Monday, April 30, 2012


Z-words include Zoo, Zipper, Zeugma

Simon and Garfunkle composed a song that fits the letter ‘Z’ and is a song that flows readily from the recesses of my memory. Is it really “all happening at the zoo?”  Well, maybe yes, because I think life is a kind of zoo.

Just think about the diversity of people, cultures, philosophies and responses to both mundane and exciting experiences and you have a zoo in the making. Different body shapes, living environments, housing arrangements – zoos do this for their animals.

Also, we’re caged behind bars of our own making. How much of who you really are at the core of your being do you present to the world? Or do you harbor talents and skills, fears and emotions behind a mask, held like a gambler holding his cards so close, even he can barely discern their numbers?

Zippers, another word that is also fitting to the way people close themselves away from reality. We zip up our cocoon, draw on a mask, and push our essential self into hiding. While perhaps a protection mechanism, the result is a loss of freedom to embrace the wholeness of our chosen presence on this fabulous planet.

Zeugma, a disconcerting use of language, as in: On his fishing trip, he caught three trout and a cold. The “official” definition: the use of a word to modify or govern two or more words when it is appropriate to only one of them or is appropriate to each but in a different way.

What does that have to do with the rest of this blog? Everything and nothing relates to what’s happening at the zoo!
** ** **


the years
I will live as
abstruse small pieces,
in dark corners of memory,


old age
resists borders,
shifts in time as years rise,
once sixty, today arrives when
health fades

Saturday, April 28, 2012

Y is for Yesterday

Yesterdays With Parker

The far edge of Parker’s large yard softened from sweltering late summer sun, to cooler evening shadows. I watched from his living room, looking out across the hand-hewn wood deck, lovingly crafted years past, watched the sky shift from azure to fire-orange glowing rays as the sun splayed her farewell banner.

Behind me, Parker’s raspy breath remained a sad, rhythmic reminder of why I was here, in a home I’d left years ago after one final battle for independence. We’d partnered, he and I, as renegade youths, bent on freeing the world from materialistic ways, seeking spiritual nirvana around the globe. We'd trekked across Asia in search of Shambhala, then across Europe in search of pleasure. Eventually, we'd landed in California’s coastlands, found a community of like-minded families and settled down.

Parker’s talents with gadgetry landed him a high-paying job in Silicon Valley and our battles began. I was always a writer, poet, philosopher of life. As Parker’s income grew, his acquisitions followed – cars, boats, toys of high expense. Journeys to exotic lands, now paid for by his employer, did not include me.

How I longed for yesterday, for yesteryear – those times of owning what we could carry on our backs, earning enough to eat and survive, bartering our skills for a place to stay.

When Parker’s new partner, Janine, contacted me, I hesitated to respond. What do I care that he is dying? But she said he’d asked to see me, had something he wanted to tell me. Yes, I’d thought, now he wants to apologize, a bit late in the game for me.

I took a day to meditate on everything I believed, sought a release of the anger and bitterness that rose up in me, surprised me by its intensity – and even its presence. Forgiveness, I knew, was necessary for true internal peace. But could I forgive him for giving up everything we once embraced together, forgive him for choosing to sow his seeds in a consumerist society? And, then, could I forgive him for turning from me, selecting Janine over me and lying about his affair?

Seeing Parker tucked into a portable bed, propped up for this view out his living room window, wires and tubes attached to his body, his breath a raspy wheeze, sucked the last morsel of resistance from my heart. “I forgive you, Parker,” I’d said before he had a chance to speak. “Can you forgive me?”

Parker won’t live to see many more of these day-night-day transitions. I will. That awareness churns within me. Hearing Parker cough, I turn from the sunset, approach his bed. Standing next to Janine, I take his hand in mine and say good-bye.
** **
Years Gone By

so near, so far away,
yet it is today embraced
I most seek,
a treasure trove
of experiences
seen through lenses
polished by years
of grit, oil, fire and pain,
etched by desert sands,
lightning strikes,
love’s deep attachments
adding textures and colors
too quiet to notice

Friday, April 27, 2012

X is for Xiphium Iris

Xiphium Iris

Spanish flower,
handsome purple blossoms
add delicate lines, sweet bouquet

Thursday, April 26, 2012

W is for Wolf Tales (Tails?)

The wolf is my spirit animal. Any opportunity to engage a live wolf up-close, erases all common sense, thoughts of others. I’d joined the Wilderness Rangers in hopes of an opportunity like the one facing me today, across a tree-ringed meadow.

