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Author Archives: Mish

The Quality of Quiet

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quiet isn’t really quiet
it screams over deaf ears
in a forest of fallen words
quiet is solid, thick enough to cover the grandest of canyons, but subtle
effervescent in the tiniest of dew drops at dawn
quiet isn’t “crickets”, that’s ignorance
but quiet may be cryptic to the ignorant

quiet holds up sacred space between the abused woman and drunken husband sprawled across the couch
quiet is not a haven, it is a resting place
quiet knows things, not worth speaking to the hidebound
quiet is collectable, but sometimes only
jagged eggshells embedded in your feet
quiet can hurt

quiet doesn’t always like itself and longs for invisible strings to be plucked into meticulous, enlightening melodies that lift spirits instead of eyebrows
quiet is the tea bag in, thoughts steeped from depths untapped, poetry poured out
it stretches infinitely, briefly pausing for birdsong and rumble of thunder

quiet is often unwanted but persists, can be easily broken by the weakness of intolerance or the strength of the benevolent
quiet has a steady breath
and then…
quiet is the ultimate end

At dVerse Poets Pub, Kim has challenged us with writing a poem on the quality of a different thing (noun, verb, adjective) using the same format as Les Murray’s poem, The Quality of Sprawl.

Image: Michelle Beauchamp

Haiku: Simplicity of Nature

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springtime convention

birds whisper lessons of life

we need to listen

desert sun leaves diamonds

in unexpected places

sweet summer garlands

sky sketches for me

brush-strokes blend, bend and suspend

where do colours go?

Do you have a poem to share? You are welcome to join us over at dVerse Poets Pub for Open Link Night. Doors open at 3 p.m. EST. It is my pleasure to be your host.

Images: Michelle Beauchamp

Mary Alice Eckbo Speaks Out

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Portrait of Mary Alice Eckbo – painted in 1914 by Thorvald Hellesen

shift a little, my darling
find another angle, alien to you
you have painted me in colours
that only you can see
flat, fixed, formulated
fabricated pieces
so meticulously defined
by your jaded brush

look again, my darling
unveil my violet heart
shade me in ebony, if you must
and I trust that you must, though
I am not afraid of the darkness
moon flowers bloom in the gloom
why deny yourself sweet shadows?
they come from the light

Written for Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub. Lillian is our lovely host, sharing with us the story of Thorvald Hellesen (1888-1937) and the art of Cubism. We are choosing a painting for poetic inspiration.

Directions Back to your Imagination

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Image credit: Erik Johansson

look inside
you will find it
buried loosely where you left it
no? then follow me now
past the ho hums and doldrums
over the bridge of punctilio
and stagnant rivers of reason
bypass the labyrinth of what “is”
trample the hedges and
enter the valley of sally
now..  t-i-p-p-i-t-y t-o-e, barefoot
between blades of grass
watch your step
this is where the little people live
only to serve you tea and stories
rest here for awhile
under buttercup umbrellas
taste the lemon-berry breeze
shhh….listen to the colours of the sky
remember when fish could fly?
you drew them, I saw you
fins and all
the fish?
yes, the fish
and you too can have fins
you can have anything here

It is my pleasure to host Poetics today at

dVerse Poets Pub.

We are letting our muse run wild, inspired by the beautiful work of photographer and visual artist, Erik Johansson.

Act One

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Through my oversized front window I wager the weather to be warm. Again I am wrong. The sun is tricky these days, undecided on sending us to the beach or simply spotlighting the neon yellow of finches on my feeders. Crocuses attempt to poke through decayed leaves but the chill has kept them from blooming. A blue jay bounces below the century old maple searching for fallen seeds. He seems overdressed for Spring but then again, he has no choice.

I take in a few moments of stillness, waiting for nature’s next performance. Pine needles on the scotch pine muster up a little jiggle as the slightest breeze blows between them. The blue jay boldly returns with a sudden landing on the top of the feeder. His squawking is far from musical as he contemplates another dramatic manouever. He misses the tray, sending sunflower chips to the doves below. The show has only begun.

early spring still sings
fading slowly in birdsong
summer’s rehearsal

A late response to Linda’s “Late Spring” haibun prompt.

dVerse Poets Pub

Nature’s Games

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little pond, you play well

with sea foam clouds

painting their portraits

on your pretty glass skin

don’t you know?

you are a window

it is only the sun

holding up mirrors

illuminating the depth

of your shallow little heart

who’s playing with who?

For Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub. Merril is our host and she has offered us a variety of ways to incorporate the theme of windows. This one also happens to be a quadrille.

To the Pool

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and so it begins, minuscule

granule of sand

clinched between fingers

one revolutionary stem cell or

the distance a brittle leaf tumbles

against the breeze

one drop of sweat



a trickling to the pool

fools stand on the edge

dipping their toes

Kim is hosting Quadrille Monday at dVerse Poets Pub. The word she has chosen for us to include in our 44 word poems is “revolution” or a form of the word.


Prosery: For Glenn

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Close-up – feet resting on frame of a too-high stool. Planes taxi laggardly across the tarmac. Somewhere between the first and last sip of a mediocre margarita, I read the news. In the world of virtual poetry prompts and comradery, there are diamonds.They sparkle with such bravery, tenacity, and brilliance, you wish you could bottle it. That was Glenn Buttkes.

