Category: Poetry/Writing

2015 NaNoWriMo

Hope everyone’s holidays are enjoyable…  I am offering:

Enticing Your Personal Writing Muse

Ages:  16 and up

This creative writing class will develop your vibrant writer’s voice by letting the words flow, stream of consciousness style. Two twenty minute writing exercises with nonjudgmental sharing encourages writing from your heart. Pen or pencil and a spiral notebook are all you need to begin this creative journey! If you wish to use an electronic device, please be sure the keyboard doesn’t make “typing” sounds. Instructor: Ellen Miffitt

W            Jan 20-Mar 9        6:00pm-8:00pm                  $89         #3144

Olympia Parks, Arts and Recreation –  222 Columbia Street NW, Olympia WA 98501   Call 360.753.8380

check out my art classes on their website…

I’m still working on 2015 NaNoWriMo – I have reread my novel three times from the beginning to the end over the last 3 weeks and added dialogue, corrected dates, etc. – took a big chunk out but am now at 80,622 words.
Last week, I made a time sequence page and fiddling with the story tonight realized I need to correct a few things or they just don’t make sequential sense.
I was going to print out all 271 double spaced pages to work the next correction on paper but now I need to futz with those couple problems that I found tonight first.

I also went back to last year’s story @ 59,243 and started working with that as well.
I found I am really loving this writing!

Yes, I starting blocking out a new story that was floating around in my imagination. I have the characters and a base couple of pages capturing the story line. I just didn’t want to loose what I had in my head for this 3rd story.

going to play a card game in front of the Christmas tree and then I’ll be back at it!



I participated in NaNoWriMo National Novel Writing Month again this year.   I am so excited – I have surpassed my speed of last year. On November16th I had reached the 50,000 word goal. I found someone who will edit but we haven’t worked out a fee. This year the only notes I made the week prior were about names and a little about the characters. no time line and no outline.

By Nov 23rd = 60,080 – I was still tying up loose ends, checking sequence/dates, etc

My writing technique…  I had written a very short story 6 months ago that I used as the base. No working outline. About six times I read what I had written from the beginning to whatever the end page at the time was. Then I made a genealogy, added information to the list of characters to figure out ages and a rough time span of the story. Five times I made a list of questions to answer. Basically I just start writing. I’ve written and/or corrected every day.

On Nov 24th I was up past 1:30 as I started from the beginning to about page 140 and added conversation where there was too much text, moved some sections around to make more sense… there were 210 pages at that point with double spacing. I also made a “chapter title” sheet which helped me locate approximate page and make notes, or figure where to shift things to a better place, etc. because sometimes I just start writing about something prior and just leave it at the end of the story to move later….

While at the Lincoln Winter Market on Nov 28th,  I managed to rough draft 1,454 words between talking to folks. So the total word count for that Saturday was 66,420 and I was still revising what I wrote.

Monday Nov 30th – 68,519  I was going to add more before the midnight deadline and THE POWER Went OFF!!!

At Wednesday’s TESC Holiday Fair I wrote an additional 1,782 words to flesh out several incomplete areas.

I love to write; the characters just kept urging me on…. All month of November, I would write off and on during the day especially staying up to 3:30 four different times; at the holiday fairs or when I gallery sit at Gallery Boom, I wrote steadily between customers. My Word count total is 70,274 words … someone had teased me as I had said I could not picture myself writing that much. Last year my novel was only 59,386.

Now to print and edit before giving it to that editor friend – after we haggle a fee… ^..^

