Friday, March 20, 2015

Phases of the Moon

Under the full moon
come join the party.
Dancing, singing, glittering
laugh and toast the company

But as the moon wanes
shed the mask,
leave the fete,
into new-moon dark

This is for Victoria's prompt at dVerse to use an active voice with more verbs and fewer flowery descriptions.  As she suggested, I went back to a piece I wrote earlier (2010) and pared it down.  A lot.  I will post it below, but honestly it's a bit embarrassing, so feel free to skip it (please!).

So here's that old version:

I  have been out with the full moon,
Out among the revelers:
We dance and sing-
Cavorting beasties
On a microscope slide,
Bright and shining;

The sounds of clinking glasses,
And Laughter –
Silly, flirtatious and hearty-
Fill my head with ‘other’
It is great fun.

But now, as the moon wanes
And empties itself of light,
I too, shed the lights of society.
Donned to impress, attract,

The glittering mask,
Of my social self,
Is left at the door
To the party.

I run into new-moon dark,
No longer held by the
Bright silver circle of society
But free to explore the vast heavens,
I delve deep
Into the spaces between
The stars

The moon does not diminish,
When no longer circumscribed
By sun’s reflected light.
Matter mingles with spirit,
Flows out
Into the night-
And so do I.

Sunday, March 15, 2015

Happy National Post Pi Day!

    Photo by Mary Bach

We made it through 13th, Friday
to Saturday, National Pi Day!
I shouldn't have to say it twice,
come on in and have a slice.

I'm not just a word nerd, I'm also a sort of a number nut.  And, hey, any excuse to have pie is good enough for me, so I just had to bake a pi pie.  :o)  And thanks to Jazz Bumpa for reminding me to post about about this!  I did bake this on Pi Day, but it's a post Pi Day post.  :o)  For the Toads Sunday Mini-Challenge.

Butter Me Up

Way back, when I was only three
and Aunt Loretta sat for me,
Uncle Erwin put me on his knee.
He taught me a crucial skill for life:
how to eat butter off a knife.

When I was little my parents hired Loretta Kleinschmidt to clean house and 'sit' for me on Tuesdays and Thursdays when my mom was at work.  She was strict, exacting, and loved me like a grandchild, and became my "Aunt Loretta."  She didn't drive, so sometimes my mom would get her, but frequently her husband, Erwin (pronounced Ervin) would come to our house to get her when he was finished with his work for the day, as a carpenter.  And that's when I learned about the wonders of butter.  Sadly, but maybe not surprisingly Uncle Erwin died of a heart attack December 26, 1985.  Aunt Loretta is dead now too, but I still remember them both with love. 
And this is for IGRT Sunday Mini-Challenge.  You should go there and check it out!

Friday, March 6, 2015

Carrot Underground

    Image: Toril & Tully "Carrot-eristics

We look so
to repress

to hide
the things
that make


that give

where no
one else
can see

Over in the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads Margaret has provided some beautiful paintings by Toril Fisher for us to write about.  I've chosen one with vibrant, lovely carrots, but you should check out the imaginary garden and see all the other paintings and poems too!

Saturday, February 21, 2015

The Yellow-Rumped Warbler

    Photo by Margaret Bednar

At the window feeder
in softly falling snow,
underneath the cedar,
amid the birds there clustered
sits one with marks of mustard.
How can you spot ‘em?
By his yellow bottom.

Over at the Imaginary Garden Margaret asked us to "play it again" by choosing a previous writing prompt.  I chose the Rhyme Royal form prompt.  Rhyme Royal is rhymed poetry with the following pattern:  a-b-a-b-b-c-c.  I"ve taken some liberties with line length - just part of my light-hearted approach to the lovely picture.

Monday, February 16, 2015



I wrap my secrets
around you
like a fur stole,
clasped at the throat
with a promise.

A few words for Tess at Magpie Tales and all the Toads in the Imaginary Garden.

Wednesday, February 4, 2015

Walking Back

     Photo by Mary Bach

Snow steps carry me home,
not just the mile or two back to my house,
but all the way home
back to where Grandma waited
with warm hugs and hot chocolate,
back to the little, stone house
on the edge of town
surrounded by fields of corn,
back to my climbing tree
that reached across
the path toward the hen house,
back to my childhood.

This is for dVerse where Marina Sofia asked us to write about some aspect of the snowy weather.