My lineage lies in bleached bones,
ash commingled with soil and sea.

I am the living
happily paired,
wed forty-seven years
progressing still.

Mother of two
grandmother of five.
Eleven total
in raucous revelry.

This crowded world
my species’ millions
and millions more,
multiplied by the unknown.

In the midst of all,
I savor oneness.
Scraps of solitude
contemplative discovery,

and recovery.
Sips of silence
to be and to know
who and what is me.

Posted from Bermuda. We are in midst of TransAtlantic crossing and will not have access to Internet for five days. I shall post again from Lisbon.


My hands caress
use opposable thumbs.
Yours do that,
and also shoot guns.

I bask in the sun
nurture my young.
You do that,
and stockpile guns.

I sit in here
looking out at you.
You stand out there
looking in at me.

I see your face
your hands
your feet,
so like me.

So why am I the one
locked in here,
you out there
staring at me.


Photos taken at the San Diego Zoo. I can stand for hours looking at the gorillas – they mesmerize me. I’m hosting dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets, asking folks to anthropomorphize within today’s poem. Give an animal or object human characteristics such that it behaves like a human. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time — come on over and anthropomorphize with us! 

Fairy Tale Blues

Farm girl drama queen
with big time dreams,
snared the son of a preacher
with her homey flirtin’ ways.
Singin’ the fairy tale blues.

Son of a preacher
turned big time doc,
maneuvered through the courtin’ tiffs
into a sometimes wedded bliss.

Mansion mama, party queen
livin’ the wonder life,
raisin’ two perfect girls
puttin’ on the ritz.

Spotlight stealer, cravin’ fame
ignored her co-star’s role,
didn’t see him exit left
singin’ the fairy tale blues.

Always the diva drama queen
she stabbed him in their final scene.
She’s doin’ five to ten now,
singin’ the fairy tale blues.

Image in public domain, from Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where today Frank is “tending bar” and asks us to write a poem with irony in it. Irony can be defined as a story with a surprise ending.

Impressionist Scene

We walk silently, side by side
wander from delineated path.
Step softly
into mountain meadow
enveloped in heady scent.

Wildflower carpet at our feet
damask cloth spread upon the blooms.
She sits demurely
holds one tempting peach aloft,
just beyond my reach.

I stretch to touch her wrist
guide velvet fruit to slightly parted lips.
Succulent flesh drips sweet nectar,
blurs into rivulet on milky neck.
And I sit mesmerized.

Her image blurred through tears.
Serene beauty
framed amidst soft meadow hues.

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Bjorn hosts and continues with his exploration of artistic movements. We are to paint with words, in the style of Impressionism, capturing images to create a scene. Impressionism is not dark. We are to lighten our poem with colors, but preferably not using color words. Instead our images/objects/scenes mentioned should evoke a sense of color by their very nature. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come share your impressionistic view or just stop by to imbibe some words! 


He tied her in knots with a string of tales.
Flew her like a kite, jerking the lead,
back and forth in tormenting winds.
Strung her along, tethered to rocky shoals,
until his nots became a strangle hold.

Every Tuesday, Misky posts a Twiglet: a short phrase, a word; to prompt a thought, a flow, a memory. Twiglet #11 is the phrase “with a string.” Art from Wikiart: Nude Young Woman by Giorgione, 1508.

Whose Child?

I am your global child.
Barefoot puddle splasher
hand outstretched, ghostly smile,
sunken-eyed innocence.

I live in your cities.
Under bridges, in alleyways
on your streets.

Blessed are those . . .
which those?

See me. Hear me.
Offer me
a morsel of hope.

Quadrille (44 words, not including title) for dVerse where Kim asks us to use the word or a form of the word “ghost.” DVerse, (the virtual pub for poets) opens with today’s prompt at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!


First grader. Never mulled
no twists, just straight up.

Shaken on the playground,
meets bully spirits with bravado.

Some day, she’ll pass the bar.
And she’ll be the one.

We’ll toast her as she takes the oath.
Hail to the Chief.

Posted for dVerse Tuesday Poetics where De asks us to “mix it up a bit” by using terms having to do with the bar / pub scene, drinking terms. IE in Predilection’s case: mulled, twist, straight up, shaken (not stirred), spirits, bar, and toast. The trick is, the poem cannot be about the drinking scene! A fun prompt. Hail to the Chief is the music played at the inauguration after the presidential oath is taken, and thereafter when the President of the United States is introduced. Bar opens at 3 PM Boston time. Stop on over and imbibe some words!