An aunt, once mine
by marriage,
yet closer to me than
if by blood, even after that
family connection was gone,
smiles as she asks why
I never visit. I cannot
deny the truth, though
it plays no part in this scene.
Time, the distance that
separates us, does not
exist here. She is long gone.
I saw her whenever possible,
yet, now that it’s impossible,
she stands before me.
I know I will miss her
when I wake, but I am thankful
she chose this moment
to visit, to remind me
she always saw me as family.
This is my response to Poetics – Dream Interpretations, the prompt from Sanaa at dVerse ~ Poets Pub that asks us to write a poem that interprets a dream.
Winter one-third over, and still, we wait. A featureless sky holds nothing, or a scattering of clouds soon to be nothing. Should snow fall, it would be such a miracle that angels would come down to lie on their backs and gaze back into the heavens and spread their wings to delight in the sensation of a novelty that was once a normal occurrence here, in mid-Missouri. Now, I am told, the occasional dusting of flakes that is gone by next day, rapid fluctuations of temperature having become the norm, is nothing like the heavier snowfalls that stayed on the ground all season, in days gone by.
My own memories are from
the greater part of my life spent within
New York, not far from the shore of
Lake Erie, where snow would fall for
hours, even days. And though times
have changed, as have weather patterns
around the world, winters there still see
school snow days with photos of
grandchildren beside a snowman
and videos of them making snow angels.
Dark skies may bring those snowfalls, but
the smiles and red cheeks on the faces of
those children in the crisp, cool air
are bright enough to rival the sun
as it finally breaks through the clouds.
Missouri may hold an advantage in
convenience during the winter, but I miss
the beauty of winter I knew in New York.
This poem is my response to Poetics: New Year Snow, the prompt from Kim at dVerse ~ Poets Pub that asks us to “write about snow as you see, feel, or imagine it.”
Going to my WordPress site yesterday, 19 January 2026, gave a message that my site was unavailable. For me, it included a line that said it was archived or suspended due to violation of Terms of Service – with no explanation of my alleged violation – and that my Dashboard would be available for a short time to export all data from my site.
On my Dashboard was the message of violation of Terms of Service, with a link to User Guidelines (a list of unacceptable activity) and a link to request a review of my suspension. The list includes nothing that could be remotely inferred from my site. The link to review my suspension was a simple text box to report an error issue. I did so, requesting a review and an explanation.
At 8:00 this morning, CT, my site was till unavailable, but it had returned when accessed at 8:45, with no explanation.
I have received no emails regarding this issue, neither for the suspension nor the restoration of my site. I have no idea what that was all about.
Whether sounding tinny
on transistor or car radios, or
with records on the cabinet stereo
bringing out the resonance of
his voice, Johnny Cash
reigned above
the country western artists
whose music filled the air
of my childhood home.
I learned to appreciate
the music of that genre
in the sixties, but
I was also a prisoner of it,
until I was able to buy
my own records, listen freely
to the rock standards that went on
to be the soundtrack of my youth.
And yet, on occasion, I enjoy
hearing the voice of Johnny Cash
singing about that lonesome whistle
back at Folsom Prison.
This is my response to Folsom Prison Blues, the prompt from Melissa Lemay that asks us to write a poem inspired by Folsom Prison Blues, the song by Johnny Cash.
As I sit here By a lamp’s light Ceding its brilliance to Daylight streaming in Even as clouds Fill the sky, Gone is any thought Held by me In pursuit of poetry, Jilted by a muse Known for Leaving me when Most needed. Nothing I say or Offer as penance will Persuade her or Quiet the frantic thoughts Racing through my mind. Should she return, There is nothing Under the sun I wouldn’t Vow to do to Woo her, show my misgivings Xed out as I Yearn for poetry with Zealous abandon.
This is my response to MTB: First to Last Letters, the prompt from Punam at dVerse ~ Poets Pub that asks us to “pick one defining moment or event (personal or global) of this year that describes what 2025 means to you. Or write a poem about how this year has been for you in general.”
Consumed with your own thoughts,
always going it alone because
that’s the silence that comforts you,
there’s no easy way to get back
if you start paddling downstream.
So pull yourself along the bank.
The lee side, of course.
Why start now with the risks?
Stroke left, then right, head-on
into the current, meeting snags,
obstructions, knowing you can
always turn back to the beginning
by drifting along the easy course
you’ve followed all along.
Or face those challenges, solve
the problems you encounter.
Who knows? Maybe you’ll learn
something about life along the way,
learn to set your own course
once you rejoin the flow.
“How to Paddle Upstream” originally appeared at Amethyst Review.
Hot in the sun, as I lower my kayak to the pad of the boat ramp. Far behind yesterday, but still 83 at mid-morning. No cooler in my vest, as I ready to step into the kayak, leave behind machinery and concrete.
But sliding into that seat, sitting on the water? A slight breeze, and it’s a different world.
There’s nothing special about this river, just a narrow band of water lined with trees, an occasional small bluff turning it here, there. Staying with the bank with slow, easy strokes, taking the offered shade as a gift, I paddle upstream, watch a distant heron take wing at the sight of this intruder.
Rounding a bend, I paddle due west, the sun at my back and no advantage from the trees on the bank shading each other, but not the water I cross.
Always away, that heron. Startled by my appearance, it takes flight, again. Leaving shore, it turns before me, heads upriver, its wings offering the breeze that cools me. And what is that breeze, if not a way to carry my troubles to another place?
water and wind
a tonic given freely
the beat of wings
“The Beat of Wings” was featured at Amethyst Review, with thanks to Editor Sarah Law. For my collection Heron Spirit, I edited this haibun, creating a new poem in verse.
The Beat of Wings
It’s 83 at mid-morning and heading higher as I stand at the water’s edge. Warmer still in my vest, I slide into my kayak. I feel the slightest breeze as I leave machinery and concrete in my wake. It’s a different world on the water.
There’s nothing special about this river, just a narrow band of water lined with trees, an occasional small bluff turning it here, there. With slow, easy strokes I paddle upstream and take the offered shade along the bank as a gift as I watch a heron take flight on sighting me.
With my paddle as wings, I follow my guide around a bend. The sun is now at my back, with no advantage from the trees on the bank shading each other but not the water I cross.
Startled by my appearance, the heron again takes flight. It turns before me and heads upriver, its wings offering the breeze that cools me. And what is that breeze, if not a way to carry my troubles to another place, a tonic given freely with the beat of wings?
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