Where Am I?

It occurs to me that perhaps I should tell you why you're not seeing me around much. No, I haven't fallen into a black hole. Nor have I run away from home, though I have been tempted from time to time.

For the first time, I am attempting NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). It's a daunting prospect, but friends have done it, and they survived. I'm taking heart from that.

It's day five of this thirty-day challenge to write 50,000 words before the month is done. I'm already behind. According to the NaNoWriMo gizmo that one uses to keep track of progress, at my current rate, I'll finish on December 6. Not good. But I also know that of the 256,618 participants (worldwide) in 2011, 36,843 of them crossed the 50K finish line by the deadline. So I won't be alone if I don't make it.

Anyway, this is where I am, and why I'm not coming around to visit much. I'm sitting at my computer, plugging away on my great American novel, which is currently called "Untitled." Wish me luck!

See you in December.



My fall from grace was 
unexpected.It hurt like the 
devil; I can tell you that.
With the flick of a finger
and careless aim, you sent me
flying from the promised land
like an inconvenient crumb
sullying the surface of your life.

Through no fault of my own,
penance paid or so it seemed,
redemption came today.
Angels sang and golden
rays shone from the heavens
as, with nary a trumpet, the 
pearly gates cracked open 
with the dawn. Hallelujah.

Once again, I was saved.
Or was it doomed? Because 
then I discovered you wanted  
something. Figures.


Linked at dVerse Poets Pub.




big feet, big butt,
bigger mouth, 
that's what he said.
that's OK, I told him.
I've got a good under-
standing, a well-seated
position, and the ability
to make my opinion heard.


Linked to dVerse Poets Pub



Bird on the Run

I taught them how to read and write.

I showed them how to spell.

I helped them count from one to ten,

  And sang to them as well.


Romney says my goose is cooked,

My time has come and gone.

I guess it’s time to fly the coop.

Kids, I think you're on your own.

(Source: AP Photo)


Linked to Friday Flash 55, hosted by G-Man at Mr. KnowItAll.


The Toy Box

a far way back and too long ago

I remember a time when

you were totally there

life was a toy box

filled with 



you’re just 

there. time passes

unaware. life continues

but the toys and games are 

gone and the box stands bereft


Linked to dVerse Poets Pub 



A Place

(Photo by Danny Ouellet
Source:  Stockvault)

There's a place at edge of light
Where thin the line 'tween day and night
Where nightmares wait just out of sight
And sunshine turns to dark.

There's a place in black of night
Where safety fades, replaced with fright
Where nightmares come with dad's goodnight
And childhood life departs.

There's a place above the deep
Where ere I jump, I stand and weep
And pray the lord my soul to keep
From this body torn apart.

There's a place where nightmares dwell
Where witches cackle and conjure spells
Where demons dance, escaped from hell
And hate pervades the heart.


Linked at d'Verse Poets Pub


Breakfast Under the Tum-Tum Tree

  Illustration from The Jabberwocky
by Lewis Carroll 1871

‘Twas brillig and the slithy toves did…

Oh, crap, who am I kidding?
‘Twasn’t brillig at all, not
on this very un-frabjous day, and
there is not one freaking slithy tove in sight.

Instead what's here is this giant bandersnatch
who galumphed in from the wabe
with no interest at all in the gyre and gimble
and one hell of a frumious appetite.

You thought the Jabberwock was bad?
Oh, man, you have no idea. The only uffish thought
this Bandersnatch has is – one two! one-two! – how to
ruin my day and steal my callooh, callay away.

Not today, big boy. I’m going back to bed.


Linked to dVerse Poets Pub.


To You Both

peeking in I see

passion flow like bee’s honey

am I a voyeur?


Sunday Lunch

It Must Be Time For Lunch Now, 1979, by Francesca Woodman
Source Mag 137

Skewered, bound tight
and slowly turned over
a hot fire until quite done,
my tender heart is crusted
in dread. I know my fate, after all.

After I’ve been sliced and served,
you will greedily devour me,
taking your fill, then toss
the leftovers out with
Monday’s garbage.


Written for Mag 137.



Free Verse

(Source: image by Firedrop, WikiMedia Commons)

erase all the lines

coloring outside the box

freedom to be me





that’s it! she declared,

that was one chirp too many

he’s in trouble now


Folks, I'm a bit under the weather, so I may not get around to read too much, but I'll be back.


Let's Face the Music and Dance

Source: WikiMedia Commons (slightly edited)

too hard to achieve

women’s rights and freedoms won

too precious to lose 


Written for Haiku Heights - September Heights Day 28: Waltz



Footprint of Sharia

Afghan Girl

ravaged countryside

muddy boots across my heart

my oppression hurts




A Great Place to Meet Guys

Flying Down, 2006, by David Salle

I stood looking at the painting and inwardly shuddered. Ugh. I hate these art gallery things, especially ones showing modern art -- if that‘s what this was -- but my friend Sherry had dragged me along.