I’d spotted the wolf when our group arrived at a small hut used for warmth in winter and getting out of the rain during other seasons. While my companions ate lunch and socialized, I’d headed around the edge of the meadow, hoping to secure a clear view of the wolf.  And, I did. What a magnificent specimen she was, face fur whiter than new snow, ears appeared soft like down, twitching as my movements snapped a twig. But she stayed, no fear in those eyes that located mine, just a steady, knowing depth.

“Exquisite beast, No?” The voice, just off my right shoulder, startles me.

“Oh, I thought I was alone.” I blush when I see the male equivalent of a wolf next to me, his face softened by a short beard, curly hair closely cropped, his blue-gray eyes mesmerizing.

I quickly turn back to the wolf in the meadow. “He’s not a beast, you know. Wolves are intelligent creatures. Perhaps more than humans.”

He laughs, then, a patronizing yet friendly chuckle. “Ah, so you are ‘friend of wolves’ now?”

“Do I know you?” I look more closely at his face but find nothing familiar.

“I observed you at the hiking club meeting last week.”

“But you aren’t with the group today?” The vibes from him are not as comfortable as I’d like, but if he was a late arriver to the group I’d joined for today’s hike, I could calm my anxiety.

“Alas, no. I was too late to join.” He smiles, and I notice him peering over my shoulder toward where that group waited behind me. “But, the hike sounded interesting and I decided to enjoy it alone.”

Yes, he was alone, that I could see, and carrying only a daypack, just like the rest of us. He also has a very nice set of binoculars hanging from his neck and a camera with a long lens hanging near his hip.

“May I borrow your binoculars? I’d love to get a closer view of the wolf.”

As he hands them to me, I gasp. “They’re so light! Oh, my – Leica. These must have cost a fortune!”

I train my eyes on the wolf, still watching us from across the meadow. “The view is outstanding. It’s as if I’m standing next to her, could touch her fur. Oh, those eyes – such a deep, piercing blue. Most adult wolves eyes are gold not blue!”

“Would you like me to take a photo for you?”

“Oh, would you?” I know I sound too eager, but I notice his camera is also a Leica. This guy must be rich. Then I realize how dopey my excitement must sound.

He’s already taking photos, not reacting to my words, so I lift the binoculars to my eyes again, watch the wolf watching us.

Our enjoyment soon ends, however, as something startles the wolf. “That was a quick disappearing act,” I say, disappointed.

“I know where the den is located.”

“You do?”

“Yes, I could show you.”

“Oh, but I’m with the group.” I gesture toward the top of the hill, though don’t turn away from him. He shrugs his shoulders and nods his head toward the hut. I spin around.

The area near the hut, where the group had been eating lunch, now appears empty and I don’t hear any sounds. When did they depart? Didn’t anyone notice I was missing? I had mentioned my intention to Marianne – or did I? I remember I tried to, but she was chatting with the director and I grew impatient, just left. So nobody knows I am gone.

“I think you are alone .. ?”

A statement, a question – I hesitate, still puzzled over the group’s departure. Finally, I understand what he is asking.

“Tegan,” I said. “And you are?”


I sigh. “I suppose I should try to catch up with them.” I say this but I have no idea where they are headed next. I’d failed to pick up one of the maps at the start of the trip. because I’d arrived late. I just figured we’d remain together. With this big of a group, I’d decided, not everyone needed a map. I figured wrong.

“Or, you could stay with me. I could show you the den.”

I stare into those intense, blue eyes, hooked, my heart beating fast, my gut sounding cautionary bells that I don’t want to hear. Forcing my eyes away from his face, I glance toward the top of the hill, consider again the discomfort in my gut and make my decision. “Okay. Show me the den.”

** ** **
two songs for Wolf

gleaned from years
engaged with nature, hunts
haunt humans, sustain the wolf pack

moon-lit meadows,
tranquil air, howls resound
songs of joy, love, each note projects

Wednesday, April 25, 2012

V is for Vignette

Vignette – in writing, a brief scene

“Victory is mine!” Shannon jumped from the couch, landing with his legs spread shoulder-width apart, gray sword held high.

Mandy merely rolled her eyes. “Get real, Little Pigeon. I’m the Hawk here.”

“Then be prepared to die!”

“Nah, I’m tired of the game.” Mandy dropped her toy sword and turned away.

