Photo by Dale Rogerson; All Rights Reserved

She thought that she was going to die at age 92 because two of her older sisters had died at that age.  We wondered that whole year that she turned 92 if her belief was going to come to fruition.  But no, it didn’t.  She lived on past 95.

We cleared out the remnants of her house later that year.  Had started while she was still alive, weeding through all her kept memorabilia—some over eighty years old.

This folding chair was unwanted.  We didn’t remember where it had come from but now it could become someone else’s future memory.

Rochelle Wisoff-Fields leads us in Friday Fictioneers to write a complete story in 100 words.

Hanabi; Fire Flowers

Dimly outlined, beyond the trees
silhouetted by the fireworks,
Mt. Kyogatake can just be made out
across the Sumida River,
its summit snow-covered.

The sun dips below the edge of the earth;
the final, fading traces of light
produce a crimsoned, golden glow
that complements the celebratory
display of waning summer.

Lanterns lining the port's perimeter
illuminate the water; light dances
as the waves ripple and undulate
under the star-scattered heavens.

The moon rises baring only half of her face.
Shadowed surface beams a quiet swath of
light amidst the crackling
multi-colored hanabi, fire flowers, that
emblazon the darkness.
Kajika, river frog, falls silent and stares.
Moon flowers open as evening descends.
A calm breeze caresses.

Unlike the exhibition filling
the scene before her, Ichika
feels an aching emptiness.
Shinnen, the New Year, arrived with death
this year and the grief still hangs heavy.
Uncle had always been her favorite.
Reaching into the sleeve of her yukata, she
searches for the letter that had
carried the news.

summer nights turn cold
winter rains blur life and death
south wind begets spring

Ingrid is hosting Open Link Night at dVerse Poets!

Darkness Wills

darkness wills the day to closure
with composure
colors turn gray
light fades away

shadows begin to play, grow deep
birds turn to sleep
crickets start to chirr
nocturnals stir

promising moon rises brighter
silent glider
owl swoops on prey
that mouse astray

Lisa hosts Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub.  You’re invited to join in the fun!

Cold as a Mountain Peak

In meditation, I find my mind more restless and wandering than usual.  The minutes since sitting seem long and drawn out—time has stilled but not my attention.  Heaviness is pervasive and a tightness around my heart.

I’m conscious of the fan blades moving lazily overhead and a slightly warmed breeze coming through the open window.  The sound of tiny birds enters the room coming forth from the birdfeeder hanging just outside.  A light, fluttering splash lets me know that someone is bathing in the nearby birdbath.  The chimes outside the kitchen door let out an almost imperceptible tinkling as the melody finds its way to my room.

silence breaks my heart
cold as a mountain peak
sunflowers weep

Join us at dVerse as Frank Tassone guides us with his Haibun presentation.

Winter’s Deep Thaw

winter’s deep thaw ushers in spring
frost and blizzards no more a sting
birds reappear since season’s fall
perching, trilling, tweets start to sing
warm longer days, nests made of straw
ushers in spring, winter’s deep thaw

sparrows alight, to bathe and feed
winging faster than on a steed
shadow startles and they take flight
now unseen within the oak tree
like fairies, elves and ghostly sprites
to bathe and feed, sparrows alight

Grace shows us a new form called the Sparrowlet.  Join us over at dVerse Poets for some fun.

Rocky Black-Top Blues

the trucks rolled
into the neighborhood
one school’s-out
summer day

jackhammers began
ripping up the worn
tarry asphalt
(oh good, we thought
a nice, new road
although it was fine the way it was)
we could outline our hopscotch
game in chalk
play tic-tac-toe
scribble a scene, doodle our names
we could speed on our roller skates
and our home-made skateboards
we dragged our friends in our wagon
with the wheel that limped “chunka-chunka”
up and down that
pleasantly, smooth pavement

we tottered on stilts
back and forth across the road
giggling with our friends
we ran and jumped
played ball
and moved aside
when a car would glide by
our quiet street
was our place
to do
all of these things

but that changed
one sad, life-altering day
when instead of smooth
they made it rough
rocks were mixed
into the stirring
cement stuff
and without checking
with us kids first
it was poured over that
lovely, street surface
our once flat and level
blacktop was now
laid with
rough gravel
that ripped at our feet

playtime on the street
was never again the same

Join us at dVerse Poets for Open Link Night!

