This poem is a lean-to

This is a lean-to in the woods

By the long narrow path.

Where the earth has been caressed

By feet passing

They arise, live, and pass away

As do the trees which are passed

Until they too pass

A shelter where souls can linger

A quadrille for the prompt at

And a tale of trees for the prompt at


Kitchen, and how

We sit at one table
But In separate chairs
Each eating their own dish
Each dreaming their own wish
Boats tied together down the docks
A chain across the river
Holding the banks together
Stave off the widening sea
The shuddering Rift Valley
I thought the magic of the river
Was in It’s endless flow
The way it plays with alluvium
And tosses trees about
And finds a way around
Whatever it encounters.
And then, she moves through the house.

The desert dam is so high
The lake behind so wide
The dry air laps the lake away
There’s naught beyond the spillway
The sea gasps at an empty mouth

What would the world be like
Had we matured enough
To reach that age when
We care for our mother?
If we hadn’t been turned off
And withdrawn when she
Showed signs of faltering
If we had the ears to hear
What she’s been saying all along
As if those two roads led to
Different places. But maybe that’s it.
Maybe the roads reconverge
And it didn’t matter
which way we went
We would be here anyway.
But had that other grassy path
Felt the tread of our soles…
No, the this or that didn’t matter
Then nor now
There is something though,
More of a how
If we had felt that road
With our souls
Each step a depth of
And each breath an atmosphere
Of cosmic scope
How can I walk without the ground
How can I breathe without the air
How can I love without fear
How can we achieve what we cannot conceive?
The garden is robust and fruitful
And the garden is everywhere

The spaghetti incident

I turn away from my nieces disgust

To face a nonexistent

Audience, and away from the

Bowls of spaghetti on the table

FLush with red tomato sauce

Which last week was her favorite

The taste of which will now smack

Of windblown whimmish exercising

Childish grasping for the golden

Straws of control and the glittering

Awe of influence


Victoria prompts us for an soliloquy, mines with with a side of enjambment and a hint of synesthesia, as I try and cope with my new living situation.

Make this home a house

The garden is makeup, a mask

A good front put up by the old house

Guarded by the smiling red capped gnome

Who is only slightly tipsy, not soused

It’s a lot of work to keep that up

Whose hands have worked that loam

Hauled the water and gently dowsed

The flowers vibrant, the mulch doan

What’s festering there behind windows

Perhaps that gentle agony of a surviving spouse

On the dresser still, his comb

How could she miss that old grouse


Two prompts with one pome, I tried to turn the house in to a home, but I lingered too long in it and got stuck. So this is a mirrored refrain And also an outside looking in, but I didn’t get very deep

And all that I wasn’t washed away

Can I crawl back to that spot

Beside the mountain stream

Where I was baptized?

Where God came through the sun

And glittering angels rained over me

Can I drag myself back there,

So stained with the world’s mud,

And, in *that* light, stand?

20210810A quadrille, of 44 words, one of which is ‘stand’, for the prompt at dVerse. Join us here:
There was so much more in that moment but these words are muddy too.


Frank Tassone calls for haibun about August at the d’Verse pub tonight. The Society for Creative Anachronism holds their biggest event, the Pennsic War, every august. This event signals the end of summer for me, and so my haibun is about it:

In the ripening of the year the tensions between kingdoms comes to a head, and all the long preparations come to fruition as the wagons are packed and we head off to war.

Armour is cleaned repaired or made anew, swords and halberds by the bundle, sheaves of arrows assembled as the armies drawn nigh each other. The sun is relentless, the storm clouds are legendary and the battles draw out the sweat from the depths of human bodies. That sacred water washes away the past and the future

Now is all there is. Untouched

By distant winter,

Love is the only victor



This youtubular deluge

Floods like A perpetual Sandy

Perturbulent stirring ol Barnegat

But unlike that refreshing flush

Of bay, the landminds are scoured

of thoughts, left full of mud

Comparison: Cadosia creek

Cold, clear, alive

How can the same word


Be used for both

20210727. For the prompt at dverse, a quadrille using ‘stream’

Sandy was a hurricane that had great effect on the Jersey shore, and barnegat bay there. Cadosia creek is a mountain stream in upstate New York.