Shannon lunged toward Mandy, striking her right hip. “You will not leave this village alive.”

“I’m already gone, and stop hitting me.” She turned toward him, her eyes blazing. “Or do you want me to tell Mom and have her take your sword away again?”

Shannon frowned and Mandy wondered if he was going to cry. She was supposed to be playing with him this afternoon, while their mom was at a doctor’s appointment, but sometimes she just didn’t want to play his super hero games.

“I’m sorry, Shanny. I’m just tired of the game right now. Would you like me to fix us a snack?”

At the mention of food, his eyes lit up, just as Mandy knew they would. She popped a bag of popcorn into the microwave and poured them both a glass of milk.

“You’re a good super-hero, you know,” Mandy said softly, trying to make up for earlier. “Mom’s going to need a super-hero around here for a while.”

“Well, that’s me!” Shannon stood tall, his sword raised, face lit by a big grin. “But why?”

Mandy wasn’t supposed to tell him about their mom’s injuries, and how her latest boyfriend was even worse than the last one. She wondered when her mom would finally find a kind man to date.

She smiled at Shannon, then reached out to ruffle his hair. “Because you are the man of the house and super-heroes are always in demand to kill the bugs that sneak in to bother us.” 

“Popcorn’s ready,” he shouted when the timer beeped. “Can we watch a movie?”

“Sure, champ. What would you like to watch today?”

“The Incredibles.” 
** **


his pain, that day
Beth drew her sword, sliced through
their love, left him stunned, heart broken

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

U is for Ubiquitous

ubiquitous – existing or being everywhere, especially “at the same time”
omnipresent – constantly encountered

The silence had a subtle beginning. First, the leaves stopped rustling, the wind failed to whistle as it brushed the branches, found its way through cracks in the window frame. After that, the frogs quit singing and the forest grew eerie in its sudden still quiet.

She walked along the trail, boots crunching dried twigs, leaves, shells and yet she heard only the absence of sound. The trees parted near the edge of a wild, raging river. Not too distant, she thought, to hear the churning and bubbling of the turbulent water. Still she heard nothing. 

A dark shadow drew her view skyward where a hawk soared. Even the birds, the screech of the hawk, the hoot of the owl, the dancing melodies of the songbirds – all silent now.

Above the bird, a small plane churned across the sky. She imagined it being a new technology, the motor barely broke through the still air.

The silence surrounded her – ubiquitous.

She sighed, sad for the loss of so much that once delighted her. The loss was gradual at first, then dove like an elevator set free. Now, even with the aid of a hearing device, she lived in a world where silence held more power than sound. She considered her life akin to that of an alien on Earth, arriving without ears to hear, she navigated her way by sight, visually interpreting what she needed to understand, avoiding most social interactions.

Attempting to find a silver lining, she took consolation in being able to tune out the ubiquitous noise grown ever-present, never shut off, that most people endured every day and every night.

Maybe she did have an edge in her own unique way. Certainly made it easy to focus on her writing in a crowded coffee shop.

She turned from the river and continued her silent walk through the forest.
** ** **
ubiquitous quiet

surrounds, black hole
siphons sound away, steals
birds, a child’s song, compromises

layers voices,
subtle notes; harmonics
required for fullness, clarity,

speech, natural
sounds feed my inner soul,
hearing loss fragments notes, disrupts

Monday, April 23, 2012

T - Time Transforms

I pulled up her Facebook page, smiled as I viewed her profile photo. It was a Christmas shot of her mom.

“How sweet,” I thought. I read through her posts, clicked on her photo albums.

That’s when reality smacked a blow to my psyche. “All those photos of her mom, aren’t of her mom at all. They’re her!”

Time transforms.

I remember hearing what I considered a silly saying when I was a young lady. It had to do with making sure to check out the parents of the man or woman you intended to spend your life with, because that’s how they’ll look in twenty or thirty years.

I used to laugh, figured it was a joke, a complete exaggeration. As I physically transform from the young lady I still see in my mind’s eye, I realize that we often become those who bore us.

Not everyone, of course. But photos of many of my high school friends, the ones whose parents I also knew quite well, reflect those parents I recall. And, since I haven’t been physically near any of these friends for twenty to thirty years (or longer for many), I still recall them visually at their younger age. That makes those Facebook photos seem odd, every time.

Not me, not my photo, of course. But, then, I’ve always only found bits and pieces of family genetics in my physical features, as if I never was a full-fledged member of that family that raised me.