Waiting on Toast

French press brews, double-yolk egg cooks
muffin with nooks
strawberry jam
sausage and ham

cream and sugar take their places
plates, cups, forks grace
the table cloth
spoons to stir froth

toe taps waiting for toasting bread
butter to spread
ready to go
you pour the joe

Grace is our host at dVerse today where we revisit the Minute form.


Instincts of the Hunt

Sita’s sitting at the back door
watching a dove that landed
on the patio pavers.
Her whiskers begin that
shivering quiver
with the eagerness
of feeling her jaws
wrapped around
that plump bird body.
An ardent yowl escapes.
Instincts of the hunt run deep.

Merril Smith hosts our Quadrille prompt at dVerse Poets today.  Give it a try; they're fun!


Always a Hippie

Once a hippie, always a hippie

love beads long gone but not

the love.  Flower child transformed

to flower-powered adult who still

on occasion will have a toke and

lose herself in a plume

of ganja smoke and the groove

of those free-spirited 60s.

Join us at dVerse Poets where De Miller invites us to get our groove on!


the pleasant aroma wafts
about the room
filling it by the ancient ritual
similar to smudging
to purify, cleanse and uplift
my surroundings

the tiny plume of smoke
arising from the incense stick
connects me to heaven
of fragrant

Mish is our host at dVerse for our Quadrille prompt. Join us for the fun!


Silver Lining

open mind to those who are suffering
heart too opens with compassion
don’t despair, we will prevail
we’ll be changed for the better
because we’ve learned and grown
through the trials put before us
we’ve drawn closer
boundaries are dissolving
in spite of distancing

Today De is our host for the Quadrille, one of the more popular prompts. Head over to dVerse to check out her presentation and give it a try. It’s fun!

What If Became What Now

I haven’t been inspired to write
since this contagion invaded. My energy
has waned with a low-level anxiety
as the what-ifs take over my mind.

Scientists and many others
foresaw what was ahead but
provisions were not made
and now our world is tightly
enmeshed in grave suffering.

There’s a pall hanging over us all
and I feel it as it creeps its way inside
my subconscious hijacking my peace.

Some days I feel an almost panic
as it spikes like the fevers of those
inflicted. Others I’m resigned to this
new way of life and accept what is
for my safety and the benefit of others.

I’m isolating because I want to give
that virus as little ammunition
as possible to take aim at any of us.
There’s a mark on each of our backs.


It sits as though abandoned
this mourning-dove gray house
that mirrors the weather this day.
Too close to the neighbors
too look-alike
too much blending in
no sparkling
or character
sets it apart.

An unattractive
screen door
bars entering
the house with
ease–its spring
wound too tight,
it demands
a firm grip
while opening
so as not to slam
into you as you attempt
a quickened leap
before it hits your heels.

Cheap, green indoor-outdoor
carpeting greets your feet
(and assaults your sensibilities)
and leads you to the prosaic,
commonplace front door.
Inside, builder’s-drab-beige
monopolizes every square inch.
No optimistic hues provide
a joyful skip of the heart
or a pleased, inward smile
of satisfaction.

No lively art that’s been
lovingly and joyfully collected
hangs upon the dreary, sad walls.
Oh, there’s a print here or there
but they too exhibit
lack of bold,
a drought
of interest
in adding
a bit of oneself
into this
abode of deficiency.

A pianist lives here.
The love of the classics
muses round her thoughts
and emerges with enthusiasm
and light through her deft fingers.
Though she be aged and becoming
forgetful, the music that she has
studied since childhood
livens her soul and the notes
take flight about the room
and fill every corner
with her verve and brightness.

