More Than Blue

Skies of blue, whys of blue
Seas of blue, seized by blue
Living the blues, singing the blues,
Preaching the Blues, Tell It
Like It Is, Stormy


This was written in response to Twiglet #43 from Misky this morning.


No bigger than the fingernail

on my pinkie, the little seed

with so much packed inside

and waiting for the day


when little fingers drop it

carefully into the small hole

dug by Papa in the damp earth.

Now the waiting begins.


First two small leaves, then

more and more appear until

the plant is full of white

blossoms and the hum of bees.


As the blossoms fade, small

pods emerge, growing day by day.

Soon small fingers will pick the long

green beans called “jade” like the gem.


So many and so delicious.


This was written in response to a prompt by Miz Quickly

My Summer Vacation

We are going on vacation,

a drive this time, not a flight

through the clouds like cotton balls

level with our aluminum wings.


We leave early in the morning, driving

west, away from the velvet glow of

the rising sun and into the promise

of a highland adventure.


The smaller mountains come into

view first, sturdy and thick with trees.

Hawks circle as we approach, riding

the wind between the peaks.


The pass, invisible at first, then an

indistinct cleft, a dark space

opening wider and welcoming

us as we tunnel between the slopes.


Farther down the highway, a small

rockslide, just large enough to cause

a roadblock, forcing us to detour,

our alternate route a new adventure.


Soon the mountains grow taller,

and their tops barren and stony,

cutting into the surrounding clouds

almost like the blade of a knife.


Eagerly, we approach the highest peak.

The car climbs and climbs,

slowing as it strains into

the steep ascent to the lookout.


And suddenly — our mountaintop moment —

the world spreads beneath us in

a perspective never seen before,

a velvet infinity of green and

precious gold.




This was written in response to a prompt from Miz Quickly

Visit Cuba


“Visit Cuba,” you can hear her say,

her voice soft, yet compelling

a wholesome smile on her fresh and open face,

an expression well-practiced for the tourist trade.


Maracas poised on high above billowing sleeves

and jaunty neckerchief playing peek-a-boo

with the unfastened white shirt, her

trousered legs at jaunty angles impossible

to replicate in real life (especially

in those shoes)


The hat, the earrings, familiar enough, yet

somehow captivating. “ So near and yet

so foreign.” And all of it, every bit,

only 90 miles from Key West!


This was written for a visual prompt from Miz Quickly

Souls Clapping

I misread you, I think,


certainly not “souls,”

intangible entities

insubstantial, but

still of great substance

     even if they have no hands

     to clap


now then “soles” clapping,

sandals, I think, hitting

the pavement in loud thwacks,

applauding the escape,

     scurrying away with

     soles a-clap


Where the Story Took Her

The story took on a life of its own,

not like the book, tangible and solid,

sturdily rooted in the real world.


That story floated out of the book

in great plumes, into her eyes and

even tickling her ears and her throat.


Her brain was involved, but her belly

and her heart too, possessed by

the story that grabbed her with


its people and places and chronology,

another world so different, not here

and especially not now.

I Am Homesick

Homesick — “longing for one’s home during a period of absence from it”

Maybe — I am home sick — sorry,

                 got a fever and can’t come out

                 maybe tomorrow, or

                 in fourteen days


Maybe — I am sick of home — sorry,

                 I gotta stay in,  can’t come out

                 not tomorrow or even

                 in fourteen days


Maybe — I am homesick for

                the home I remember,

                all that I am missing during

                this period of absence when

                        home is all there is.


Too often, i confuse etymology with entomology
Looking for word meanings, i find myself
lost in a world of insects and arachnids,
the unwelcome visitors at an outdoor meal.

Here now: “Picnic” from the French, “pique-nique”
defined as “pecking at trifles,” origin unknown.
Pique-nique: “Dejeuner sur l’herbe,”
Manet’s misbegotten masterpiece.

A naked lady in the grass, abandoned
picnic basket by her side. Who would sit
like that, inviting unwanted attention
from the ants, the wasps, the tiny mites and ticks?

Trifles in a landscape, non-existent to the artist’s
eye and yet, how can one not feel them there?
The reality of sharing our picnic foods with others,
seen and unseen,  in a world of eat — or be eaten.

This draft was written in response to Miz Quickly’s request for a poem about picnics. She also said to “be happy.”