I do see family traits in my sister, not of our mom but of an aunt, a sister of our father. I also see our father in my brothers. No doubt there. In me, perhaps going back a generation or two will reveal more likenesses.

The real tell is putting my photo next to my daughter’s image. Over the years, people have often spoken of our strong resemblance; at times we were considered sisters. Not so much now that I’m headed for the senior citizen status, though I can still see “me” in all of her photos – the “me” of a much younger age. I guess that means I hope she doesn’t mind looking like me once she reaches her sixtieth birthday.

And then I found a recent photo of the first boy I ever dated in high school. My shock at the realization was softened by having seen parental images in other old friends,  but I was still stunned to find his father. This recent image is a spitting image of the man standing in the doorway when the boyfriend and I arrived at two AM, attempting to explain how we’d gotten lost looking for a party at an apartment complex. It was a party the boy’s parents had invited us to attend after our school event, a dance. We really did get lost but, yeah, I know, who’s going to believe that one? I was there, and even I find it doubtful.

But there he is, the father – or the son, now the father. Wow. Transformed.

** **

green-eyed wolf stands firm
father’s white-gray mask now his
tribal link complete

Saturday, April 21, 2012

S is for Silence

I was torn today on the topic of my post, and then “Silence is golden” rushed into my mind this morning, a topic pertinent to my life for many years because I’ve lost the ability to experience complete silence. Tinnitus, perhaps the topic for Monday’s blog post, invades and disturbs 24/7.

Beyond personal disturbances, there is the fact that, like the invasion of man-made light upon the sky, human contrived noise has almost silenced silence. Where does one go to find the quiet of silence, a place where the loudest noise is one’s thoughts?

With the increase in communication devices – think ipod, ipad, iphone, inoise – humans seem hooked to noise all day long, every day of the year. When not wired to some music or phone device, we’re bombarded by the sounds of motor vehicles, planes, dogs, people talking as if to themselves (thanks to Bluetooth), office chatter and televisions, that seem to be on constantly as background in some homes.

I suspect we’ve grown so comfortable with noise that silence sounds deafening. And, again I ask, where does one go to find the quiet of silence? The answer: Orfield Laboratory’s anechoic chamber in Minneapolis, Minnesota is considered the quietest place on Earth. It is so soundproof, that no human has been able to withstand the absolute silence, when the room is darkened, for more than forty-five minutes.

Scientists say this reflects that we are sensory-dependent beings. Apparently, after a few minutes in the chamber, the sounds grow personal – heartbeat, breathing, perhaps your skin twitching?  People have actually started hallucinating in the deprivation of sound environment.

Another place for silence is located in the Hoh Rain Forest in Olympic National Park in the state of Washington. It’s called “One Square Inch of Silence” a place designed on Earth Day 2005 to protect the natural soundscape of the park’s backcountry wilderness. You can learn more at

Silence - a beautiful sound. Silence makes music more vibrant and alive. Silence allows the mind a respite from conscious activity, wakens deeper layers of self where true peace and clarity reside.

*** ***


begins where noise
ends, a wisp of sweet air
strikes between echoes, the absence

Friday, April 20, 2012

R is for Raven

She saw the large, black bird perched on the arm of the streetlight every morning on her way to work. In the evening, the bird might be there or on a branch of a nearby tree.

“It’s a raven,” she told her friend Emile. “He’s watching me, I can feel his energy.”

“Are you afraid? Because if you are, I can come with you, make him go away.”

Shocked, Mandy gasped. “No, oh never. Can’t you see? He’s my guardian, the visible representation of one of my spirit animals.”

Emile rolled his eyes. “Not the spirit animal thing again. Mandy, you are in charge and there’s no spiritual anything guarding, aiding, directing – nothing.”

Mandy disliked the way Emile wouldn’t even consider what she’d experienced since spending a weekend with a Shaman three weeks ago. It was a group event that included individual interactions. The Shaman had taken her on a spiritual journey to discover her spirit guides. She came home knowing Raven and Wolf were with her, providing clear directions, support and more. But this was her first visible encounter, a sign that Raven was present.

She began interacting with the Raven, first she just lifted her head and smiled, but then she softly called out, “Hello.” A week later, she brought some nuts and cut-up fruit, which she carefully arranged near the base of the lamp. She’d hurried on, but stopped at the sound of the Raven, cawing loudly. When she turned to look back, her Raven remained on the lamppost while others had flown in, gathered near the food she’d left.

