Dog Gam

What poetics is Paul Scribbles serving up this week at dVerse Poets Pub? Soul gazing, he calls this week’s concoction. Well, I went off the leash a little with the prompt.


Sometimes souls’ legs twitch

in their sleep they vocalize

Running down a dream

Once there was a dog that was always kept on a chain, its yard a well-swept radius. When occasionally it slipped its collar, it had no locus of control and people wondered at its lack of manners.

Once there were two dogs that did not make a move without their masters ordering it. One of these dogs got many rewards, was rewarded for its every act of obedience. The other dog got many punishments, was punished for any slight disobedience. When their masters were not with them they were confused and people wondered at their lack of manners, at their begging and their cowering.

Once there was a dog that had never known a master, had never been provided food and shelter. It made do, but people were afraid of its snarling wildness, and even of its wary distance keeping.

Once there was a dog that was loved by its master. It loved its master too. They went everywhere together. The dog ran free, and was always near, sometimes leading, sometimes following. People marveled at its manners, and at how it had tamed its master. These two, the dog and master, trusted each other when one went out wandering.

Am I dyslexic?

You wonder at my manners

This speaking of dogs.

Full House

The latest from Marge and Earnest.

***Earnest was to find out a few things after Marge moved in. He found out that Wednesday was poker night and that his doublewide was the new favored location for the game, the guys from Marge’s old shop sitting on their coolers of beer around the coffee table, Marge dealing nachos and bean dip along with her colorful remarks. Earnest also found out, that first time, that he was not very good at poker, and that he did not care for the loud bantering of the group.

So the next Wednesday Earnest declared it his pub night, and he went out alone for the first time since meeting Marge over three months before. The table near the small corner stage was empty and he sat there alone as he had so many times before. Unlike all those other times though, this time he was not to be left alone. He was to find out that he was, for the first time ever, desirable.

Though it was fairly busy, the waitress came right away, called him by name, welcomed him back, asked how he was, where had he been. Earnest blushed and mumbled that he’d been busy; he was glad when she left to get his beer and gladder still when she brought it to him but quickly returned to the busy tables across the room.

She had no sooner left when an energetic, big haired woman approached his table, listing a little to the left because of her prosthetic leg, leading with the drink grasped in her right hand, talking at him well before she plunked herself down in the chair beside him.

“Hi, remember me? From the department store? Ilene. Ilene Higginbottom.”

Earnest stood awkwardly, bumping the table and spilling both their drinks. The waitress came by, wiped the table while winking at Earnest, and promised to bring another round.

Ilene then bombarded Earnest with compliments. “You were so kind, so helpful in the department store. I said to myself, now there’s a good man.”

Earnest was the color of a radish.

“So tall, so handsome.”

No one had ever told Earnest that he was handsome. He squirmed uncomfortably, turning a deeper shade of radish.

The band had started playing, and Ilene Higginbottom asked Earnest if he would like to dance.

“Oh, gosh, please, no, I, uh, I’m no good, I have two left feet.” There isn’t a radish that could now compare to Earnest’s red face as he remembered that Ilene Higginbottom had only one right foot. He gulped and stared at his boots. Ilene Higginbottom didn’t slow down a bit.

“Ah, poor thing, I was joking, you dear, sweet man… You know, I settled out of court with the mill. I am pretty comfortable, if you know what I mean.”

Earnest wasn’t exactly sure what she meant, but he did know that he was incredibly uncomfortable, especially when Ilene Higginbotttom leaned in and stroked his big calloused hand. He took a deep breath and stood up carefully, not spilling a thing. Earnest would never have the vocabulary to describe the range of emotions that he felt at being able to honestly tell Ilene Higginbottom that he was taken by another, but he did tell her, with relief and with pride, and he also asked her to please excuse him, but he was late for his poker game.

Without even having finished a beer, Earnest left the pub, feeling kind of handsome. He was willing to bet that Marge would think so too.

Double Wide

Working together inside his two-bay garage, Earnest and Marge were a well oiled machine, professional and productive, she taking his direction with the respect that she always showed a boss, the owner of a shop. After work, she often went with him to the humble trailer he called home, just behind the shop, and it was there that Earnest didn’t know what to expect, like her going right to the bedroom and emptying his drawers.

“Earnest, you only wear the same few things as long as I’ve known you, what are all these clothes, taking up space?”

“Those are the ones I used to wear, but they, uh, well they don’t fit anymore.”

“Well they don’t fit in your bureau, neither, we gotta make room if I’m gonna double the population of your doublewide, so here, I’ll keep these shirts here and make curtains for the windows with them, I can’t believe you don’t have curtains, and you take the rest of these to use as rags in the shop, we need rags in the shop, Earnest, and there, now I have some room for my clothes, because how can I be expected to make a carrot cake this summer if I’m not right here to tend the garden and to get to know the oven.”

Earnest Biggs, blushing and smiling incredulously, was thus informed by Marge Small that she would be moving in with him permanently. “Gosh, Marge, I thought you’d never ask.”

****Earnest and Marge return for Girlie on the Edge’s debut Six Sentence Story prompt, “curtain”.  See their ongoing story from the first at their page.six sentence story.jpg



Strawberry Moon

working-template-for-ff-challenges4.pngThe celebrations continue at Carrot Ranch this week. Last week’s celebrations prompted Earnest to bring Marge balloons, this week Marge contemplates carrot cake. For their full story, made up as prompts suggest, go to their page. Carrot Ranch March 15, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about carrot cake. It can be classic or unusual. Why is there cake? How does it feature in the story? Go where the prompt leads. Respond by March 20 to be included in the compilation (published March 21). Rules are here. All writers are welcome!