“Come on,” she’d pleaded. “It’s a great place to meet guys. Besides, the artist is supposed to be great.” 

The last thing I wanted to do was go out and troll for guys. Despite my better judgment, I agreed. Everything on TV was a rerun anyway.

And now here I was, looking at the showcased canvas of this so-called great artist. Was there ever a modern artist as good people say he is? I had to question why a gallery would host a show of such artistic drivel, but the answer is perfectly obvious. Money. People will pay outrageous sums for the next Picasso or Dali.

That, of course, begged another question, one I was pondering as I sipped my wine – at least the merlot was decent – and wondered: why did I come? 

It was too late to change my mind, so I tried to find some redeeming quality to the art in front me. I was asking myself, what's with that bird, when the voice floated over my left shoulder.

“Magnificent use of slipstream economics to punctuate society’s dependence on media nourishment, wouldn’t you say?”

What?” I swiveled around to look at the source, nearly slopping my wine all over both of us. 

“I said...” he began, and then grinned sheepishly. “Oh, right, I guess you heard what I said.”

As I looked at the man behind me, I tried to erase the look of incredulity that must have been painted on my face like that big smear between the bird and the girl with the naked butt in the middle of the picture. The tall, sandy haired man wore a light jacket over his plaid shirt and chinos. He looked like the last type of guy to utter such nonsense about art.

Boyish charm. That was the first thing that came to mind as my eyes met blue eyes twinkling in a lightly freckled face. So cute. Remember Sheriff Andy’s son Opie?  Yeah, like that, except all grown up.

“You, um, like this?” I asked. I really wanted to ask if he were out of his mind but, I mean, look at him. 

He laughed, and the angels sang. “No, not really, but don’t tell the artist. It’s pretty ghastly, isn’t it?”

About then, I decided that I was glad I’d come. Really glad. I made a mental note to buy Sherry dinner. 

“Oh, thank heavens,” I replied. “I was afraid you were serious.” 

Tearing my eyes from his -- no easy job, I might add -- I looked at the people milling around. “Is the artist here?”

“I think so,” he answered. He glanced around and then, with a look of surprise, put a hand on his chest. “Wait! I’m right here.”

Oh, crap.

Fortunately, the man of my dreams has a good sense of humor. And did I tell you how cute he is? Lousy artist, though.

By the way, Sherry was right. A gallery opening is a terrific place to meet guys. I did eventually buy Sherry dinner. She thought the food at the reception was great.


Written for The Mag 136.


Pirates Ahoy!

 avast, me hearties!

Davy Jones yields no booty

high seas adventures


 Written for Haiku Heights - September Heights Day 26: Paperboat



In Her Dreams

jungle adventures

her genetic memories

the lioness stalks


 Written for Haiku Heights - September Heights Day 25: Sleep


Ripped from the Headlines

born to privilege

clueless, blind to poverty

human bankruptcy


Written for  Haiku Heights - September Heights Day 24: Paradox

Note:  My apologies to Haiku Heights participants from outside the US. With the current political battles raging all around us, this is very much on some of our minds.




Nureyev with wings 

lifting twirling pirouette

nature’s tour de force

* Entrechat is a ballet move that is performed in the air.





(Image by saltyshadow
Source: Deviant Art)

she awaits his touch

so pregnant with potential

new verse comes alive


 Written for Haiku Heights - September Heights Day 22: Birth



Old Glory

First Flight of Old Glory

standing tall and fine

she waves proudly to the crowd

her freedom hard won


Written for Haiku Heights - September Heights Day 21: Glory



Road Warrior

 (Source: Astucia)

siren song beckons

would-be Odysseus adrift

safe passage ahead


Written for Haiku Heights - September Heights Day 18: Lights




Painting by Caravaggio (1594-96)

self-absorbed, adrift

in a sea of vanity

where is everyone?


 Written for Haiku Heights - September Heights Day 19: Island


The Awakening

 (Photo credit:

Lonely, depressed, the old man took to riding the subway.
Moving aimlessly in the company of strangers
was preferable to sitting aimlessly at home alone.
The rocking soothed, as he sat worrying the sore spot
on his heart with the gnarled fingers of yesterday's pain-
ful memories, dreading the empty tomorrow still ahead.

The train rumbled on and on through the night,
announcing each stop with a squeal of pain. His eyes
were drawn by the lights that flickered by in the blackness
of a tunnel, but it was their reflection in the tears
coursing the pale, wizened cheeks beside him
that caught his eye instead.

She brought him back, that old woman hunched
against the glass of the window, dragging him
from the brink of his own misery by the sight of hers.
Though she'd always been there, weeping,
he never heard her over the whining in his head.
He'd never noticed how loudly self-pity played.

Without thought, he reached out and took her hand.
As if a phonograph needle had been lifted, the dirge in his head stopped.


Linked in at dVerse Poet's Pub




(Source: detail from WikiMedia Commons)

starved for compliments

pretty girl wasting away

the grim reaper waits


 Written for Haiku Heights - September Heights Day 18: Starve