NaPoWriMo # 27 Hay(na)ku Meets Philosophy

I have a theory about shopping;  it mimics the act of creation, which is to make something from nothing.

Creativity, is what makes us godlike.  It is an act of divinity, a reflection of The Prime Creative Force.  The act of creation invokes a powerful response with us, which involves our entire self -mind, heart, body, and spirit. The endorphins that making something engenders reverberate for days within us.  Buying something also brings new things into our lives that didn’t exist before.  We feel as if we made it, but all we really did was buy it, so the feeling doesn’t last,  It’s like a sugar high- an instant burst of energy that flames up then quickly disappears.  Nevertheless, for that tiny space of time we feel real good.

Creativity takes many forms, including crafting a friendship.  Engaging in relationship includes looking out for one another – noticing when the other is stuck in a rut of her/his own making and needs a jolt to lift her/him up and out. It might even involve shopping!

To a Sad Girlfriend

out and
shop with me
need to
splurge and spree
hit the
One Buck Tree
lip gloss
by the gross
nails rose
sport silver toes
“make a toast”
in glass all
in gold
so faux it
bold lips
rubs off on
but still
our pledge is
you’ll laugh
and I’ll love
friends true
blue, for ever.
Posted in Daily Prompt, Herstory, Love, NaPoWriMo, Poetry, Women | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

NaPoWriMo #26 Getting in Character

Pandoras_box_by_DigiBentoBoxPandora’s Box  is a story that has always fascinated and disturbed me, as do all creation myths that blame the ills of humankind on women. Ironically, it is most often women who fall victim to and suffer from those same fatal flaws.  To add insult to injury,  the very same stories that blame women for evicting folks from Golden Age and Eden never give us poor feminine perps enough brains or chutzpah to be responsible for our crimes.  Oh no, we are dupes, dull-witted cats paws of devil, serpent, or megalomaniacal supergod.  I have written a couple of versions of the Pandora story, there’s always another perspective to discover.  Here’s the latest:


 No one asked if I wanted

to be universally adored

ogled, growled, whistled and hissed

at every time I left the house! Imagine

what that does to a girl,

how paranoid and creepy I began

to find all men, so when

you married me off to Epimethius –

old ,wrinkled, warty, half-blind,

I wept with relief.  My comeliness

didn’t cut mustard in his workshop

where his fingers had eyes of their own.

(I grew to love those wise fingers.)

Am I sorry I opened the box?

No.  Suffering made mankind

comprehend compassion; forced

them to know themselves.

There’s hope for them yet.

Posted in Daily Prompt, Misogyny, Myth, NaPoWriMo, Poetry | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

NaPoWriMO # 25 Clerihew

Sarah Louise Palin

suffers from chagrin

she stalked a high office

but fell on her faux pas’s



Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

words sometimes seem overdone

she hid from the world in her home to the end

its workings too cruel uncomprehend

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NaPoWriMo # 24 Parody

I really never liked the Joyce Kilmer’s poem Trees.  I had to memorize it in 4th grade and recite it without barfing in front of the class.  No, I wasn’t suffering from stage fright – even at that tender age I loathed excessive sentimentality.  It may be that my brain is turning to mush, or that my life-long struggle to grok and sometimes hit a universal note in my writing is finally paying off (even today people love Trees), but I did feel a rather grudging respect for some of the imagery when I read it again, as if for the first time, in reaction to today’s prompt. The line about the hungry mouth prest (his spelling not mine) to Earth’s sweet flowing breast-though incredibly embarrassing at the time-is really gorgeous and I think brave, considering  he wrote it in 1918.  Trees made him famous and his words immortal in the way only poetry can survive death.  It also made him an easy target for many other poets, most notably Ogden Nash

So, I admit it’s a cheap shot and I did try this with some of my favorites, but it made me queasy.  Nevertheless, I send a deep bow Kilmer’s way, wherever he may be (I pray he’s been digested by a tree); we should all be so lucky as to write a poem as famous as his.

Poetry: With Apologies to Joyce Kilmer and the Trees About Which He Wrote


I think that I’ll never see a tree

lovely as a poem can be.


A tree is tied to Earth’s sweet breast

but poems travel east and west;


saunter, run, crawl, dance, fly, play

sometimes curse and sometimes pray.


A poem outlasts the centuries’ wear

is intimate with fox and hare,


makes cat feet out of fog and rain

strolls with us down Lover’s Lane.


The Goddess blesses fools and trees

but saves her heart for poetry.

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NaPoWriMo # 23 Cartomancy

I pulled the High priestess from my Ryder Waite tarot deck. high priestess It’s the deck I learned to tell the cards with and its still my favorite because it incorporates so many plain, simple and universal symbols.  However, I have a problem with the tendency,  imposed by our culture, to rank everything in stereotypical orders of hierarchy.  My priestess is not about that, she would not allow the designation “High” with all it implies to be attached to her title.

