"Two wrongs may not make a right but a thousand wrongs make a writer.”

Friday, July 31, 2020

Hi ya'll! I haven't been on here for a while....busy pulling weeds and killing tomato worms and chasing rabbits out of the lettuce but:
The new issue of the Slippery Elm Journal is out and check out the cover!!!

We aren't supposed to toot our own horn but I am an old baritone sax player from High School band!!!

Happy summer days are here. The popcorn is chest high (yes trying to grow popcorn) and the heirloom tomatoes are thriving in spite of the worms that we pick off and smash under a rock.

Monday, May 11, 2020

Arid Spring

I received notice yesterday that two more pieces of my writing were accepted by the slippery Elm Literary Journal. It was a Mother's Day present of sorts. Meanwhile, dust rolls across the arid fields as farmers work their ground. Last year it was too dry and this year too wet, but my dad always said that if he had to choose, he would take dry. This was my fourth Mother's Day with no mother but with the progression of time I see her more clearly each morning in the mirror.

Friday, April 24, 2020

A Troubled Man To The Lighthouse Goes

The night watchman
(a troubled man)
on a given day
when all the birds sing
to the lighthouse goes.
Once a gentleman in Moscow,
under rumors of war
undertakes the voyage
with a golden compass
to a promised Garden of Eden
but it was a risk pool
and no country for old men.

This poem was composed from the titles on my bookshelf in response to the challenge at dVerse (the pub where poets hang out) to compose a poem from the books on your shelf. (Spine Poetry) I had fun and rediscovered some old friends.


Friday, April 17, 2020

Main Street Carryout

Chairs upturned on tables
in the sad empty restaurant
where the ghost of a warm-up band,
and the clink of ice echo in the dark.
Footsteps from the kitchen,
a light under the door.
Masked faces dart across the street
with styrofoam boxes.

Written for the Open Link Night at dVerse, the poets pub, and in celebration of National Poetry Writing Month.

Tuesday, March 31, 2020


Dressing in the dark in winter clothes
I turn on the coffee to a rising death toll.
Under stay-at-home orders and weeping skies
I need a haircut and larder supplies.
Jigsaw puzzle spread out on a table,
piece by piece I construct a town.
Tulips, groomed grass, and houses that house people.
Lecture halls and libraries and bustling alehouses.
Bartenders with white towels wiping down bars,
Cracking jokes and drawing pints in a fairy tale land. 
With writings and books and time for it all
I should be content but I miss my pals.

Linked up with Earthweal and the weekly challenge,"Flattening The Curve".

To date in America there are 183,000 cases of Covid-19 and 3,774 deaths, a sobering number as it doubled in two days.

Saturday, February 22, 2020

A Writer's Life

I rouse the cat from his house
with a thump on the roof
He stretches his double-thumbed feet
and emerges from his bed.
I fill his dish with Rachel Ray's
premium blend and he follows me
out to the chicken coop.
The water is frozen.
Inside the chickens are warm
and the trough is dry and empty.
They titter totter down the ramp to the outdoors
with straw stuck to their feet
(those feet that make a healing broth)
and I scatter feed and fill the water as the cat watches.
You take care of your animals before you take care of yourself
childhood admonishments stick in my head
as things from childhood do.
Part and parcel of this adult package
I would be less without.
Once orphaned we all take our seats
at the adult table. So I fill my coffee cup
sit at an empty table with a blank page
and think about what I will write today.

This little walk through morning chores is linked to Earthweal's open link weekend. Sunday, remember, is a day of rest, even for farmers, writers and environmental activists!

Tuesday, February 11, 2020

Wranglers, Whiskey and White Socks

The mustachioed cowboy
with grass stains
on his knees 
plays the slide guitar for me.

The barmaid fills shots,
the whiskey flows,
wranglers, white socks, 
a band of four.

Mustache in a Stetson
bends over the keys
feet work the pedals
smiles for me.