This is a little section I wrote yesterday that will be near the end:
Calm Skies
Alderon held Aerilaya’s hand watching the sunset turn the domain golden hues. Blake, Caiden and Aletheia were riding dolphin like mammals creating gilded ripples that raced to shore. Evening bird songs filled the twilight. The stars turned on one by one; fireflies the size of robins in man’s world flitted into the approaching dusk from a nearby copse.
“It’s good to have Aelieyeeva [Aletheia] in physical form again. The experience in man’s world will expand her understanding of fear, hate and intolerance.” Aerilaya looked into her beloved Alderon’s calm face. The children were now tossing octopus looking creatures at each other.
“Excuse me Aerilaya…” walking over to the shore edge, Alderon had to dodge a tossed ten legged creature that managed to grab onto his arm before hitting the sand. With a clap of his hand the dolphins swam close to the shoreline. “Do you need to apologize to the tenopus that you’ve been hurling at each other?”
The one that had been hanging on Alderon’s arm managed to climb up and wrapped a few legs over his right shoulder. Holding his arm over the water the tentacles let go leaving chartreuse circles of varying sizes on his elegant shimmering silver robes.
“But their mother said they could play with us.” Protesting, Aletheia made that cute pout face, “I can ask her to tell you.”
Looking carefully Alderon could see chartreuse circles covering the three misfits from head to toe. A very large tentacle the size of a tree trunk threaded its way between the resting dolphins.
“Janbell, didn’t you invite us to play with the little ones.” Caiden asked rubbing at one of the circles. “Does this stuff come off? We have Aikido class tomorrow.”
Blake started rubbing his massive amount of circular embellishments. “Least the gee will cover up most of them.”
The entity was not forgotten; even in the Everlasting Domain vigilance was necessary to maintain the natural balance. The seven sisters watched over the Elvan realms without intruding. Their seven realms respected the land and honored their founding matriarch by sounding at first light and at twilight.

I’ll be facilitating a Stream of Conscious writing class :

Enticing Your Personal Writing Muse  Ages:  16 and up

This creative writing class will develop your vibrant writer’s voice by letting the words flow, stream of consciousness style. Two twenty minute writing exercises with nonjudgmental sharing encourages writing from your heart. Pen or pencil and a spiral notebook are all you need to begin this creative journey! If you wish to use an electronic device, please be sure the keyboard doesn’t make “typing” sounds. Instructor: Ellen Miffitt

W            Jan 20-Mar 9        6:00pm-8:00pm                  $89         #3144

Olympia Parks, Arts and Recreation –  222 Columbia Street NW, Olympia WA 98501   Call 360.753.8380

Long time since I posted any poetry or writing exercises – my poems ebbed during the long dismally hot summer… back in the swing.
I have signed up for NaNoWriMo [National Novel Writing Month] again and am working on character sketches and thinking about what they want to do.
That’s why I’m working so hard on my prep for the holiday shows so I can relax a bit and write like the wind come November.

Here’s some info and writing resources from NaNoWriMo:

A tour of “The NaNoWriMo Library”

November is nearly upon us, and we’re busy putting the final touches on this year’s “NaNoWriMo Library.” Sure, it’s an imaginary place, but that doesn’t mean the stained glass, warm amber light, and enticing smell of books is any less real… Here’s an orientation for this creativity-filled space:
The Reference Portal — Get guidance from published authors on your pressing writing questions. Our NaNo Coaches are porting in for a #NaNoCoach tweet-chat on Wednesday, October 28 at 4 PM PDT (Your Time Zone).

The Community Bridge — Whether your loved ones are near or far, bridge the distance by writing your stories together. Invite someone you know to join you in noveling this November.

The Commitment Tree — Carve out your commitment to your novel. Award yourself the “Tell the World” personal achievement badge after publicly declaring your creative goals.
The Visioning Tower — Want to see your story come to life through art? We’re pairing 30 NaNoWriMo 2015 participants with 30 designers who’ll create cover art to reflect your amazing visions. Take part in the 30 Covers, 30 Days project now.

National Novel Writing Month
3354 Adeline Street
Berkeley, CA 94703

June 2014 poetry

Strawberry Shortcake

during the endless hot sticky summer,
dinner was kept simple.
Mom didn’t want to heat up the house
by cooking a big meat, potato and veggie meal.
Heading out to the garden, Dad and I would
get to work picking strawberries.
Mom and I had made shortcakes in the cool morning.
Strawberries were sliced and lightly sugared,
cream was whipped. shortbread cut in half…
then came the layering in soup bowls.

except for
and scraping spoons,
no need for conversation;
it was too hot to talk anyway.



