January 29, 2011


Prompt from Writer's Island: illusion
Based on the premise that false perceptions produce illusory perspectives

Newton felt a fruit,
   Changed science’s history,
         Defined gravity.

Chicken felt a nut,
   Assumed science’s future,
         Effected panic.

Two under one tree:
   Gravity or the world’s end,
         Apple or acorn?

January 26, 2011

Robert Burns

Prompt from Poetic Asides: burns - inspired by the Scottish poet Robert Burns and in honor of Burns Night, which is celebrated around the world annually on January 25

I spent a cozy hour
with the words of Robert Burns,
and when I slept my dreams
were filled with flowers and ferns.

I slept beside the Afton
that whispered softly in my ears,
and dreamt of old-time friends
I’d known in yester-years.

I dreamed of a red, red rose
as crimson-hued as blood,
of heather and of glens
and lovely flower buds.

I dwelt among the highlands
through all that pleasant rest,
and to this day that dream
has been one of the best.

January 24, 2011


Prompt from Sunday Scribblings: eternity

Once upon a time about six thousand years ago,
             everything was black and empty:
                        there was no world,
                        there was no time,
             there was only God.
But this God was lonely for companionship.
And He had all power, to create whatever He desired,
             and so He created:
                        He flung galaxies into space,
                        hung light in the heavens;
                        He designed atmospheres
                                      and climates,
                        fashioned life-forms and
                                      life-giving forms;
             He composed a universe of beauties
                        and enjoyments.
And then He formed creatures to enjoy it all with Him,
             to walk with Him and talk with Him.
But He also had all power, to know every thing
                                      in every place and every time.
             He knew that these creatures would turn against Him,
                        reject Him and despise Him.
                        He knew the pain He would suffer
                                      when these beings He created
                                      would destroy a part of Himself.
                        He knew the sorrow and longing He would face,
                                      the denial and unrequited love.
And yet– He created man.
He allowed man to freely choose between
             the pure intimacy of life lived His way,
                        or the distress of life lived man’s way.
             He allowed these created ones
                                      whom He alone authored,
                                      whom He designed in love,
                        to deny His craftsmanship,
                                      His ownership of His creation.
             He allowed man to defame Him,
                        to doubt His immensity,
                        to despise His imminence.
And then– He gave of Himself to repair the rift
             between Himself and His own creation.
             He suffered the agonies of a fragmented friendship
                        and a broken body,
                                      a broken heart
                                      and a broken spirit,
                        to restore the unity that He created.
And He is not finished yet, not with His own creation.
He knew of their rejection even as He designed them,
             He knew of their betrayal as He created them.
But He knew the eventual joy and lasting satisfaction,
                        the restored friendship,
                        the perfected intimacy,
             that would be possible after He suffered,
                        after He re-purchased His own creation,
                                     bought back what was rightfully His.
             He knew, for He planned an eternity,
                                     a time of unending time,
                                     a time beyond time,
             where He would be His creation’s world,
                                     their everything,
                        where they would be His friends.

January 23, 2011

In Permanence

Prompt from Sunday Scribblings: eternity

A ripple
        in eternity,
               between the
               horizons of time;
this world is temporary,

January 22, 2011


Prompt from Writer's Island: clarity

 “Maybe where there’s clarity of air, there’s
  clarity of thought.” Chet Huntley
  Salty breezes bathe
  cloudy thoughts, hazy visions:
  blue-sky seas revive.

January 21, 2011

Our Food is Too Much With Us

Prompt from Big Tent Poetry: write a food poem
Inspired by William Wordsworth's "The World is Too Much With Us"

Our food is too much with us; late and soon,
Cooking and eating, we lay waste our calories:
Little we see in the kitchen that displeases;
We have given our tastebuds away, a sordid boon!
The pantry that bares her bosom to our gastronomy;
The chef that would be steeped in haute cuisine;
And are occasional now like heirloom china;
For this, for everything, we are underdone;
It moves us not. But oh! I’d rather be
A chef fattened by delectable nourishment;
So might I, standing in my pleasant kitchen,
Have sustenance that would make me more delighted;
Have tastes of meals created by my own hands;
Or feast on recipes concocted by sages prior.

January 16, 2011


Prompt from Sunday Scribblings: invisible

Poetry is not written just
by having the right words,
sometimes it is written
by the absence of words.

January 15, 2011

In Courage

Prompt from Writer's Island: write about courage

Solitary songbird, pale and gray,
perched on a leafless branch,
feathers disheveled and toes
almost frozen, wings stiffened
from nights of bruising cold,
softly singing of springtime…

January 13, 2011


Prompt from Poetic Asides: write about being trapped

flash-frozen panorama
insulated by snow
vaguely lit by grey
dampened sounds
muted by snowsheets
scene within a snowglobe

January 12, 2011

Spumoni Snowstorm

Prompt from Big Tent Poetry: use alliteration to spark your muse

 Swirls of soft pink
     stripes of red above the trees
 Spirals of sugary white
     swishing across the horizon
 Stripes of sweet green
     softly swaddling the ground
 Shovelfuls of spumoni
     scintillating with icy sprinkles

January 09, 2011

In the Park

Prompt from Sunday Scribblings: a walk in the park

It was merely a walk in the park,
he later told me:

no matter the steep pathways
overgrown with rocky footprints
and wind-scattered branches;

no matter the icy crystal remnants
accenting the dusky trail, evidence
of a late winter’s snowstorm;

no matter the swollen rivers and
slick smooth-faced boulders, passable
only by seasoned loops of rope;

that walk in the park ascended to heights
higher than the soaring eagles,
far above the tree tops;

and despite the sweat-soaked body,
the trembling legs and pounding pulse,
that hike was as calming as a walk in the park.