A Quadrille for dVerse, the pub where poets hang out.

Sunday, February 9, 2020

Feeling Small in a Multitude of Ways

If the sky were any bigger it would kill me clean.
like an iceberg into the melting sea.

The sun colors the sky best before it breaks dawn—
each wisp of cloud a red kite on a string.

It enhances the tree clinging to life, to its last wind-torn leaf
like a child to her mother through the fence of the king.

It’s bigger than a barn from afar, that tree
limbs full of birds’ nests unraveling in a breeze

and I don’t know how it escaped the clear-cut of the king.
Too lazy to have walked through a field of grass

to stand under a tree, the vast sweep of its shade
and pay homage to that which is braver than me.

Too cowed to lobe arrows at the wall of the king, 
my capacity to feel small is undiminished  by lies

as the sun travels its arc across a blood-splattered sky
and I finish out the day in a multitude of small ways.

Humbly offered for Poets and Storytellers and likewise for Earthweal, the weekend open links for writerly laments.

Sunday, February 2, 2020

The Hungry Boyfriend

lounges in the recliner with his pressed coffee and remote,
top shelf at the ready, knuckle in his mouth.
Only the best for the double negative boyfriend
who loves her and promises he won’t do it again
but he’s always so hungry, hungry, hungry hungry.

Curtains drawn, super heroes on the tube
he waits for her to come home with food.
A high-flying career guy who now pushes carts in the rain
it isn't any wonder he's hungry for her.
He gobbles up friends and eats self esteem
devours her cash like a casino machine.

Lock your phone with a thumbprint, sleep with a knife,
when a double negative boyfriend sneaks into your life.
But she tells all who will listen he won’t do it again,
not nothing to worry about from this DN boyfriend.

He’s calm and connected, swallows his pills dry,
hitches his pants and polishes the knobs,
patiently pacing for the mouse to arrive.
But she did it again and ruined his mood
empty handed up the walk, bitch where’s my food!

Alone in the House but for Poets and Storytellers

Thursday, January 30, 2020

Assault on a Dove

A flock of birds swoop down the road
in the face of a churning, tireless blow

skittering the ditch, they flutter and spin
to stay in sync with their fine-boned friends.

Pellets of snow fly in opposing drift
unlike these birds who would flock together

if only they could. They circle the house looking for calm,
break apart and converge in the shape of a crown.

One lone dove drops from the sky
like a plumb line to my porch and hops chair to a chair

butter soft gray, dusting snow off her feet,
she rests on a cushion out of the wind
and tucks her head neatly under her wing.

For Sherry Marr  at EARTHWEAL, poetry for a changing world.

Rising temperatures have a major influence on wind speeds. This has been especially noticeable here in the Great Lakes Basin. According to a study published in the scientific journal Natural Climate Change, winds across much of North America, Europe, and Asia have grown faster since 2010, and the speeding-up trend is expected to continue. That's good news for renewable energy production and could be a boon for the wind power industry but brings an added risk to birds. 

Researchers estimate that up to 328,000 birds are killed every year in collisions with the blades and support towers. But back to the affect high winds in general have on birds. The ability to land is critical, especially for fast-flying birds. High wind is an assault and particularly dangerous to cliff-breeding birds. It can prevent them from accessing their nests through loss of flight control.

Wind trumps fossil fuels, hands down, but solar trumps wind. No creature likes windy days, least of all birds.

Tuesday, January 21, 2020

The Wildling Sea


Red flooding alert
along the coast,
but as with what befell
the boy who cried wolf,
we drink our coffee
and read the funnies
as the dune grass clinging
to the eroding slope—
the barrier between house
and the wildling sea—
gives way.

This poem is in response to Earthweal's weekly challenge for the "Global Commonwealth of Earth" and the theme of water. And d'Verse 's Wild Mondays  Even since I first wrote this, part of M-25 along the Lake Huron shoreline is in danger of falling into the lake due to unrelenting rain and gale force winds.