After that, she brought food daily and the Raven sometimes followed her home at night. One morning, Raven wasn’t in his usual spots and she grew concerned. She hoped Emile hadn’t done something foolish. A scraping sound caused her to turn, bringing her face-to-face with a hooded man holding a knife.

She screamed. So did the hooded man because at that very moment, a flock of Ravens landed on him, pecking and grabbing at his arms, the hood of his jacket. He swung his arms wildly, dropping the knife and attempting to escape. Though a few Ravens stayed near him for at least a block as he ran off, others gathered around Mandy, some on the ground, a few in the nearby trees. One walked right up to Mandy, stopping at the tips of her shoes.

She smiled, pulled out her bag of nuts and fruits and meat and spoke to her Raven. “Thank you so much.”

Squatting down to lay out the assortment of food items, she carefully reached a hand toward her Raven. He nuzzled her fingers with his beak, let her run her hand over the top of his head and down his back. Then he sounded a loud “CAW,” picked up a nut and flew to his streetlight perch.

His call must have announced the all clear because the other Ravens flew down to grab the food, all being very careful around Mandy. She smiled, said good-bye and thank you to all of them, then headed into work, humming a new song.
** **
TODAY's Poem --


Sleek black feathers,
sturdy beak, an aerial acrobat,
your wisdom, creativity
project a deep connection
to the ways of life.

Raven, my raven,
guiding light for my path,
no song I sing
could ever match
the beauty of your ways.

I heard his call this morn,
from branches far above;
the sweet, gentle melody
encouraged me to stop,
rest beneath the boughs.

Came to me just then
how confused my life
had been, lost in tangles
of too many lines set
to catch my bounty
of opportunities.

Raven, my raven,
guiding light for my path,
no song I sing
could ever match
the beauty of your ways.

His call, more raucous now,
led me to locate his perch.
When our eyes met,
he flew into the sky, soared
like a hawk, his aerobatics
a delight.

As he flew back toward me,
a vision filled my mind,
and I knew the steps
I would take
to nurture my dreams.

Raven, my raven,
guiding light for my path,
no song I sing
could ever match
the beauty of your ways.

Thursday, April 19, 2012

Q is for Quill Pen, Quiet, Quitter

Quill Pen Prosody

She found the feather near her favorite oak tree near the river. The day had been hot, her chores around the house more tiring than usual, and she’d hurried to the river for a quick swim after lunch.

She wasn’t allowed to swim alone, of course, so Ellen had tagged along. But Ellen wouldn’t go into the water naked, so only Gayleen swung from the long rope, landing with a large splash in the middle of river. After swimming to the far shore and back, with a few deep dives for fun, she clambered up the bank by the oak.

And that’s when she spotted the feather, a bold, long silver-gray affair with a thick barb, perfect, she knew for a quill pen. She quickly dressed and urged Ellen to pack up her blanket and book. She would prepare the pen this afternoon and tonight she would finish the book of poems.

“Are you going to keep that dirty feather?” Ellen asked.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

Ellen rolled her eyes. “Give it up, Gayleen. Nobody will accept your hand-written poems. Everybody uses a typewriter now. How many rejections have you had so far.”

“I’m not a quitter. Besides, the calligraphy makes my book unique.”

“Weird is what I’d call it.”

Ellen trudged up the hill, while Gayleen raced ahead. Within an hour, she had her quill pen, crude compared to what people used to use, but she didn’t have time today to fine-tune the feather’s lines. She knew this pen held the qualities she needed to achieve the flowing, painted lines that made her unusual style stand out from other calligraphers. Applying that talent to her own poetic voice was a combination nobody else could match.

She only had four more poems to complete. The words were jotted on regular paper, she just needed to transfer them to the special paper she’d found at Quentin’s Stationery Store.  With tongue tucked between her lips, she focused, became one with the quill-pen, paper, ink, words and hours passed without her awareness.

With the final stroke, she set down the pen, looked up, startled to see the stars outside her window. A shooting star flew across the sky, a sign, she knew, a reward for not quitting. Tomorrow she would assemble her book and take it to Quigley’s Publishing Company. She smiled, confident that her book, “Quill-Pen Prosody,” would become a star-studded poetry book.
 ** ** **
TODAY's Poem:

“Never a Quitter”

Fear pulsed, echoed
across rain-slicked alleys,
replaced screams
that broke the quiet
midnight pause.