The void was instant. A black hole, a piece ripped, an abyss of words unwritten. Stunned, I still questioned my tears. Did I know Glenn? No. Sound-clue– annoying sound of straw for last drop of over-priced tequila. Thoughts wavered. Yes. I knew Glenn. We met beyond horizons of logical space, between the darkest lines of prose and poems, in the comfort of common beliefs, under the moon…. and on the moon. I met him when the seed of a poem lay dormant in my heart.

It is my pleasure to host Prosery at dVerse Poets Pub. Doors open at 3 p.m. EST.

The line we are including in our prose is from a poem by Valsa George

“The seed of a poem lay dormant in my heart” – “Winged Words”

Big Words

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Papa don’t preach
I’ve managed forty years without you
the diligent daddy lessons
presented punctililously, with
fancy words like “indubitably”

Papa don’t preach
I’ve lived a good life
not the one you dreamed but
one forged from the voids
you left when you were here
and when you were gone

They told me “your daddy loves you”
as you laid there dying
“your daddy is proud of you”
as they laid you to rest
I say I have my daddy’s hands
and my mother’s heart
I say I didn’t dance with my father
or I don’t remember

I remember steel grey eyes
tenebrific, acheronian
longing for something
I’ll never know

Puman is our host for Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub. She has asked us to write about fathers and include at least three song titles from a given list. You can join in here.

Note: Today I turn 62. I was 22 when I lost my father to a heart attack. He was 48. He liked big words.

Between Frames

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before me, colours bleed
like ancient ink
soaking papyrus skies

persimmon sits, shiftless
when did you boldly gush
against apocalyptic orange?

time is muted, cloud-muffled
I strain to see movement
but you are still to the naked eye
I must wait
sunsets speak slowly

Sunsets over Las Cruces, New Mexico – M.Beauchamp
Sunsets over Las Cruces, New Mexico – M.Beauchamp

We are adding the word “shift” or a derivative to our 44 word poems.

Join us at dVerse Poets Pub for Quadrille Monday.

Doors open at 3 p.m. EST

Birthday Blessing

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are you a gift?      
my little chickadee
wings, pillow soft
flit-flutter beating
be-stilling my heart

touch down
with a pin-prick patter
tiny claws tickle my palm
your feather belly begs
for a gentle stroke

all dressed for dinner
black-capped, black bib
fancy little fellow
you stare at me in wonder
between pecks and nibbles

I stare at you in awe
blessed by your presence
lost in your charm
you are a gift
my little chickadee

For today’s Poetics, Ingrid has shared poems of gratitude and asked us to “write a poem about a special gift you have received at some time in your life.” Feel free to join in with us over at dVerse Poets Pub. Last year on my birthday, I asked my son to take me to a provincial park, to a special spot where visitors can feed the chickadees. For me, it was a most memorable gift of nature.

International Flight

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Today the sun takes our winter weary souls for a drive along the river. The scenery alternates between an eclectic array of waterfront homes and narrow sections where the water laps at the edges of the road. Just before the gravel dock, around the familiar curve, there is a small parking lot. Tall, naked trees stand stoic against the shoreline, their lanky limbs reaching over the banks. Despite the sun-sparkle of rippling waves, the surface of the river is still mosaic. Jagged ice islands gently sway, randomly tapping each other. A few ducks paddle bravely between them. It is January, again.

Then we see him. Like royalty and in true raptor form, he pumps his wings with slow, powerful beats. Gnarly talons cast ominous shadows below. His pure white head appears angelic but his deadly hooked beak says otherwise. Tiny birds scatter. We watch him scope the ice, laser focused. Patient. Swooping across the river without a passport from one country to another.

mallard ducks under

scavenger knows no boundaries

cross-border trade

A haibun for Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub. Grace is our host. Join us!

Spirit Bird

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Image: Michelle Beauchamp

he arrives at dusk

fearless of nightfall

holding / space

between sun-starved winter days

and fate of sleepless nights

time flakes, falls like snow

boundaries of worlds weaken

I soak in tints of twilight

de-icing darker thoughts

they melt in the glow

of scarlet feathers

For dVerse Poets Pub.

It is my pleasure to be your host for Quadrille Monday as we share poems of 44 words.

The given word is “ice” or a derivative.

Doors open at 3 p.m. EST


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Today the sky is blah-grey. The epic storm that delayed our Christmas will be easily forgotten. There is a cold front lingering but I am numb to the nip of winter.

We pack away large boxes of decorations and carry the balsam fir tree to the curb. It is still green, still thriving through it all. I pluck the uneaten gumdrops from the candy tree I playfully put together a few days earlier. They feel heavier now, like my heart.

This new year slips in without recognition. Time has barely shuffled past the twenty-seventh. We rearrange the furniture back to its original setting….before Christmas, before the storm. I collect the holiday cards displayed on the window sill, leaving only one, signed with love from my mother-in-law. It will sit here for awhile.

no calendar for death

december takes another breath

angel finds her wings

A haibun for dVerse Poets Pub in response to Kim’s prompt, ‘Fireworks and a Dripping Tap”.

My Winter

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where are you, my winter?

with your warrior winds

whipping on waves

candy coated tree limbs

I remember rosy red cheeks

against bleached white hills

magic carpets spinning sideways

sopping mittens, caked in snow

silence of snowflakes on tongues

screams of glee, toes numb

It’s Quadrille time over at dVerse Poets Pub. Write a poem of any style, exactly 44 words, not including the title. It must contain the word “candy” or a derivative of the word. It ‘s my pleasure to be your host today.