Marge sat at the table poring over a seed catalog, one of the balloons a strawberry moon overhead.

“I want carrot cake, Earnest, that’s what.”

“There’s some at the store.”

“I want to make it.”

“We can buy carrots.”

“No, I wanna grow the carrots.”

“Well gee Marge, it’s gonna take a long while to get that cake.”

“Yes, well into summer.”

“Why wait so long? Why work so hard?”

“It’s to celebrate. Us. You like balloons, I like cake.”

Earnest grinned. Marge would be baking, here, come summer.

“I’ll dig the garden patch, Marge.”

“That’s what I figured.”


3.14159 26535 89793 23846…

It is Pi Day, that is in the states where we write today’s date 3/14 it is. (Another fun fact is that Einstein was born on this day in 1879.) In another life of mine I sometimes teach math. Kids of all ages have heard of Pi and are fascinated with it. I have had them write Pi-etry and Pi-ku using the digits of Pi to determine either syllable or word-count. Below is my take, using the first 21 digits to dictate syllable count. The second poem is my more free form ode to Pi, or M’ode à la Pi . 

My math students did a remarkable job of writing with the Pi-ku challenge. I challenge you to take a cross-curricular leap and use Pi or the digit sequence of Pi as your inspiration to write a poem today. Use as many or as few digits as you wish, but keep them in order. The possibilities for this are endless; google for more digits. Your poem could be about math or Einstein, but it doesn’t have to be. The possibilities for your poetry are endless.


3.14159 26535 89793 23846…



Math is language…


Elegant language

Beautifully written, spoken by


Patterns, balance, ratios

endlessly repeat

planet song

earth, water, fire, air

elemental singing Planet

forgive our great illiteracies

and our crude utterances

deaf, blind, and mute to elegant song

notes of truth

of hope

of balance

possible yet in this our world

if only we

could read the planet’s song.


Pi = c/d

Pi is irrational

But makes a circle indomitable

This figure without sides

Why would anyone divide

One measure by another?

Circumference by diameter,

Ends as an endless enterprise

That doesn’t make a circle other-wise.

Is this some circular divinity?

Always dividing to a little more than three,

The quotient going on and on, infinitely…

So are circles incrementally

Ever increasing in size, pi x d?

Oh so wise, circularly!

Pi is irrational

Pi is incomparable,

Pi is part of a mystery.


Hang Fire

It’s Quadrille Monday again at d’Verse. The prompt word is “fire”, the deal is 44 words. The term ‘hang fire’ refers to when the trigger is pulled but the combustion doesn’t happen right away, a potentially dangerous situation if one looks down the barrel to see what is going on.  


In the time before

wise counsel was sought

considered words shared in fireside chats.

This was the ancient fire,

the warm balming one

stoked with communal values.

Fires lately!

Kindled by hate

held overhead like flaming fists

reflected in raging eyes.

Sparking cold fear.



I broke into Marcia’s Blog again…

The Write Stuff

Currents of life have kept me away from Marcia’s resplendent lagoon lately, but I have drifted back today. I had resolved in the beginning of the year to get out a bit more than I am used to, so here I am and it is here that I will share some of my outings.

I was recently featured at Pure Haiku, one of my haiku being chosen to represent Freya’s theme of Ocean. That new association got me an invitation to participate in Freya’s Escape Pod Emulation. While I am not much for science fiction, the idea of being left alone in an escape pod was kind of appealing. (You’ll have to read her post in April to see what five items I take with me.) But in thinking about that escape pod I was led back to this post.

Don’t we all dream of alone time to…

View original post 447 more words


So MindloveMisery’s Menagerie’s Saturday “#Lucky Dip”  prompt is to respond to the poem “Fable”, by Janos Pilinszky. I did, as I was intrigued by this poem.  


Fable by Janos Pilinszky

Once upon a time

there was a lonely wolf

lonelier than the angels.

He happened to come to a village.

He fell in love with the first house he saw.

Already he loved its walls

the caresses of its brick layers.

But the window stopped him.

In the room sat people.

Apart from God nobody ever

found them so beauitful

as this child-like beast

So at night he went into the house.

He stopped in the middle of the room

and never moved from there anymore.

He stood all through the night, with wide eyes

and on into the morning when he was beaten to death.


Apart from God,   D. Avery

 Upon that time once

I was a lonely wolf

and so I came to your village

not to fill an empty heart

my heart was full.

Your house was full

and filled my full heart

not with longing

not with envy for

what you had I did not want

except to see what God had seen

in you.

I went to you wide-eyed and innocent

expecting only to see what God had seen

in you with my full heart

which I would have given you.

I sat in your dark

within the walls you’d built

I didn’t realize you were hiding

behind your layers of brick afraid

of what God might see in you.

You beat me until my full heart stopped beating

and I left without it

you threw epithets and derisions before

locking yourself inside where doubt will always haunt you.


Threads of Feelings

At dVerse, for Tuesday’s Poetics prompt, Sarah Connor suggested that we write about a love token.  “Maybe you want to think about a token you would leave, or have been left. Maybe there’s something you carry around to remind you of someone you love.”  The larger background that she provided as inspiration was the story of the London Foundling Hospital and the tradition of mothers leaving a token as proof of identity in case they were able to return for their child.

What if what we left behind was a place


Threads of Feelings

concentric threads weave

topographic memories

mapped in mind and heart

mountains valleys streams winding

finding bearings that lead home