Her interest lies not in the outward
appearance of where she kicks off
her shoes at the end of the day or
where she lays her head at night,
but instead she flourishes on the
vivid, vibrant strokes of color
that come from that piano grand.

Join us at dVerse Poets where Lillian hosts Open Link Night!

To You Who Come to Me in My Dreams

What messages do you bring
in the fogginess of my sleep
where my subconscious awakens
and begins to creep?

This morning someone appeared
from my past and ignored
my pleas for help.
Anger and fear welled
up as if you were still here
in my waking life.
My insecurities are outlined
in vivid scenes that I thought
long gone and put to rest.
But no, they stir up anxiety
and dread and splinter my heart
that pierces deep.
I cry out awakening in tears.
Terror has overcome me
as unseen, faceless
entities chase and
I awaken gasping and sweaty.
Recently I awoke with a jolt
from feeling as though suffocating
my breath faltering, failing me.
Uneasiness stayed most of the day.

But some dreams do bring reprieve
and I’ve awakened giggling.
I think I like those the best.
And flying–when I push off
from the earth and I’m suddenly
in-flight sailing effortlessly
through the sky.
Never too high though
just enough to float above
the tree tops—a low soaring.

I’ve excelled at martial arts,
fallen from terrifying heights
and survived without a bump.
I’ve dreamt things that have
come true and others
of pure nonsense.
I’ve been back to my
childhood, running through
neighbors’ backyards.
I can even wake myself up
when weary of the vision
at hand or the nightmare
that has gripped me for too long.
For that I am grateful.
But what am I to gain
from the illusions
provoked by my brain?
Do I pay them heed
or leave them slumbering?

Join us for Open Link Night where Grace hosts over at dVerse Poets Pub.

Only the Crows Know

crows crowd the oak
some alight, others take flight
circling the branches
vying for space

strangely quiet
no cawing squawking
the scene on the ground
is somber with sobs

black is worn
like the crows that day
one has passed on
to the next unknown

mystery surrounds
this journey we take
a window opens
and out we slip

only the crows know
the secret world ahead
they chuckle to themselves
of what we dread

It’s Open Link Night over at dVerse Poets.  Join in with a poem where Lillian is hosting.

Full Moon and Specters

Everything’s darker
come October.
Even our
usual long,
sunny days are
getting dimmer.
There might be
a slight dip
in temp but
it still steams
with humidity.
Some years fall
doesn’t topple
upon us until
The 31st
means Halloween!
As kids we
always hoped
for a cool one
so those often
hot costumes
that we wore
would be more
as we tore
from house
to house
through the night.
A full moon
would add
to the creepiness
and if the wind
was blowing
the shadows
would rock-
and create
specters in the
trees that
chased us
all the way home.

Poets United is asking for poems or prose on October:

What Was That You Said?

I can’t remember any of them.
All the words of manipulation
and exaggeration
that you used to try and inflate
your already over-sized ego
are dead and gone the way
of the Dodo. They’re dust,
extinct, no amount of
resuscitation could bring them back.

Linda Lee Lyberg is hosting the Quadrille prompt over at dVerse Poets today. Join us if you can!

A Lightness of Being

to witness your pain
and to take it in
where it stirs my heart
and compassion reigns
connects our humanity
eloquent and deep
we meet in the middle
and clasp our hands

tears fall freely
without feeling vulnerable
knowing we’re loved
with no hesitation
reaching around
our embrace enfolds
and healing begins
from the warmth
of our emotions

there is no weakness sensed
I will hear what you grieve
held in a space of safety
where love always lives
I will be there for you
as you are for me
our pain will diminish
as the two of us reveal
let me shore you up
through life’s sufferings
bring you ease, a smile
and a lightness of being

I wrote this poem minutes after watching the movie “Evelyn” about a family who loses a member to suicide. They don’t speak of it for 14 years until this documentary which begins their healing.

Joining dVerse Poets tonight with Lill as our host for Open Link Night:

Silent Sentinels of Truth

The sweltering day is winding down
and the shadows are lengthening.
As the summer nears its solstice,
the activity in the trees
(even by the insects) has
succumbed to a lazy, dampened
sluggishness of seeking shade
from the intensity that still pierces
through the canopy of the grove.