Preliminary yawn –
radiant heat soaks physical
melting resistance to nonconformity.
Average and normal
are too tame;
somewhere buried notions
rise to surface.
Upon reflection
it’s time for sprinklers,
blowing bubbles,
flying kites,
and jumping rope.
Spontaneity is refreshing.
Sun bakes away dampers…
hop scotch anyone?


More dirt beneath the nails

grubbing in the garden again…
I can’t get enough of the warm soil.
tucking seedlings in,
sun warms my back;
silently wishing them well,
the birds start singing to the evening.
tidying up the tools and flower pots,
light lingers preventing waiting stars
from making their routine appearance.
the earthy smell coats my clothing
along with sediment handprints.
Contentment settled in…
growing flowers and vegetables serves
an internal drive for participating in renewal.
The bonus is beauty and harvest.


The promise

Between cats and dogs
between art and words
between flower and vegetable raised beds
between teaching
between family and friends
I show that I am here…
still viable,
still living,
still observing,
still feeling,
still loving.
I promised myself
to keep creating
because life is meaningless
without whimsy and beauty.


Elizabeth Bowen said, “I am sure that in nine out of ten cases the original wish to write is the wish to make oneself felt. It’s a sign, I suppose, of life’s decreasing livableness as life that people should feel it possible to make themselves felt in so few other ways. The non-essential writer never gets past that wish.”

leaving ceiling light on
charges luminous plastic stars.
moon rises without not within;
ceiling stars don’t circulate.
permanent placement
equals no celestial changes
because their stagnant liability
lacks earth rotations.



Trying to face forward,
the past is sticky.
I still miss family members
that have spread across country
and all the elders are now deceased.
Reminiscing threads tug when facing dawn;
it doesn’t matter whether its gray or brightly colored…
the memories rise out of sleep.
Shrugging off the intricate webs,
these dreams pass into darkness
until deep the next sleep reveals
the strength of lasting connection.




walking holy
threadbare in sandals
feet protest the miles
blisters retaliate
burst their liquid
scab and bleed again
slowing pace toward
sacred destination
gnawing hunger intensifies
water barely quenches thirst
upon arrival –
is that all there is?
exposing folly of expectations
rumination of the divine
amongst the disappointed
the journey home is always quicker…




So many in a day
Swarms of them buzzing
Prioritizing with a flyswatter
Until swinging fails
Ultimately the to-do-list shrinks
While more choices pile up again
And again…

these have to end or begin again
and again…
why and what flutter toward the light
attraction is not always fatal
spontaneity finds a place
but reasonable thoughts prevail.
In this case:
Why bother.
So I won’t.



As an equal opportunity user of words,
I will not discriminate.
No word is too odd, offensive or unorthodox
for me to fill in the blank.
No shortcuts.
No shame.
No judgment.
My trusty thesaurus is lovingly worn
from pulling words hidden in aging memory storage unit.
Flipping through the pages produces
tactile impetus as fingertip travels down the columns.
So many words…
So little time.


Sitting too much
lost track of time
the glaring monitor orb
dims my eyes
preparing handouts for classes
searching the web
simplifying effluent blah-blah
guilty of too much information
when I always say to my class
please keep it simple


Get out your tap shoes!

Too bad I never learned to tap dance.
I tried in my late 30’s…
the teacher put me at the far end.
The others caught on quickly;
at the end of the line,
I fell even further behind.
I quit and kept my awkward.
When I teach, I do my best
to include everyone equally.
No one gets sent to the end of the line.

But this is not about being ignored.
This is about celebrating art sales.
This is about happy dancing
without rules and technique.
Lace up those shoes…
start the invigorating joyous
free form tapping.
Awkward be damned!


Closer to earth

Cherishing every breath,
every sunbeam and moonbeam,
every blue sky or even dismal gray…
vision upon vision to store for eternity.
Second by second,
this body moves closer to earth.


I worked on this moonbeam night scene – added a fairy and child.
the flash brings out the iridescent colors and looses the details that are subtle. the leaves on the lower left really are not close to the painting at all… they look like blotches of color in this photo.

