Shall we all gather
At the river, the diner,
Or at Granny’s house


The good times will roll
When two or more are gathered
To eat, drink, pray, love


My favorite place
Is when I am surrounded
By those I love most


Cherries in a bowl
My life is often like them
Sweetness and some pits

What’s So Funny?

Look at you!

     Always having a smile ready

          Unable to hide your mirth

               Grinning like you know a secret

                    Holding in your amusement

                         Tucking your hand over your mouth

                              Enjoying life to its fullest

                                   Restraining your chuckles

The Lady on the Billboard

{From the 2021 Poetry Marathon
Prompts Hour Eight
Text Prompt

Try and condense the plot of a book, any book, into a poem. It can be very direct and recognizable, or abstract and obscured.}


First there were Annie and Audrey.
Then Abby came along and made three.
Three girls from the same mother
Who grew up without one another.

Audrey was adopted and given a new name.
Annie grew up alone and learned how to play the game.
And Abby? Abby stayed and took care of their mom
While inside she became a ticking bomb.

Now Momma needs a kidney and Abby’s won’t do.
She needs to find her sisters; she has found a clue!
Annie’s on the run from a deadbeat hubby,
But Audrey is rich and comes from big money.

First though to Elizabeth, Abby must break the news
You’re not Audrey; it’s all been a ruse.
Catastrophe strikes and all lives are at stake:
In the end, how many hearts will break?



{This is about the fifth novel that I am currently working on, The Lady on the Billboard. Kind of helps to sum it up and tighten those darlings that keep trying to take over my story, huh?}

A Saucy Tale

It’s just a pan, right?
Sure, usually it’s meant for baking a cake
not a roast beast.

It’s just a memory, right?
This flashback to when I’d make the cake
and Momma would make the fudge sauce.

It’s just silly, right?
These tears threatening to fall;
I mean, it’s not like it’s spilt milk.

It’s just so hard, right?
Loving the part of you that once loved me
enough to make me chocolate sauce.


Crushing It!

This one is going to be tough
this poem style of which I have not imbibed

Nonetheless I shall attempt
my hand at it
for what else have I to do

My spirit is willing
to write of the unknown

To pen the voices in my head
that refuse to be quiet

On and on they fight to be the star
this one is going to be tough

My spirit is willing
to listen to their tales
to scribe their haunts

But instead Candy Crush calls me
and I close my mind.

Every seven-year-old deserves a superhero

Every seven-year-old deserves a superhero.
Who was mine?
To answer that, we have to go back–
Many many years;
Half of a century, plus one.
But who’s counting?

Every seven-year-old deserves a superhero.
Who was mine?
To answer that, I have to go back–
Way way back
To a life that is no longer mine.
But who’s noticing?

Every seven-year-old deserves a superhero.
Who was mine?
To answer that, I have to remember–
An empty yard by the street
With rose bushes lining the house.
But who smelled them?

Every seven-year-old deserves a superhero.
Who was mine?
To answer that, I have to get into the mind of a kid
Who was the third daughter:
The third girl but at last the darling had arrived.
Finally, the son was here.

Every seven-year-old deserves a superhero.
Who was mine?
To answer that, I cannot–
I cannot go back, cannot remember, cannot comprehend
Why God left me alone, with no hero, no savior.
But He wasn’t finished yet.

Every seven-year-old deserves a superhero.
Jesus was mine.
To answer why is beyond my comprehension–
But He was there, watching and waiting, biding His time,
Until He stepped in, stepped up, and revealed the answer of
Why every seven-year-old needs a superhero.


{The first sentence is from Fredrik Backman’s my grandmother asked me to tell you she’s sorry.}



Pinky Promises

Pinky Promises

Well, hey there, Stefanie! I know we’ve been out of touch for a while now, but I occasionally see your face pop up when you’ve been tagged by some of our mutual acquaintances. When it does, my heart bleeds.

I’m going to be honest here. It’s hard, so please forgive me if my words don’t come out right. Not to be honest overall, but–to be honest with you. You are the type of person who demands honesty, and, frankly, it scares me. Which is part of why I stopped being in your world. We don’t see eye to eye on certain things, and–unfortunately for our once wonderful friendship–those things mean more to me than you did. How’s that for honesty?

I’m not trying to be mean here. You deserve an explanation for why I bolted. You were a true friend to me, and I still think of those car rides to Charlotte when we bared our souls to each other. When I see Tom’s Barbeque Chips, I remember how you bought me a bag and opened it from the bottom, telling me the best chips were always found there. You knew I had OCD and that this drove me crazy, but you risked it because you are such a funny girl.

I miss you. I see you on Facebook; see your books around the local bookstores. I look for posts from the writing group and upcoming events you all might be sponsoring or participating in. Those were some great times and I miss being a part of them. Sometimes I think about coming back, but…

…but how would you react? I mean, I made you a promise, and I failed to keep it. Would you give me a second chance? Would you allow me the opportunity–the privilege–of loving you again? Or would our conflicts separate us again?

You really are a lovely person, Stef. Dare I find out? Can I let go of my pride and love the whole of you without always liking those parts that made me leave to begin with? Are we worth another chance, as Barry Manilow sings that song right now about being ready? Am I ready to take a chance again? What have I to lose? What have I to gain?

Silly me. Of course you would welcome me back. Probably you’d say something cute, like, “Hey, Love! Turn around a moment.” Puzzled, I would acquiesce, and then you’d say, “It’s so good to see you’re back.” (You do love those double-entendres, don’t you, Stef?) Then you’d laugh, I’d laugh, and the air would be clear, just like that.

The chances are good that we wouldn’t even speak of this long break because I know you, Stefanie. I know you. I know you still love me, that you didn’t stop, and that you’ve been hoping for this–even though I didn’t return your calls or respond to your messages. I know you, Stefanie. I know your hopeful heart is waiting for one move, one gesture from me. What I don’t know is if I can make it.

Oh, heart! I want to! I miss you so much! And the stories we have to tell one another are enough to involve many more trips to Charlotte, the waterfall you once took me to, or just over twenty or more dates.

In closing, don’t give up on me. I don’t think I am ready just yet, but…I implore you: don’t give up on me. What? You haven’t? I assumed as much.

Thank you, Stefanie.


I’ll Have The Usual, Please

Hardback novel in hand–really, is there any other kind?–
the lady with the sunflower satchel and her knitting materials
headed to sit under the oak tree.

Wine glass in hand–wasn’t chardonnay the best–
the lady nibbled on the cheddar cheese
while she read the hardback novel in her hand.

The space around was empty–as was her wineglass.
The lady with the sunflower satchel, knitting complete,
turned the last page of her hardback novel with a sigh.

She took the nail–scratched her name on the pavement–
and the lady with the hardback novel and the sunflower satchel
wondered how on earth she got to this place.

An almost haiku

I can’t write about
Nineteen hundred twenty-two
Nineteen eighty-two?

Ahh, probably should keep those stories private!

Seeing Clearly

Seeing Clearly

My husband drinks beer and/or vodka
Every night I hear as he pours
The liquid into a cup

He often wonders why
He’s sleepy before
I am ready

To close my

From the 2021 Poetry Marathon
Prompts Hour Twelve
Text Prompt
For this year’s first formal prompt the challenge is to write a nonet. This poetic form requires that you write a 9-line poem. In the first line, there are 9 syllables, in the second 8 syllables, and so on down to the final one syllable (ninth) line. You can learn more and read an example here, but its origin is unknown.
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