Dappled now, the waning sunlight
glimmers like miniature beacons
amongst the undergrowth as a
passes through the leaves.

Their stillness belies their discipline
as Watchmen in this quiet glade.
This grouping of oaks has been
steadfast sentries for hundreds
of years. Some have been lost to
old age and storms but most have
weathered What Has Come with
grace and fortitude.

They are the Silent Sentinels of Truth.
They yield when necessary without
betrayal. They hold steady without
defiance. Their boldness is tempered
by their enduring humility.
They abide without beliefs or religion
but serve and embrace all who
seek their refuge, looking to each
with equanimity.

These magnificent nobilities are
regal treasures to be revered.
They breathe and take sustenance,
grow and expand in awareness.
They begin soft and supple
riding the waves of squalls,
pliant to the extreme of
temperatures that threaten
their tender stems
and roots, but somehow thrive
and become dignified beings
of uprightness, integrity
and reliability.

Vero Oaks at Sunset; Artwork by Johnson Hagood

(The origin and history of the word “Vero” is from the Latin word vērus (“true”). As a noun it means “Truth” and as an adverb (Latin) it means “Truly, really in truth.” This appears to be universally “true,” EXCEPT IN FINNISH AND RAPA NUI.)

Visit Poets United for some quality writing and community with other writers.

Here, Now, There is Peace

All is quiet here on this street.
The birds are coming and going
from the several birdfeeders
in the yard. They are not alarmed.
Their differences in feather
coloration do not cause discord.
They all take turns feeding and
bathing in the birdbath.

Our neighbors are on friendly terms.
I hear no loud shouts.
It’s an undisturbed Saturday afternoon.
I offer a friendly wave to our next-door
neighbor as I get into my car.
A group of children are playing ball
down the way…laughter carries on the wind.

The sky is composed.
It is blue but filled with
billowing clouds without
darkness or strife.

The trees stand untroubled
in silent repose harboring
multitude of species that
look to them for sanctuary.
They welcome all.

My granddaughters feel safe
and secure as they play
in their room. They know
they are loved and protected.
They feel at ease.

Our household is tranquil.
We live in harmony.
Stillness surrounds us.
Quietude permeates our life.

Here…now…there is peace.

Sharing this at Jamie Dede’s The Bezine’s Virtual 100TPC for Peace, Sustainability and Social Justice


Even though they had been
divorced for over 20 years
she harbored intense
resentment towards him.

She spoke of their relationship
as if they had parted ways
just last week.
She didn’t realize
that her hatred
was eating herself
inside out…by those seething ulcers.

Photo from Google Images

Join us at dVerse where Lillian gives us our prompt for today’s Quadrille.

Carpe Diem #1447 new tea (shincha)

shincha slowly steeps
gathered beyond the yak fields
dewdrops sparkling

Carpe Diem Weekend Meditation #34 Revise That Haiku … Kikaku’s Dragonfly

red dragonfly
break off its wings
sour cherry
By Kikaku


(my revision)

wingless dragonfly
leafing cherry quivering
hot-red sunset fades

The Apology

The small, fragile jewelry box
sewn in a delicate tapestry
fabric that was now
worn and frayed,
held only a
lone pair of dangled
earrings, three tiers of
pale, pink
crystals that now still
sparkled in the slice
of sunlight that had
crept across the room’s
planked flooring.
A story surrounded this
box and those earrings.
A love story, a gripping story,
a loss story and one
of struggle against the
flat, matte images of lives
entangled (and dangled)
in life and with each other.
Those earrings were an apology.

Join me at dVerse Poets Pub for Open Link Night Thursday at 3PM EST where I’ll be hosting.

Autumn Haiku

breeze scatters dead leaves
morning glory lifts her head
slight chill greets the day

Join me today as I host Open Link Night for dVerse Poets Pub.  We go live at 3PM EST.


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