Wrote a poem to go with after the acrylic class tonight…

Moonbeams (C)6/2014

who’s coming with me

closed off
adult sight fails to see them
too mature for such foolishness

preferring immaturity in certain areas…
responsible spontaneity
is an endearing way to dance.

welcoming moonbeams,
late night walks provide fleeting visions.
you know the kind,

the out-of-the-corner-of the eye sighting
of flitting wings dusted with moonlight.
moons on the rise tonight…
who’s coming with me?




May 2014 Poetry



Sun melts my bad mood
dripping it into dry earth.
Moisture is no match
for the rays beating down.
Foul winter is finally burnt;
Spring leaps forward.
Daffodils, Narcissus and crocus
have wilted weeks ago…
unruly weeds fill in their blank spots.
Petals droop from flowering trees;
tulips naked stigmas swell.
Frogs still sing;
birds chant morning and evening.
I turn another calendar page;
May 1st is dressed in blue and light.
Practically skipping through dog walks,
my light heart entices muses to gather;
most likely they are amused by my spring fever…



waiting forward
selecting this breath
because nothing else is real.
what are memories?
nothing but trouble
keying into past patterns,
sucking into a black whole,
rehashing the useless.
lightness is all around
until that switch is flipped…
then monsters crawl out.
it takes time to round them up;
rehashing boundaries,
gifting rewards consistently,
training the form and the soul
because only this heart beat is real.







Rain pounded the skylights.

Waking from a short nap…

it was meant to be short

but now several hours later sleep

expanded dreams broke a sweat.

Deprived of reference, time and space

was lost until glaring red digital numbers

grounded me. where was I…

is answered by a dog’s bark.

physical form is achieved again

and sleep unsaddled an hour

before normal bedtime.






I’m taking care of your flower pots.
Grandma smiled and nodded…
there was a soft glow of a summer’s eve
surrounding her as contentment flowed outward.

Some dreams are more than that…
there are visits from beyond the last breath.
Gram was dressed in pastel colors
the total opposite of her navy blue or black.

Her hair was braided but softer;
light sparkled off the white mass.
wrinkles were smoother too;
her skin was rejuvenated.

There was probably more to the dream.
Seems odd that it was about three Majolica flower pots;
I do treasure them… I only remembered
Gram’s visit when I touched one pot to rotate it.

I have her two McCoy Pottery – green brown Glaze Majolica Jardiniere Planter Pots … the third one is probably the same maker but is a little larger with a fluted top.


naked night
fire swirls across midnight
ashes turn dark
embers grow cold
Beltane is over
another spring is relinquished
to summer’s longer days and short nights.
Solstice creeps nearer with every step…
even timepieces can’t keep up.




nervously picking
at creases of worn jeans,
the faded blue denim becomes
pock marked with tiny holes –
threadbare openings
expose white skin
to sun rays…
what odd patterns appear
on pale Easter lily white legs.
now decorated with odd red dots,
its a shame there is no one to see them.
in this trending time of selfies,
one could share the oddity with the world.
it’s my chance for fifteen minutes of fame….




almost unnoticed
must have picked up a nail.
can’t be late to teach.
because screaming won’t do.
it doesn’t mean replacing one tire;
a flat means replacing all four.
we’re full of quirks
but Subaru’s need four tires if one goes flat.
more laughing –
more maniacal than funny,
the day is warm,
the sun shines,
and it’s only money…



“s” word

apologizing too much
nasty habit
the repetition
the real “s” word
must have said it a billion times
once is more than enough.



No style styling

My intentional indistinctness of worn comfort:
T-shirts and faded blue jeans with hair mused –
I forget to comb it
and slap a stained baseball hat on my head.
Decorative paint stains and rips on clothing…
that’s me on any given day no matter where I go.

Some friends are so put together –
not in a crazy expensive way,
they wear some make-up, blouses, pants…
I’m amazed – they dress like that all day
not to go special shopping or out to dinner.
Those clothes are uncomfortable to me;
I’d be so conscious of not splattering paint or ink;
smearing excess glue on a pants leg would be out.