Other Side of Sunsets

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paint me a hazy shade of winter

colour me in winter things

I’ve heard your sunshine

smooth like legato but

more like cold weather blues

heart-bass beating with

tinkling of frozen tears

a muffled melody

trapped under ice

gift me withered roses from snow

tie them up in ribbons of your grief

for me to unravel, like a winter’s tale

I see your pain


on the other side of sunsets

heavy footprints in the snow

oh honey

…… let it go

Lillian is hosting Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub where we are blending some wintry music titles into our muse. She has given us many to choose from. I chose the following…

A Hazy Shade of Winter (Simon and Garfunkel)
A Winter’s Tale (Queen — and also The Moody Blues)”
Cold Weather Blues (Muddy Waters)
Footprints in the Snow (Bill Monroe)
Let It Go (Idina Menzel)
Roses from Snow (Emmylou Harris)
Trapped Under Ice (Metallica)
Winter Things (Ariana Grande)


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He put his coffee down, gazed into her hazel eyes and asked again, “Am I a part of your heart?

“She looked down at her undisturbed croissant, pulling a few flakes from its edges. Without looking up, she said,

“I can’t breathe.”

He reached over the tattered diner table and placed his weathered hands around hers. They felt like silk. As always. He ran his fingers over the promise ring. The sun managed to dazzle the small diamonds through the streaky restaurant window.

“I don’t understand”, he whispered.

She slowly pulled her hands from his. One tear escaped, rolling over freckles to her plate.

“I feel confined between rigid walls of commitment. I don’t live in the black and white, but here… “

She paused, stared emptily at her ring, then into the pain of his eyes.

“Here, in the tender grey, I swim undisturbed.”

Prosery for dVerse Poets Pub.

Lisa has gifted us the line “Here in the tender grey, I swim undisturbed” taken from the poem “In Sullivan County” by Celia Dropkin. “Prosery” consists of prose, no longer than 144 words and must include a given line from a poem. Feel free to join in.

Oh Flicker of Fallen Star

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blossoming against the blue

of broody skies

truth will always rise

to find you

so……simply…… b-r-e-a-t-h-e

into sea salt dreams

change is brewing

stranded on the last slice of sea ice

these are the things they don’t tell us

you too will find your way

the sun will rise again

and I will be your trellis

dVerse Poets Pub

Laura has asked us to create a poem using end lines of previous written poems.



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you stole me from Tuesday

swept me away to Wednesday

now here we are

sipping on a cocktail

of present, past and future

when we sat, swaddled

under the cherry moon that

hovered over shadow-painted mesas

I forgot my battlefield earth

and the sound of my aching heart

do you know the color of night?

I think you do …

ice-blue hues of frozen time

blush-strokes, shades of bliss

undertones of you

shining through

Written in response to Lillian’s Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub. She has challenged us to include in our poems, the names of movies that have won the Golden Raspberry Awards. There are 13 to choose from. I used the following – Cocktail, Under the Cherry Moon, Battlefield Earth, Color of Night, and Shining Through.

Lillian has also asked those who frequent our virtual pub to fill out a questionnaire regarding Open Link Night LIVE. Your input is appreciated. Thanks!

Haibun: Of Soup and Mush

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October sits between dying days of summer and winter’s icy breath. The maple tree in the front yard was busy last night, carpeting the lawn in retro shades of green, gold, orange and red. It reminds me of my childhood home in the 70’s where life was good. I walk across the leaves to hear the crunch and fill the bird feeder. The sun slips between tree shadows, dazzling where it can. I scan the herb garden for soup ingredients. The painted rock still sits a few feet away. “Every Child Matters”. I think about the “mush” that was served in residential schools and rationed rotten vegetables passed off as meals. I pick the last of my basil.

On the stove, scents of rosemary, thyme and oregano mingle and begin to fill the kitchen. I add the basil, give it a stir, poking gently at fresh carrots, zucchini and roma tomatoes. Contemplating whimsical additions, I open the fridge to find wilting spinach. It will do.

stolen in September

hearts descend in shades of dreams

truth will always rise

It’s Haibun Monday at dVerse Poets Pub.

The theme is soup and I am your host.


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without solid reason to
keep track of time
I burn my days over
hot coals of contrition
watching the embers
die like dreams

it seems…..

we are sempiternity
always in the making
or taking
are we ever done?
is it enough to
simply breathe?

For Quadrille Monday over at dVerse Poets Pub. Merril is our host and she has offered us the word “track” to include in our 44 word poems.

Heart Rhythms

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How is one September different from the others?   Rebellious red maple leaves glow between the green….as usual for these early days of fall. A familiar sky hovers in cornflower blue. A monarch flitter- flutters over black eyed suzies, gathering nectar for the epic flight. I take in his beauty but he is no stranger. As rehearsed, the potted purple petunias, bow gracefully out of summer. Like every year, I pinch off shriveled blooms as if there is hope for more. Three sisters soup simmers in the crock pot once again. The sun still flaunts like June.

But on this day, the fifteenth day of September, a handsome young man with eyes like mine, takes a beautiful young woman, places his hands in hers and says, “I do”. I think the birds sang a little sweeter. Perhaps the breeze was scented in sweet alyssum, tousling her golden curls. I am certain a slivered piece of moon peeked from light years away.

september elopes

from autumn algorithms

love, keeper of seeds

It’s Haibun Monday at dVerse Poets Pub. We have a guest host, Xenia Tran and she has asked us to “create a haibun about September and a special moment you experienced during this month or are looking forward to.”


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it was all vanilla
no Tuscan sunsets oozing
over edges of Krakow nights or
glimmers of ginger and lemongrass

she prayed to garam masala gods
begging for murals of flavors
to touch her tongue
to touch her heart

days gnawed at her so gently
she let them feast
as she slumbered deep
into sea salt dreams

For Poetics: Spicing it Up.