Quick steps pounded
a steady beat –
I’m not a quitter
they seemed to repeat.

One flame shot across the sky,
the shooting star caught
his eye, though he knew
not why, it was her voice
he heard, running, always running.

He returned to his den,
settled before black and white.
“Never a quitter,” his muse reprised,
as his fingers found the tune;
it was her voice he heard
running always running.

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

P is for Principle, Principal, Politics

“It’s the principle of the matter that matters,” Marcus grumbled, as he sat, head bowed slightly, in a chair facing the principal’s desk.

“What was that you said, Marcus?” The stern voice of Principal Williams reverberated in the massive office.

Marcus hesitated. To remain silent only reinforced the loss of principle, but to speak meant being lashed with suspension for defiance. He couldn’t afford that, not this close to finals and graduation. His parents were worn out with his insistence that principle is more important than the principal, worn out with being called from their jobs to meetings at the school, worn out with pleading for his continued attendance. “He’ll graduate soon and be out of your hair,” they’d said, again and again.

“I’m sorry, Principal Williams.” Marcus spoke clearly this time, even managed to look eye-to-eye with the man seated across the vast, gleaming wood desk. Marcus wondered again at the extravagance the principal invested in the material items of his office. There was the maple desk with cherry inlay, the paintings on the wall – all originals, he’d learned – the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the park-like campus quad and a forest of well-kept trees beyond that.

“Your parents really cannot come in today.” He leaned forward, pointed his fleshy finger at Marcus. “But they are displeased. There will be repercussions at home, young man!” He leaned back. “I’m going to let you go back to your classes now. I hope our next one-on-one encounter is when I hand you your diploma.”

With that dismissal spoken, Principal Williams swiveled his chair away from Marcus and began typing on his computer. Marcus caught a glimpse as he stood to leave. Looked like Facebook to him.

Just like the rest of this school, Marcus thought, hypocritical, their code of conduct flies in the face of what should be their goals.

He shuffled along the hall now filled with students switching classes. They seemed oblivious to the repression of their right to free speech, to express personal opinions about topics discussed in class, about answers in opposition to the ones forced down their throats by tenured, obsolete teachers.

Three more weeks and he’d be on his own, headed for a summer of trekking around Europe, then on to a year with the Kindred Klan. He hadn’t thought much beyond that, hoping he’d figure out how best to fight for his beliefs while exploring the world away from the crooked attitudes of everyone in this town.

“Hey, Marcus – saw your little speech out on the quad this morning! That was good. Do you think anyone else will boycott eating meat in the cafeteria this week? I’m with you, man!”

“Thanks, Terry.” Marcus could always count on Terry’s support, at least in words.

Marcus had been reading about life in the Twentieth Century and honed in on the communal farms, organic gardening. Some of the techniques were just beginning and didn’t blossom until the early part of the next century, but people had a choice.

He wished he could time-travel back to that time. He knew, in principle, that food could no longer be trusted to the elements. Global Warming had severely affected farming, animal husbandry, and the supply of nutrients. Scientists responded by creating alternatives that contained what the human body needed but were artificial.

However, a few years ago, alternative communities began to spring up, growing their own vegetables, raising livestock and chickens from a small colony found in some remote part of Canada. Someone had snuck out old seed stock from a guarded cache and this infuriated the government. “Their defiance is unprincipled!” the media, all government stooges, had proclaimed.

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Marcus said, as he walked with Terry down the hall. “Citizens should be allowed the right to choose what they will eat and to demand real food. The government is wrong to call communities like Kindred Klan traitors of the world.”

“Is that still going to be your topic for your final presentation in Social Studies?”

Marcus grinned. Yes, one more round of defiance. After all, it’s the principle of the matter that matters.

Today's Poetry:


begin early
instilled by parents’ dreams,
children behave, grow prosperous

Principles Skewed

hunting season strikes
fear throughout forest families
unnatural deaths

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

O is for ODE

An Ode to My Muse

In times of shadowed screens you rise
from hidden spaces where you reside
bring poems, tales, some in disguise
dance as my fingers do abide.

Words pour forth, daring scenes unfold
conflict, humor, perhaps a killing,
enhanced by characters mellow to bold
woven into stories sensual, light and thrilling.

This path of words I owe to you
I breathe delight, my joy exude
into the night, we type anew
scene after scene with you accrued.