After I wrote my initial paragraph-timing the writing, never taking pen from page, extracting the phrases which held the most juice, and writing the poem-I went looking for an image of the card I pulled, hoping to insert it in this post.  Having found her, naturally I scrolled down to look at the rest. This  one immediately caught my eye.High priestess  I can’t tell you her provenance. I wish I knew, but she comes from a Pinterest page with no attribution.  It’s such a beautiful card and exemplifies the priestess in my poem – complete with dogs!! Synchronicity comforts me with its implication that magic is indeed afoot. So here’s to the Living Goddess and the priestesses who serve Her!


High Priestess


The priestess sits before a curtain

embroidered with pomegranates

hung between two pillars. She appears

to sit in judgement, but in the inner ear

of her analytical mind the voice

of judgment becomes ever more quiet.

Tenderness, hard-won compassion

demand she sacrifice pity, sympathy, empathy

to witness with neutrality

evil/good gadflies spinning and buzzing

in the restless brains of those she serves.

Oldest of the Old, she replaces high with low,

brings what’s been hidden into light

applies dark poultice on angry burns

inflicted by excessive light.

Dogs, known for their loyalty, ferocity,

and ability to scavenge

accompany her rounds.

Her rituals circumvent death

retell stories of seeds and babies

who destroy their cocoons to enter life.

The priestess serves Ancient Mothers‑–

Isis, Persephone, Hecate—

Death in Life/Life in Death.

She is doorway, valve, portal, membrane standing

between seen and unseen, known and unknown.

She invites you to pass through…


Posted in Archetypes, Daily Prompt, Herstory, Myth, NaPoWriMo, Politics, Ritual, Witness, Women | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

NaPoWriMo Post 22 Pastoral Poem

Outside My Window


Texas skies make grand canvases for Gaia.

She stirs the clouds into tornadoes,

rumbles warnings, lights her work with strobes

no angst defined avant-garde artist

will ever best. Gotterdammerung

defines her work on days like these-

moody grey and overcast with portent…

No matter that in half an hour the sun

will shine from cloudless heavens

washed crystal clear and limpid blue,

that mercury will rise




and bloom-filled flower beds,

brave petals ripped by hailstones

still sparkling on the ground,

will wave brave leaves in greeting

paying homage to their planet.

As should we.

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NaPoWriMo #21 Letting Go of Prose

I took a page from The Elusive Pimpernel by Baroness Orczy.  In the passage below Emmuska Magdalena Rosalia Maria Josepha Barbara Orczy describes a puppet show in a Parisian park at the height of the French Revolution depicting a decapitation by guillotine.

I chose the following words, including the title, for my poem and left them in the order in which they occurred:


A red

looking sky. “Too red!”

some people said.

A number of little figures

no taller than your hand,

beautifully made little dolls

dressed in all rags and wooden shoes

massed together in groups

arms all turned upwards.

In the center on an elevated platform

miniature wooden posts close together,

a miniature basket between the two posts,

at the top, a miniature knife

which ran up and down in a groove drawn

by a miniature pulley.

Lo and behold!

a loud whirr of wheels, a buzz of internal mechanism,

very thrilling, very terrible:

a certain air of hushed awe



Chapter IV : The Richmond Gala

…And you could not help but be convinced of the truth of it all, so
cleverly was it done. There was a background of houses and a very
red-looking sky. “Too red!” some people said, but were immediately
quashed by the dictum of the wise, that the sky represented a sunset,
as anyone who looked could see. Then there were a number of little
figures, no taller than your hand, but with little wooden faces and
arms and legs, just beautifully made little dolls, and these were
dressed in kirtles and breeches –all rags mostly–and little coats and
wooden shoes. They were massed together in groups with their arms
all turned upwards.

And in the center of this little stage on an elevated platform there
were miniature wooden posts close together, and with a long flat
board at right angles at the foot of the posts, and all painted a bright
red. At the further end of the boards was a miniature basket, and
between the two posts, at the top, was a miniature knife which ran up
and down in a groove and was drawn by a miniature pulley. Folk who
knew said that this was a model of a guillotine.

And lo and behold! when you dropped a penny into a slot just below
the wooden stage, the crowd of little figures started waving their
arms up and down, and another little doll would ascend the elevated
platform and lie down on the red board at the foot of the wooden
posts. Then a figure dressed in brilliant scarlet put out an arm
presumably to touch the pulley, and the tiny knife would rattle down
on to the poor little reclining doll’s neck, and its head would roll off
into the basket beyond.

Then there was a loud whirr of wheels, a buzz of internal mechanism,
and all the little figures would stop dead with arms outstretched,
whilst the beheaded doll rolled off the board and was lost to view, no
doubt preparatory to going through the same gruesome pantomime

It was very thrilling, and very terrible: a certain air of hushed awe
reigned in the booth where this mechanical wonder was displayed…


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