Merril is our host and has given us some spicy words to play with!

Seeds of Childhood

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My playground was a nearby field – dirt trails, apple orchards, small hills, tall grasses. Caterpillars, beetles, grasshoppers and ladybugs were my playmates. I’d catch them, cup them gently between my hands, observe every detail before releasing them. I remember monarchs, the sun catching their wings, landing unpredictably on plumes of blinding yellow goldenrod. I remember warmth of summer on my arms, my fair skin turning blissful brown and counting freckles on my nose. Most of all, I remember the milkweed. I was fascinated with plucking one, peeling open the neon green pod to feel the silk of seeds. Beyond fascination….perhaps an obsession.

I want to plant milkweed and memories into protective soils, bring back the monarchs, save them from their demise. I’d like, too, to plant the sweet alyssum that smells like honey and peace. I want to feed the butterflies and my soul.

Prosery for Sanaa’s prompt at dVerse Poets Pub. Write a piece of flash fiction or other prose up to or exactly 144 words. It must include the given line from a selected poem. Sanaa has chosen the line “I’d like, too, to plant the sweet alyssum that smells like honey and peace” from “What I would like to grow in my Garden” by Katherine Reigel.

Photo taken yesterday on a walk through a local conservation area.


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What is this wasteland, this dormiveglia

where slumber sleeps and wakefulness burbles?

I am aliferous, floating like the floss of milkweed

caught between comatose clouds and

the warm rush of kindled crosswinds

colours? they don’t exist here

only the phosphenes as I rub my eyes

but I remember the feuillimort of autumn

and subtle scents of solandis

arms flailing, I sail sideways, longing to

fall into the open arms of consciousness

while sandman waves from above

here, under wayward stars, I wait

to nestle in quilts of haimish reveries or

wake to the gleaming edges of reality

Written for Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub – “There’s a Word for That

We are stirring a few uncommon words into our muse.

I am your host today. Doors open at 3 p.m. EST


Haibun: Unfazed

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We call him “Chippy” although we know there is more than one. Chipmunks live, work and thrive beneath our yard, front and back. He likes to scurry across the narrow base of my wooden fence. In and out, he races between alternating planks of vulnerability and safety, darkness and light.

Now he sits, perched upon the corner of the aging cement porch, frozen in sunlight, meditating. This is his rooftop. Inches below him, where a piece of the old porch has crumbled, is the doorway to his home. He is miniature against the draping peach begonias, overgrown shrubs and my massive maple. A few leaves, curled and brittle have begun their descent in today’s soft breeze. I watch through the window to see how long it takes for him to flinch. He is transfixed, eyes upon the world. With his fortress close by, he stands guard.

beneath the same sun

we bury thoughts of Autumn

I share my shelter

Join us at 3 p.m. EST for Haibun Monday

dVerse Poets Pub

I am pleased to be your host as we consider the theme of shelter.

Against the Blue

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Image: Mike Scully

By Luna’s light, her scars become memoirs
freezing frames, she cautiously thaws moments
passion longs to peek between the lines

At dawn she stirs stories in the sunrise
it’s where words morph in shades of marigold
blossoming against the blue of broody skies

For dVerse Poets Pub, MTB (Meeting the Bar).

Laura is our host and has challenged us to an interesting form to play with in which we must choose a line from given poems andwrite a stanza(s) taking each word as the start of each successive line i.e. the first word begins the first line, the second begins the second and so on. I chose the line “by freezing passion at its blossoming” from the Neil Carpathios’ poem, “The Kiss”.

Port and Starboard

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you are wind-driven
all trumped-up
on erroneous energies
captured only to collide

truth stands still as rock
no need to move or prove

I watch the white caps
curl, gaining strength and
wonder when your fallacies
will shatter like the waves

Sarah is hosting Poetics:

The four elements

dVerse Poets Pub

Photo: yesterday evening at the beach

His Tree

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grief screams, then hides, in hearts it creeps
we wait for silent buds to speak
secrets that should never be
lay deep beneath canopies
angel blossoms restless, stir
think of you the way you were
grief screams, then hides in hearts it creeps
we wait for silent buds to speak

Grace is hosting MTB at dVerse Poets Pub, bringing us the “Octelle”, created by Emily Romano.

Un-Whirled View

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she doesn’t drink from
the half-glass-full
would rather choke
on jagged truths
feel the cold-rush rumble
before the storm

she plucks pitch-black petals
from her garden heart
offers them up in bouquets

she types eulogies
in her sleep
for loved ones
not yet passed

For this week’s Quadrille at dVerse Poets Pub.

De has given us the word “type” or any form of the word to include in our 44 word poems.


Edge of Summer

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squandered moments of July
slip subito through my fingers,
time personifies, gets hungry
and I am its prey
its always been this way

blight has taken the tomatoes
again, spring dreams deadened
and withering herbs will get
more than their wish
tonight, torrential style

“dark and foreboding”, he says
as he gambles on grilling
under gun metal skies
and here I lie, glaring at August
daring me into the fall

should I be moved by hues of gold
embrace the turn of nature’s path?
I resist, holding fast, for
Autumn’s shifty ways have
pulled me off the edge of summer

It’s Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub (3 p.m. EST)

Join us to learn more about the Lunar Codex.….and link up a poem!

This one was inspired by Tuesday’s Poetics with Sanaa Rizvi.

