is predicted to be finished by end of 2026. It is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. It was begun in 1882 by architect Francisco de Paula del Villar. After he resigned from the project in 1883, Gaudi took over as Chief Architect. Gaudi died in 1926 and is buried in the basilica’s crypt. The basilica opened on November 7, 2010 and was consecrated by Pope Benedict XVI. Stained glass windows on the East side emit cool colors of blue and green. Windows on the West side stream in warm colors in hues of red, yellows and oranges.

In a word, La Sagrada Familia is magnificent.

A Plea on January Twenty-Sixth

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I seek a trip to calm.
A land called Calm
where love abounds
all people are valued
leaders seek to unite
children skip confidently to school.
Where lies are confessed,
not repeated bragadociously on the news.
Who can help me find that land?

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today is Quadrille Monday and we’re asked to write a quadrille (a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title) that includes the word “trip” within the body of the poem. Image from Pixabay.com

Now is the time . . .

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How did we get to this place?
When did ice become so much more
than a cube you put in a glass?
When did it become routine
for a president to continually lie?
For masked agents to roam our streets,
break into homes without a warrant?
I mean, I know people don’t agree on everything.
We’ve had two political parties since the mid-1800s.
But when did the abyss become so long and so deep,
that Congress members no longer work across the aisle?
I don’t have a plan to strengthen immigration policies.
But I do know “strengthen” does not mean
assaulting people based on skin color and accents,
or gassing peaceful protestors.
Close to being an octogenarian,
I’ve held signs aloft at demonstrations.
I often raise my pen to paper,
exercising my poetic “license”
to challenge the status quo.
It’s what I can and must do.
I will not tread water in this whirl pool.
Tell me, what are you doing
to change the tide?

Photo taken at a demonstration in Boston Commons.

Written in the style of Mary Oliver, one of my favorite poets. I’ve used the last four lines of her poem, The Summer Day, for inspiration.

“Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

I believe Mary Oliver, if she were alive today, would be asking the same question I ask at the end of my poem. In that way, and attempting to employ her style in my poem (although I’m certainly no Mary Oliver!), I try to honor her. Here is her poem:

The Summer Day

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean —
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down —
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?