Most of my friends have husbands;
maybe that’s part of their dress code.
I have no one to impress not even myself.
I’m comfy in my worn duds…
maybe it’s a career mistake.
Who hasn’t made loads of ill-fitting choices?

I should be at the top of my game for my age.
Here I am styling with no style;
occasionally pondering selecting a different image
to personify the creative artist within and without.
Because of the Sumi-e painting, I could select Japanese styles
or India gauze skits and tops would be arty…
unfortunately the free box clothes at the food co-op
mostly has worn jeans and slightly cleaner t-shirts.
I guess I won’t be changing my facade anytime soon…


Fred Astaire said: “The higher up you go, the more mistakes you are allowed. Right at the top, if you make enough of them, it’s considered to be your style.”


sun put up a closed sign
it was way past normal hours;
due to working overtime,
night gratefully descended.
starlight pricked the sky;
spring was shifting quickly.
summer crossed off calendar boxes
anxious to shine fully during its allotment.
everything was proceeding properly…
as properly as a season would
because perfection can’t last forever.



Guanshiyin © 5/11//2014 Nine Lives Studio

Another Mother’s Day

I try not to miss her.
Somewhere I read it holds the soul back;
Mom, forgive me if I have…
I really hope I’m not holding you back;
I will always hold you in my heart.

I’ve said it before…
I miss our existential talks;
we didn’t know what existential was then.
We’d work over life events
laced with mystery and confusion –
with or without discovering meaning –
so much of life, just happens…

Guanshiyin, divine mother,
grounded in compassion
you grace my spring garden
surrounded with Forget-me-nots and Cranesbill.
The bees are busy at work today…
another Mother’s Day has arrived.

Guanshiyin, I envision your energy coiling
around all motherless children
when you hear their unhappy cries…
May you always instill hope
in life’s darkest moments.


Guanyin is the bodhissattva associated with compassion as venerated by East Asian Buddhists, usually as a female. The name Guanyin is short for Guanshiyin, which means “Observing the Sounds (or Cries) of the World”.
undaunted derelicts…


heralded in space
wavering instability
the nondescript walk among us
they might be more in tune
than seemingly stable citizens
whose normal eyes avoid them

invisible sentient
smile inwardly
avoiding other’s disgrace
rain falls
sun shines
seasons rotate

their dance intimidates shoppers
who concentrate on window views
anything to avoid abstraction
one breath from destiny
they continue to grasp their reality
as if nothing will ever change



who are these people
walking on ashes so carelessly tossed?
cinders of past enlightenment
are handled with disregard; tenets
become wasted moments of inspiration.
washed away by soapy wringing hands,
wild minds don’t tarry on circumstances.
they race forward faster than wishes;
they race through consequences,
they race past warning signs…
the end is just another shortcut.




rabid thoughts
flows past lips
bubbling foam
dribbles down the chin
a concourse deliberately festooned
with fleeting promises
rank and foul
licking nervously
tongue darts behind lies
feet fall prey to complex rhythm
dancing with darkness
mental agility leaps ahead
to provide proper conversation
leading the weak to believe.



so much madness

the world’s askew
or I’m foolishly addled
to see blatant evil
corroding society.
Ignorance is normal;
peasants toil to survive.
Wealth is control.
Constantly mystified
by this inhumanity and greed,
where has love gone?
I believed John Lennon’s song;
I guess
I was young and foolish then.






Recent Poetry

I continue to write a poem a day… it’s a good creative exercise.


The Stream

Words gallop –

all hesitation lost

to radical scribbles

on any substrate

with little garnish.


Afterwards –

reread puzzling phrases

again and again

till aha acclimation…

consciousness revealed to conscious.


Mark Strand said: “Poetry is about slowing down. You sit and you read something, you read it again, and it reveals a little bit more, and things come to light you never could have predicted.”

Morning Light


Dawn splashes into curtain less windows

freely sharing spring ‘s rosy light.

Spirits uplift from months of gray

although the bright light causes eyes to squint.

Winter wasn’t a very bad time this year:

I’m not sure when I realized it…

I’ve grown accustomed to the Pacific Northwest gray.