Late Night Snack

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give me your half-baked ideas

I’ll put them back in for awhile

start the coffee buzz buzz buzz

while we wait…..

for both to percolate

I am more of a cool Britannia

than a sugar plum fairy

be wary

change is brewing

Written for Lillian’s Poetic Prompt “Make Mine a Double Dipper” where she has asked us to incorporate some very unique flavours into our poetry.

Join us at dVerse Poets Pub!


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we walk, silent
under half-moon sky
rain wraps itself
in melancholy clouds
elusive as tears

thunder lurks skin-deep
muted, clawing
I see talon shadows
of your grief

starlight is gone
from the cosmos
and your eyes

I lift layers of you
to find you

Its Quadrille time over at dVerse Poets Pub. Write a poem of 44 words, including the word, “wrap”.

It is my pleasure to be your host today. Doors open at 3 p.m. EST.

Moon Trippin’

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Supermoon sent us scrambling to the nearest park for open ground. Cameras in hand, we had visions of something extraordinary. The awe came when I did not focus on or with my camera but stood with mind silenced, tracing her perfection. I imagined some funky God of Geometry with a giant compass and extremely steady hands, carving our cosmic muse into carbon paper skies. He didn’t know her beauty until the asteroids and meteorites chiseled her barren cheeks and the sun dazzled her silly.

We heard the unmistakable howl of a coyote in the nearby woods. Believing in the myth added to the ambience.  I became lost in the mystery of moon tides and the depths of craters. I wondered where I stood with her in astrological terms, being born on the first day of the whole zodiac. I am clearly a beginning…to something.  Her porcelain face revealed no secrets. With fuzzy photos, we turned to go home. She followed,  her golden light gushing over darkened streets.  I drank her energy, let her sparkle my spirit one more time, just in case I would not see her Supermoon magic again.

sun in Scorpio

stars of Aries kiss Luna

November clouds drift

Sharing an old but appropriate one

for Open Link Night -LIVE

at dVerse Poets Pub (3 p.m. EST)

We are “moon trippin” after an announcement that our 2017 Anthology – Chiaroscuro, Darkness and Light has been chosen to be included in the Polaris Collection, a time capsule of art, music and writings scheduled to be sent to the moon in 2024!!

You can read all about the project here. Click on BOOKS, then POETRY COLLECTIONS and scroll to find us.

Tell Me Another One

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“Another”. A good word if you’re talking about cookies. Another time, another place, another day. But don’t let it slide too easily off your tongue and numb your heart. Its a good word if you realize its potential for change as much as its ability to disengage, desensitize, and distract.

It has a way of erasing things. Precious things.

Another crop killing flood? Sure. You can’t just take Mother Nature by the shoulders and shake some sense into her.

“Another”school shooting? No. Not acceptable. Go ahead. Give me another excuse. Cry me another river about your selfish “rights”. Push me down another path of pansy-ass petals to the land of positivity. Toss another meme upon the media canvass to justify your lack of action.

Why do they trade scruples for shrapnel? Logic for innocent lives?

These are the things they don’t tell us.

Prosery for dVerse Poets Pub.

Lisa is hosting and has shared a riveting poem, “Notes on Ulvade”

Girl du Jour (author unknown)

The given line is the last line in my prose.



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well she thought it was good

night swallowing her day

time vamping to night

light dripping like honey….

dew drop diamonds at dawn

she yawns at the sun

burns her finger on a freshly lit cigarette

hot! dog at her feet, never under

estimates her pain precisely

she kisses his curly ear

aching for one more life


Having fun with compound words. Lillian is our super-host.

Come join us at dVerse Poets Pub.



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she stands on life’s ledge

her only hope, heaven

stars, her only light

she slips deep into

desolate seas, pitch-black

her eyes become ink

her mouth, silenced

the salt, stingless

over open wounds

she is not sad

sadness begins

sadness ends

she is static

It’s Quadrille time over at dVerse Poets Pub. What’s a quadrille? It is a poem of exactly 44 words, not including the title but it must include a given word or derivative of the word. Today the word is “static”. You can join in too.


Haibun: Incoming

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I sit curled into the end of my couch with my tea, still too hot for sipping. The curtain is pulled back a few inches, just enough for me to view the morning show of winged wonders. I’ve come to visually identify many and now my interest turns to their unique sounds, their songs, the music that fills the Spring air. The robin has a few up his sleeve but none on my favourite play list. The chickadees have my heart with their “chick -a -dee- dee- dee” and whistles of “fee-bee, fee-bee” in their black and white tuxedos. I take my first sip of tea and savour the memory of feeding them from my hands. comes “Woody”. Whether downy or red-bellied, I ponder whether a woodpecker is truly a songbird but his percussion cannot be ignored. They amuse me tapping on the feeder for invisible bugs, finally settling for seeds.

My ceramic mug still feels warm. I sink into thoughts of fight or flight, watching sparrows sparring in mid air before landing on the ledge of the feeder. In contrast, they sing a joyful composition of “cheeps” and “chirrups”. I pull a plush blanket around my chilled ankles and wait for the next performer. The bird feeder sways, empty. The silence feels like an unwanted intermission at a concert. Intuition tells me the king will arrive soon. Yes. The cardinal appears in his royal red suit, and matching crown. His mate is only seconds behind him, looking a bit chubby but stunning in her fancy feathered hat and vibrant orange lipstick. I wonder if somewhere she carries a purse. Together they will sing a glorious duet, but not today as their beaks are brimming with sunflower seeds. Now, red is replaced by yellow, ablaze. One incoming golden finch is quickly followed by another. My tea sits cold.

minstrels of the morning

trilling softly, stealing time

we sip on sunshine

For Haibun Monday at dVerse Poets Pub. Frank is our host. Join us!

