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One Photo

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One photo

Frantically collected

From the poised and piled

As tornado warnings proceed

The sirens repeat


One photo

Treasured among smiles, scattered

Corners curled and tattered

Taken before digital days

This face, irreplaceable


One photo

Made of thirty six Christmases

And one million memories

Warmed in the palm of my hand

Rain quickens, pelting against windows


One photo

Could easily take flight tonight

Trailing the tempest

Clutching you closer to my heart

Stay with me in this storm

My brother



Written for Sarah’s Poetic prompt, “Mindfulness and Poetry” where she has asked us to choose a small object that could fit in the palm of our hand. Explore it, write freely about it and form a poem. In light of recent devastation northeast of here, we were under serious tornado warnings in my area tonight. I scrambled to choose “what is important” and take it to the basement. Easier said than done. Thankfully, what could have been, never was. We are all safe and sound.



Urban Undertones

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This town begs to be a city. Eclectic shops come and go. Dreams blossom and wilt. Still it swallows me whole sometimes. Just like it did when I was seventeen.  A few high rises line the river offering penthouse status, sparkles of blue and a clear view of another country. Seagulls circle over small boutiques, flea markets and the latest hang out for organic cuisine. I smirk at the English pub I used to frequent often with friends. The raw acoustic sound wraps itself around me like a familiar hug.  The old theater, now a venue for live performances is lit up like Vegas in vintage cinema letters. I pass the art gallery, a martini bar and a retro music store before finally reaching the library. This is the last stop before the scenery becomes a bit dicey. Or… you can make your way to the chemical plants, where this town hides the best of its big city lights.


I was small under fall of leaves

Colossal in the spring of youth

Shadowed in wake of winter

Summer sun, my only light





This week, we are taking our haibun to the city with a contemporary approach to the form. Bjorn shares all the details over at dVerse.  Hope to meet up with you there!


Wither to Wonder

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After a brief visit, we leave my hometown perched upon a hill, frozen in time. I try to chip away at memories of popsicle stained tongues, sun burnt shoulders, band aids and bare feet tickled by the greenest of grass. Life was a picnic. A party for so many different occasions. Flowers were power, carefully doodled on duo tangs and notepads during lengthy telephone calls.

It is quiet now, the screech of laughter muffled by blankets of time and loss. In my garden, I watch familiar spring breezes tousle the snow white petals of my daffodils. They stand stoically among furled fall leaves left to mulch. Content with the silence, I rake carefully around my forget me nots. An old flower pot slowly crumbles as if trying to blend in with earth’s decay. I run my hands through it.



Memories dormant

Trusting in perennials

Narcissus nostalgia


Written for dVerse ~Haibun Monday: Beauty in Decay

Bjorn has inspired us with the photography of Susan Judd.



Writing 201- Day 3

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     Her skin spoke in calligraphy, generic quotes of life and strength. She resented only one of them. Her freckles now faded, perhaps jaded by the intrusion of ink. Freckles are for kids, she thought, like tricks and treats and happier times. Her hands were covered in truth, fitting loosely over knuckles. This is where her stories were told of aging and waging wars with the world. Touching her face she felt the wind that whittled fine lines on canvass. She heard the words that chiseled deeper. She remembered the sun warming her soul, leaving golden hues on arms and legs. Slowly she traced the scar on her left wrist, caressing it back and forth as if to heal the pain that still remained. Her skin spoke of all she was.


Written for Writing 201 at The Daily Post where we were prompted to write about “skin”in the form of prose as well as adding some internal rhyme.

Image credit:


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You are only gone

If I forget you

That could never happen

My brother, my friend

For memories, like oxygen

Breathe life again

Inhaling your laughter

Exhaling joy

You are only gone

If I let you go

But I don’t have to

Because flashbacks kindle the fire

Igniting hope

Warming my heart

And if my heart is warm

Then you are too.


In memory of my brother

who can still make me smile today.

~Oct. 28, 2000~

Maple Memories

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Maple Memories
Small maple syrup jug with non-functional loop...

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Maple syrup brings back sweet memories.

As a child, my grandparents were the only people I knew that bought the “real” maple syrup. It came in the most beautiful tin container covered with Canadian scenery.  I can still see it sitting  in  my grandparents’ pantry  in an orderly fashion next to the many other treasured cans and jars on the shelf. It looked so big. Or maybe I was just so small?

I remember sitting at their  50’s style kitchen table with it’s  shiny, chrome legs,  waiting patiently for my grandmother to pour the smooth, rich, liquid candy on top of my pumpkin pie. That’s right, I said pumpkin pie. It was a tradition in our family or so I realized after mentioning it to many people throughout my life and getting  the strangest looks. Trust me, it is delicious!  We also used it as a topping on vanilla ice cream.

The tradition continues. Last spring, my son tapped one thousand maple trees on an organic farm near Peterborough. Eight months later, he finally came home. He was busy, you see…..busy making the best maple syrup I’ve ever tasted .

It is pure sweetness, bringing back old memories and making new ones.

Maple syrup being prepared at the Kortright Co...

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Grades of Vermont maple syrup. From left to ri...

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Maple syrup houses

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