The excessive rain…

that still hinders my dog walks;

after fifteen years,

I still need better rain gear.

There’s nothing like wet dog smell permeating a closed house,

soggy fur imprints on furniture,

or violently shaken rain residue spattering walls


here it’s spring with bountiful sun,

dry walks with dry dogs,

and sprouting seeds splashed in morning light.




Crystalline tears fall…

moon weeps.

Silver infused droplets

spatter cement and asphalt;

porch light illuminates perfect dots

until increased volume abdicates  them.

Uniqueness is swallowed by porous surfaces.


Do you weep


the sky is filled with loneliness?

The stars can’t relate to plain reflection;

planets have their own concerns.


Do you weep


you’d rather walk the earth?

Could you spend the rest of life out of orbit?

If you want to be anonymous,

that means we are ONE…




My toes remember how to tap

to a lively tune

but this body has forgotten

how to dance.

A little swaying happens

along with humming; mumbled words

loop around the melody.

I don’t regret the lack of outwardly wiggling

body parts laced with flailing limbs,

stomping feet, twisting hips and more.

Throwing a back out by a simple sneeze

is bad enough… caution prevails…

no jerky movements allowed anymore.

In high school, I loved modern dance

and world folk dancing not as desperate

as Rock & Roll played at evening dances.

All that seems like it was in the dark ages

not a mere fifty four years ago.

I’ve aged well…

not as fancy as Brie, I’m more a Cheddar wheel

waxed and sitting on a shelf in a cave to mellow.


Joseph Harding in 1864 as “close and firm in texture, yet mellow in character or quality; it is rich with a tendency to melt in the mouth, the flavor full and fine, approaching to that of a hazelnut”.[

white noise babble


almost nodded off

voices blend harmoniously

dim fluorescent light

simple beige walls

dark patterned rug

too many late nights

I’m a lack-of-sleep depository.






greeting the divine presence

without physical touch

bowing to another soul

clasped hands cover hearts

fingers toward sky

accepting each being houses divineness

spirit to spirit recognition

inspired by fleeting glimpses

of divine consciousness

where we are one




Feb Poetry – 2014

Very true…

sadly cats come and go…

the same for dogs…

each one is unique within fur and purr or bark.

A long list of names and breeds,

a mile long paw parade

has passed into and out of my life.

Their characteristics mimic mine;

they seem to reflect my state of mind.

Four legged mirrors have traveled with me

through good and bad experiences in life.

I’ve learned a simple lesson from all my furry friends:

experiences are simply experiences.

I can look through their eyes to find my soul.




Gauze of twilight

Encompasses brief moments

Sticking like burrs to clothing

Soft bird calls

Singing goodnight

The earth cools

The stars skim overhead

Moon dances on water

All is how it was meant to be…



The faraway look

Mini fit tainted eyes

steeped in realism.

The dream persisted

beneath fluttering lids.





clear and precise

the inner and outer melded.

Falling into sunlight,

the stars bled darkness.



The wet hours

Minute and hour hand

clasp midnight…

too twitchy for sleep,

winds circle the house.

Rain attempts entry;

shingle and glass stand guard.

Light spills from office windows

onto moss covered pavers.

Emerald green carpet swells from engorging

on moisture gathered far out in the Pacific.

They’ll squish under foot flattened

till tomorrow’s storm moves onto shore.

Winter weather pattern engaged, the cats sit

on windowsills dozing through the wet hours.


Lights flicker

Nano second warnings…

an S.O.S from trembling electrics wires

whipped by unleashed wind gusts

announcing the storm’s approach.

Confrontation tosses snippets of fir,

hemlock and other evergreen branch tips.


The neighborhood wouldn’t be the same without

those one hundred foot trees dividing properties.

A no man’s land boundary – these bark and needle

sentinels break the assault when standing shoulder to shoulder.

Special messages moan between them.

Frantically clutching each other,

branches intertwine forcing more protest.

Inter-planting has mostly stabilized their base.

Continuing to pull their weight against the siege,

the night is filled with constant Aeolian tones.