соняшник (Sunflower)

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have you seen your light?

have you seen the way it

slips through the crevices

of mournful minds?

you bring the dawn in

murkiness of night

spread your weary wings

to take flight

fearless through the fire

you have left me sun-soaked

surrounded in seeds of hope

For dVerse OLN Live. Lillian is our host.

Image: Michelle Beauchamp

Fairy Wishes

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Image: Vika Muse @get.muse

I wish for you a garden

a garden full of grace

where the earth smells sweet

hints of hollyhock and camomile

I wish for you a pair of wings

that flutter soft like baby’s heart

but fly feral through the storm

I wish for you a sun-baked sky

where rain drizzles daydreams

and clouds kiss your eyes

I wish for you an emerald stream

where fellow fairies dip their toes

with tiny tea cups

sipping slow on apricot tea

I wish for you a haven

feather landing, velveteen

rosy cheeks, pillow dreams

where it seems there

is no darkness

only light

just hold on tight

For this week’s Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub

It is my pleasure to feature “Vika Muse”, a Ukrainian digital artist, who despite the despair and chaos in her country continues to shine through her artistry. She has kindly shared her work with us as inspiration. We are hoping to share a little light between her beautiful work and our poetry. We welcome you to join in.

You can find “Vika Muse” on Instagram @get.muse

and at

This poem is dedicated to Vika Muse.

Prosery: Nature’s Conversations

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Sun hovers closely, almost obnoxiously over the seemingly bashful plants. The tiny but glorious sprouts take cover in the decay.

Sun: Wake up and rise to the season! Slither your way through the damp of dead leaves and bloom!

Crocus Bulb: I will not.

Sun: But the bees are winter-weary and waiting. The old maple is budding in neon green. Do you not hear the serenade of songbirds? The rain is barely a sprinkle. I promise.

Crocus Bulb: Talk what you please of future spring and sun-warm’d sweet tomorrow. I will remain here in earth’s embrace.

Sun: I know your tender shoots have poked the soil. The scent of your saffron has teased the wind. You are a such a tenacious little tuber. What is it you wait for?

Crocus Bulb: I wait to be seen.

Sun nods and slips slowly into the cumulus.

Sanaa is the lovely host over at

dVerse Poets Pub.

We are writing “Prosery” that includes the line, “Talk what you please of future spring and sun-warm’d sweet tomorrow.” – from the poem A Daughter of Eve by Christina Rossetti.

I Fear

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I fear that we have failed

I fear every mistake unrecognized and repeated

I fear every moment squandered

I fear for the waste of intelligence on gain and pain

I fear compassion dumbed down to tiny yellow hugging emojis

I fear the death of humanity

I fear the lies, the fabrications suffocating our nations

I fear desensitization

I fear the power of one evil twist flipping the switch

I fear malice, so gracefully dressed in good will

I fear centipedes, freeways and losing the ones I love

I fear the silence of words unspoken, hearts unopened

I fear robots knocking at my door to deliver my mail…. or kill me

I fear for all I have not done, for all I have not given

I fear we had the gift of saving each other but we didn’t open it

I fear there is more and

I fear we will never know it

For Poetics at

dVerse Poets Pub.

Sarah has given us a rhetorical device, anaphora to play with in our poetry.

Your Hat

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your hat is heavy

you garnish it gracefully

in plumed purple

tints and tones of

stoic scarlet, it’s

silky silver lining

soothes your soul

builds the wall you need

but I see….

ancient stratums

precariously piled

in colours of rain

and pain, pearl grey

layers of loss

balancing high above

un-spilled tears, the

broad-brim hides nothing

my friend

your eyes hold the weight

We are trying on hats today at dVerse Poets Pub. Pay homage to a hat in a poem, yours or someone else’s. Metaphorically, we’ve worn the hats!! Use one as your muse OR use a hat to symbolize something more abstract. Hope you can join us for Poetics! Doors open at 3 p.m. EST.


Prosery: Adrift

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The old screen door creaked as it slowly opened, then slammed shut by the wind. He scrambled from the kitchen and wrapped his arms around her. She was completely oblivious to her bare, chilled arms and the tousled twist of silver hair resting across her face. He cradled her head in his hands and kissed her forehead.

“Where did you go, my sweet heart?”, his eyes pooling at the corners.

Her grey-blues gazed past his, far beyond the walls of the quaint cottage.

“I guess… I wandered? I wandered lonely as a cloud.”

He led her to the sofa and wrapped her favourite afghan around her shoulders. He tilted her face gently towards his.

“You are not a cloud. I cannot…I will not let you wander, my love.” She didn’t reply. She didn’t need to.

The confusion in her eyes was screaming.

Written for Prosery at dVerse Poets Pub. Lillian is our host for the prompt and has offered us the line “I wandered lonely as a cloud” from the poem, “I Wander Lonely as a Cloud” by William Wordsworth. Include it in your prose/flash fiction of 144 words of less.


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my country

smorgasbord of diversity, democracy

pride without pompousness

but now?

horns blast in choruses of “me”

some take a nibble of the pie

boorish banquet begins

gorging, throwing away the bones of logic

don’t they know?

hatred will eat your heart for breakfast

It’s Quadrille time at dVerse Poets Pub! Doors open at 3 p.m. EST.

Write a poem of 44 words, not including the title that includes the word, “nibble” in some form. It is my pleasure to be your host!

Not the prettiest of poems, but neither are the current events in Ottawa.



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I awake to the white, weary

my thoughts cocooning inward

stone-cold lace cascading

almost too pretty

to cover the pain

but there you are

still sifting for seeds

through winter’s wrath

not a shiver, or sliver of doubt

that the sun will shine again

A quadrille which is an original form from dVerse Poets Pub.

Merril is our host and has chosen the word “shiver” for our 44 word poems.

Photos from my front yard.

All Because of a “Crupleprat”/ Stealing a Nonsense Word

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A crupleprat, a crupleprat

what do you do with a crupleprat?

poke it gently? kick it hard?

does it live out in the yard?

is it wide? is it short?

does it fizzle? does it snort?

where’d you find it?

tell me please, will it really

make me sneeze?

a crupleprat, a crupleprat

is it just a spoiled brat?

for hiding it’s identity

in all of this nonsensity

a crupleprat, a crupleprat

Bjorn just bought a crupleprat

I hope its friendly, not a louse

I hope it doesn’t eat his house

OH this is silly, that I know

so now dear poets

I will go!

I was a little too curious about the “crupleprat” in Bjorn’s poem, but he kindly set me straight in this one.

Tale of the Troglodyte

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There was once was a long-bearded troglodyte

hidden deep in the caves of Brumbalyte

the story they say…he made salamander souffles

and served them up fancy for socialites

But the ogres were all in a quibble

for they wished they could savor a nibble

the troglodyte paused, and rose to the cause

feeding trolls and foresty fibbles

Now he sings to the beat of his whisk

as the ogres throw him a kiss

and sometimes, they say he jiggles and sways

dancing wildly into the mist

Bjorn has us writing Nonsense Poetry over at dVerse Poets Pub.

Doors open at 3 p.m. EST.



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she wasn’t fond of crows

or the caw of his voice

overbearing, cocksure

pecking at her speechless

with his eyes

yet she hand fed him

sacred seeds of her soul

one by one until

it lay dormant

cold pressed and hardened

he foraged still, for scraps

while she fell into the light

and herself again

his metallic iridescence muted

raven ways fading far

from her memory

but crows, they say

never forget a face

Happy New Year! I’m your host for our first Open Link Night of 2022.

Feel free to join us at dVerse Poets Pub.


Nothin’ But Blue Skies

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you have a way of tinseling my pain

black and white “poke”-a- dots

over my grey

but grey is where I take my breaths

where I hurt and heal

how I feel

when I’m not juggling gimcracks

rainbow daggers

you carelessly toss my way

“Tinsel” is the word to include in your quadrilles this week.

Join us at dVerse Poets Pub. Doors open at 3 p.m. EST.

Mend Me

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I have written from ripples of rivers

furrowed bark of the oak

chiseled words from sandstone

gifted to me from the gleam

of Eagle’s wings

when the stars speak, I take notes

translating to my liking

the drab of dead leaves still

finds a way to impress

time and loss

they have punctured holes

in my soul

but I still patch them

with poetry

It’s OPEN LINK NIGHT at dVerse Poets Pub, your opportunity to share ONE poem for our reading pleasure and the read the work of fellow poets. Doors open at 3 p.m. EST. Hope you can join us!

Holding Space

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Thalia exits the 4runner and begins the copper trail to Red Rock. It’s been a year. Some believe that’s enough…. as if grief has a clock or a season. She feels the shifting weight in the small wooden box, moving it slowly from side to side.

It’s not him. He was made of laughter. His eyes danced when he spoke. His aura so large and colourful, it would never fit into a box. She wonders… where does death fit? Do you squeeze it between smiles and hollow condolences? Do you fold it, file it, take it out only for reference?

Perched on a cliff, the sunlit sandstone warms the back of her thighs. Her hands clutch the box. What are the roots that clutch? What branches grow out of this stony rubbish?

There is nothingness here, yet it is something to hold onto forever.

“Prosery” for dverse Poets Pub. I am your host today. Doors open at 3 p.m. EST. Join us in writing a short piece of prose no more than 144 words excluding the title. It must include the following line from T.S. Eliot’s poem, “The Waste Land”.

What are the roots that clutch? What branches grow out of this stony rubbish?


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i pour a little hope in my tea

because it tastes like cream

the stillness is sweet

but loneliness

it lingers at the back of my throat

ho hum hints of bitter melon

i get lost, gazing at the garden

summer is still breathing

between ruby grape tomatoes

desperately clinging for life

on withering vines

the birds rejoice at the feeder

serenading me to breakfast

but i am only hungry for words

mellow conversations that

taste like cherimoya

i chew on my thoughts

they taste like burnt toast

and almond butter

We are incorporating fruit into our poetry at dVerse Poets Pub.

I’ll be your host. Doors open at 3 p.m. EST.


Just a Prick

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Claire adjusted herself in the wheelchair, finding a slightly more comfortable position. She tucked her wavy brown hair behind her ears and secured her mask. The new hip was a blessing even if it was a year late and the hospital experience was chaos. Fortunately her room was on the west side and she didn’t have to tolerate the noise of hostile protesters below. A perky porter approached, raising her eyebrows to smile.

“Your lucky day! Glad to be going home?”

“Absolutely”, replied Claire as she texted her husband, confirming pick up.

“Ignore the absurdity as we exit”, said the porter. “One of these days, I swear I will lose patience….then my job. “

Claire grinned under wrap. “So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm?”