Rough tongue,

sandpaper kisses,

cat food breath wafts.

Lick, lick licking…

retreating beneath covers,

paw riffles the quilt.

Typical morning greeting

tugs me out of dream comfort.

Filling water bowl,

pouring crunchies,

cleaning litter offerings…

too late to retrieve the last dream,

the espresso maker hisses some contentment.



January 2014 Poetry

Catching the wind…

A sailboat rushes out of Budd Inlet;

A blip of desire to be aboard rises…

I long to catch the wind between water and sky.

I want to travel light and free.

Sun or cloud cover,

Salt spray aphrodisiac is tossed

From the prow flying across the sound.

Studying soft horizon,

Endless water and sky,

Wind casts a spell lifting spirit from earth.      1/12/2014


Sugar Baby

Flowers for my sugar baby

No one’s ever called me that endearment.

Sugar baby…

Or babe…

Not sure if I recall being called honey.

Distance has depleted that memory.

I don’t even recall if I called him that…

Must have before the noose tightened,

Before the ridicule and mocking…

Certainly there was nothing sweet

By the bitter end.

Nobody ever said I should stay.

Does it matter now?


Not anymore…         1/13/2014


Loathing  – spiritual death.

Dark hearted people have a penchant

For making everyone miserable.

A hidden nasty nature resides

Beneath a nice public exterior.


Only a fool will try to love them.

Lost in longing to be in love,

The lonely are attracted to someone

Who doesn’t know how to love and never will.


Navigation by the heart is faulty.

One is easily manipulated and damaged

By that special someone’s loathing.

After luring in a naïve lover,

Their dark energy propagates.


Don’t kid yourself, the disengaged are already

Setting sites on their next conquests…

Feeding off the trauma revives these twisted souls.

The lure of true love gives them plenty of fodder.


The foolish lover gives all until empty.

Then and only then these innocents

Are hated for their weakness and discarded.

Now a ghost of their former vibrant selves,

It takes a long time to heal – if ever…                1/14/2014


Full Wolf Moon 2014

Watching through my window, the moon

Speeds toward its zenith, a distant apogee;

Evenly spaced fir branches measure

Progress in minute by minute increments.

Barely a half hour passes… first full moon

Ascends halfway up the hundred plus foot trees.


Back East, the January snow cover

Resembled sparkling diamond blankets.

Beneath warm layers of down and cotton

I’d be snug in midwinter moonbeam infused dreams.

The wild things out in the Prussian blue shadows

Crept about in glittering cold driven by hunger.


Whether being hunted or searching for food,

It’s difficult for either traveling across the deep snow.

Moon overwhelms the dimmer light from stars;

Cast shadows provide false shelter for prey.

Hunkered down in bed, deep sleep dreams

keep the metaphorical full moon wolves at bay.


Jan. 15, 11:52 p.m. EST: Full Wolf Moon —Amid the zero cold and deep snows of midwinter, the wolf packs howled hungrily outside Indian villages. It was also known as the Old Moon or the Moon after Yule. In some tribes this was the Full Snow Moon; most applied that name to the next moon. Since the moon arrives at apogee — its farthest point from Earth — less than three hours earlier, this will also be the smallest full moon of 2014. In terms of apparent size, it will appear 12.2-percent smaller than the full moon of Aug.10, the biggest full moon of the year.

A few December 2013 Poems

Frost Bites

Frigid fingertips

Cherry red nose

Toes ache

Bitter cold eats layers

Gorging itself into cellular depths

Past oxygenated blood pumping sluggishly

Carrying wavering warmth to extremities

Fingers burn and cramp

Numb eyes sting

Organs wane tepid

Heart rhythm softens

Cell after cell crystalizes

Sleep descends

Frozen in time…

It’s not a bad death.                                               12/5/2013



Without Movement

Watching the kids play –

Running, jumping, climbing, sliding….

Even when their age,

She watched her classmates play.

Too shy to ask to join them,

She’d hang back


Always watching…

If it was an organized game,

Of course,

She was picked last.