“Nah”, said the porter. “I won’t stoop to it”.

The double doors opened to mindless roars.

Ingrid is hosting Prosery at dVerse Poets Pub. She has shared with us the life and work of William Blake. We must include the line “So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.” from his poem, The Chimney Sweeper.

little bones

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little bones
stood strong 
ran freely
prairie grass-tickled
sun-blessed faces

little bones
danced in regalia
as fathers drummed 
beautiful native tongue
rising across the plains

little bones
angled softly into
mother's arms 
treasured gift from Creator

little bones
stolen, broken
tears rushed
spirits crushed

little bones rest
wait for the light
wings of love
take flight

For dVerse Poets Pub. Lisa is our host. Write a 44 word poem (excluding the title) but including the word "stand". 

***Notes:  Here in Canada we are asked to post the 24 hour National Crisis Line for those who may be triggered by the recount of Indian Residential Schools, so I will start with that. 

It would take over 5,000 quadrilles to even begin to express the pain, shame and anger that so many of us feel towards the continuous discoveries and recoveries of precious Indigenous children. Having worked in a Native American daycare, it hurts my heart. Residential "schools" were prisons. Children were stolen from loving families. They were abused physically, emotionally, sexually and spiritually by priests, nuns, ministers and administrators.  This took place over a span of more than 150 years in Canada and the U.S.A.  Innocent children as young as three years old were forcibly taken from loving parents, had their traditional hair cut and stripped of their own clothing. Their spoken language was prohibited and punished. They were undernourished, under-nurtured and many never saw their parents again. Many families were never told what happened to their children. It is shocking to think that anyone during my lifetime was capable of such evil, especially under the semblance of any 'religion" or government. Generations of Indigenous families have been impacted from the abuse and loss. Residential "School" survivors suffer today and inter generational trauma moves forward without proper acknowledgement and assistance. 
The TRUTH has been ignored and hidden by church and government, but the voices of these little bones can be heard. 
Let's listen, learn and stand up. 
I hope you find the time to research and read the stories of Residential "School" survivors. Many of them have only now found the courage to speak about their painful experiences. To evolve we must be educated.

Plight of Persephone

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she hides in summer’s heart

wrapped in rays of sun

and the velvet of plum petals

she sifts ocher-orange saffron

between her fingers

lingering safely from

Hades den and season’s end

she slumbers deep, dreams

of stigmas dried,

forever deadened

but autumn returns

petals lose grip

walls tumble

and one beloved soul

returns to the underworld

It’s Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub. Share ONE poem of your choice.

I am happy to be your host. Doors open at 3 p.m. EST.

This offering is a late response to Sarah’s poetic prompt,Persephone”.


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you scatter your eggshells perfectly

pique purples, buried blues

a mosaic masterpiece

leaving no spaces in between

I picture myself featherweight

my feet barely brushing ground

juking around every jagged chard

gracefully landing between your


there I strum

you forget your famed fortress

This week is the10th anniversary of dVerse Poets Pub!!

Co-founder, Brian Miller is our host and we are thrilled to have him return to help us celebrate. He has offered us the word “juke” for our 44 word quadrilles. The prompt is open all week. Hope you can join in .


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does she remember love?

the taste of chamomile

or colour of sky blushing?

did the clouds burst all at once

or trickle with each taunting poke

until she lay saturated,

unable to feel the pain-drops

streaming down her face?

are sun-smudged days only dreams?

I am your host for the Quadrille at

dVerse Poets Pub.

We are working with the word “smudge”, blending it into our 44 word poems.

Doors open at 3 p.m. EST

His Name was Chankoowashtay (good road)

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His little bones have been secretly buried for years, alongside 215 other children, each with a name, unacknowledged, each with a story, untold. Mother Earth has quietly held him close. His mother has wept for years without closure. It was a September evening and he was helping his father clean the season’s first catch of salmon. She was inside the cabin, nursing their newborn daughter, softly singing in their native tongue. Hearing commotion, she ran outside to see armed men in uniform pushing her husband aside. Her screams echoed her young son’s as they carried him off.

She says time has not healed, only festered. Today, a gruesome discovery on the grounds of an old residential school is not the beginning. It is not the end. “Crucial to finding the way is this: there is no beginning or end.” Her heart aches not for apologys, but for honour, for peace.


For Merril’s prosery prompt, dVerse Poets Pub. The line she has chosen for us to include is quoted above, from Joy Harjo’s “A Map to the Next World”. It was a difficult task to stay within the 144 word maximum word count. This is a time of shock and shame in our country as a mass grave of 215 indigenous children was recently identified on the property of a Catholic run residential school in Kamloops, British Columbia. Many survivors of these schools in both Canada and the U.S. have been forever scarred from abuse and assimilation, with obvious effects flowing into generations to come.


rose coloured glasses

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when your sky fell

swaddling you breathless

in the blackness

August sun rubbing

salt in your wounds

you laid still

while fools fumbled

reckless with your heart

grief is like a monster

you wear on your face

and they run like you’re godzilla

but you were a flower once

now dying in front of them

petal by petal and in ways

they can’t fathom

still they pick…

I feel for you, I feel not(hing)

I feel for you, I feel not(hing)

“so you round up the usual suspects”

clueless, gutless,

they don’t care less

but none of them fit the mold

they keep painting you in pink

as your pigment pales

on the other side

of rose coloured glasses

I am your host for Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub.

We are writing poems that include a movie quote.

“so you round up the usual suspects” – Casablanca, 1942

Doors open at 3 p.m. EST