At home,

She climbed trees, helped garden,

Did chores and rode her bike;

At Grammy’s cottage,

She fished, rowed the boat, swam.

In winter,

There was ice skating and sledding…


It was better to alone.

Walking in the woods,

Her cat was a watcher too.                                     12/6/2013



Abracadabra didn’t invest the pen

With anything resembling my intention

Of cornering the gist of this day.

Maybe my inflection was off…

Or speculating that it wouldn’t work,

Doubt cancelled out any reasonable response.

My voice often seems lost among others

Whose resonance vibrates the air around them.

Inhalation, second try… wait didn’t

Peter Pan have to think happy thoughts?

Maybe magic needs happy thoughts too.

Writing is basted in a consummate mixture

Of weary hope, tormented scenarios, grief but

Joy comes in sight if you know your dreams…

12/10/2013  Inspiration: Jim Harrison said: “Life is sentimental. Why should I be cold and hard about it? That’s the main content. The biggest thing in people’s lives is their loves and dreams and visions, you know.” And he said: “To write a poem you must first create a pen that will write what you want to say. For better or worse, this is the work of a lifetime.”

The solstice comes…

Light the candles

Brighten the darkest night

Kiss winter’s start

With song and joyous dance


Sing out

Call to earth and sun

Call to moon and stars

Sing in the darkest night


Songs awaken hope

Celebrate renewal

Life stirs in the stillness

Imperceptible rustling


Waiting patiently

Incremental light returns

Spinning orb will tilt

Cycling the next season


Rising out of dark days

Spring’s sweet songs

Are just beyond our keen…

Rest well                        12/20/2013


No one is too old for fairytales…

She kept telling friends and family;

Laughing was the normal response

But she believed.

In the night shadows –

Fairies, goblins, elves, trolls,

Dwarves, giants, merfolk, and gnomes…

That was their time.

A time of crossover

Slipping in between realities,

They cast about their magic and enchantments

As if in their own time and place.

One’s perception, if attuned,

Could feel their presence,

Catch a glimpse of movement,

Or even hear snippets of conversation…

Even her cats and dog sensed them.

Her skin prickled at times…

She knew which natural areas to avoid

But she also knew what herbs and perennials to plant.

Healing botanicals, salves, and tonics were left

In a hollow trunk the other side of the hedge row.

All year long she faithfully replaced the diminished supply.

Little pebbles, seeds, feathers –

Gifts of natural world were often left behind…

Rubbish said the family of her treasure box.

Nothing deterred her ministrations to the other world

Until age and health brought her close to death.

A walking dream brought her to another realm

where age never matters and her medicinal skills were needed.   12/23/2013


Winter Fog

Fog wanders down the street

Diffusing the clear lamplight.

Fingers of chill seek entry

Through cracks and crevices.

Leg warmers in lieu of extra cats

Plus the baggy flannel nightgown

Will help hold body heat beneath cold covers.


Cats are creeping about from shrub to shrub

Or in and out of gilded shadows.

Fur fluffed to hold body heat,

They relish their night play without

A care about anything but chase-chase.


Turning, sharp hearing discerns the door opening.

Having decided that cat warmth is needed,

A familiar voice calls and clicks to them.


Maybe a warm quilt is better

Than winter’s frigid adventures…

Tails stick straight up as lithe bodies slip inside.                       12/26/2013



The Christmas tree has lost its enthusiasm;

Dry needles turn yellow and trickle to the floor.

Cats wrestle beneath lowest branches

Sending ornaments flying, slipping bead trim

Closer to the floor, and raining down more needles.

The simulated candle string lights cantilever at odd angles

Forgetting their proper posture among the branches.

Even the angel lists as if she’s had enough holiday.

The dreaded task of undoing another Christmas

Has arrived loaded with past memories and a few new ones.

Each ornament is admired, wrapped and placed into storage.

Next season these memories [most of them fond] will return

when selecting the new tree, sawing the end, pushing the base

into the tree stand and properly decorating this cherished symbol.

Admiring its soft glow, the evergreen scent will fill the house

Till the dreaded task of undoing another jaundiced Christmas arrives.                    12/30/2013