Thursday, December 26, 2013


Should i writr her
Or shLl i make due aomewherr elas?
It's stranfe that qords flow sp much easier when I am at a keyboard instrad of just using my fingertips?
Anx only teo.
It smells like poo.

This w was a tptal wasre of fime

Tuesday, October 1, 2013


Very uninspiring work here. Did I use up all my creative energies in my haiku post or do I just not care about socks? I'm thinking I'll try a different topic...or perhaps shift over to some prose next.

I still must give kudos to The One-Minute Writer, whose prompts never fail to get my fingers flying across the keys. (Any deficiencies in writing style are completely on my shoulders.)

i've never really cared for socks.
sure they're necessary 
(unless you like stinky shoes and slimy feet)
but i'd rather grab a pair of shoes that don't require them.
flip-flops in winter weather are fine
so long as you maintain that summer pedicure.
i suppose if i have to wear socks
i'll pick a pair with arch supports 
and try to convince myself i'll wear them at the gym.
i'm drawn to colors and patterns at the bargain bin
and they're sure easier to match on laundry day
but i'd much rather skip them altogether.
i could use my sock drawer for something more enjoyable
more fancy underwear, perhaps?
sock socks sockss.

I suppose I'll try some prose for a minute and see if that helps on the given topic.

My mother used to dress me up in fancy Easter dresses and little socks with lace around the trim. Pictures at holiday time were always so polished, compared to the life we were living. Not to say there was any serious disturbance going on in the house, just the ordinary dysfunction of a family with four kids.

One minute is really not enough time to get anywhere with prose. But I suppose that realization is supposed to prompt you to continue with your exploration outside of the timer. But I really don't have any big memories tied up with socks, so I'm finding the subject a little lacking in this case. I'll try again tomorrow.


Thank you, Haiku Heights, for the initial prompt: "crooked". Classical music streaming through my speakers, autumn streaming through my window...I found myself drawn off the intended path today. But no matter; there's wisdom here!

your crooked smile is
a sapling's bend in a breeze --
unassuming grace.

live in the moment,
do not fear tomorrow's ire,
cherish yesterday.

as Summer's heart slows
leaves cling to dying branches.
Live well to the end.

learn to cherish life's
beautiful fragility.
beautiful, too: death.

embrace the unknown,
respect the unknowable,
chase the mystery.

obsess not over
a temporal permanence.
live life and accept.

at least strive to grasp
an enduring acceptance
of what you can't change.

inside, cultivate

a vulnerability
that feels every shifting wind
even when you turn your cheek

do not fear death -- mere
doesn't dictate life.

summer's end foretold,
strength pools beneath Mother's breast.
sleep and dream of more


a cord connected
physically what love linked first.
joined forever, us.

sometimes we bicker:
two minds, two bodies, distinct.
love mutes distinction.

i don't phone enough.
but i call to you
with every thought.

Thank you to Haiku Heights for today's prompt: "mother".

Sunday, September 29, 2013


I always go over the one minute time frame, and even that's not enough to flesh out my ideas. But I suppose the point of the One-Minute Writer is to get you writing in the first place. (Any desire to continue doing so after the buzzer goes off is a happy addition.) The prompt was "stitch".

a stitch in time saves nine they say
nine stitches are more than one
but putting quality before quantity is key

my mom used to sew outfits when i was small
i remember one in particular that i wore to the zoo in oklahoma
(though i suppose the pictures do the remembering
so i can't claim credit for memorizing my past footsteps)
the outfit was shorts and a tank top made of a cotton blend
the fabric depicted ice cream cones, strawberry flavor
melting down the side of the cone
i don't think i ever wore the outfit again
(not even to an ice cream social)
and while there's no picture to confirm my suspicion
my embarrassment at the photos suggests that
it was a sibling's insults that caused the ice cream outfit
to melt to the ground
never to be picked up again.


ease your tired mind
i will erase your troubles
if you close your eyes.

i stack flat pillows
like pancakes. why buy new when
you're more comfortable?

counting sheep is hard
when the pillow under you
died six months ago.

One thing is clear: I need to go pillow shopping. Thank you, Haiku Heights, for the prompt.


This blog was created with the intent to write about's word of the day...daily. I'm among the worst as far as consistency is concerned, but I'm going to try taking it one day at a time. (I need a 12 Step Program for compulsive procrastinators.) Enough prologue; onward!

contrail / KON-treyl \ noun

a visible condensation of water droplets or ice crystals from the atmosphere, occurring in the wake of an aircraft, rocket, or missile under certain conditions
I craned my little neck as far back as I could, desperate to admire the intersecting contrails above the airport but unwilling to dirty my new pink dress.

Friday, September 27, 2013

mustard + haiku = maiku

Obtained from nuspickle.blogspot. Before that? I dunno.

gold explodes across 
the treeline and my shirt's stripes;
last barbecue this season?

Thanks to Haiku Heights for the prompt.

Saturday, June 22, 2013


Thank you, juzta mum for the inspiration:

Hot bowl of curry
I lick the fingers;
And taste you





Her soiled spoon rattles against ceramic emptiness. She mourns the loss of flavor the same way she will mourn him two days later when she allows herself to accept that he's gone.

She twirls her finger through the remnants of the meal and licks her finger clean in hopes that stimulating her tastebuds will numb her sense of shame. Shame for allowing herself to succumb to his charms, shame for accepting less than her due, shame for tolerating behavior she wouldn't have accepted from her teenage son. 

But all she can taste is his memory.

He isn't right for her; never was. Contrary to her own good sense, she'd put off clipping his vine -- instead inviting him to envelop her and blot out her sunlight. Carnal hungers sated, she slipped into a world where her needs outside the bedroom were irrelevant.

She had broken the one rule of one-night stands. But something about the way his fingers brushed against her neck made her dream of more. She told herself that she didn't mind his intrusion, but in chasing this one dream she had removed the possibility of any other.

She grabs a bottle of red wine, fills a glass halfway, and tries to see something other than emptiness.

Hunger strikes

I'm feeling creative but needing direction. Haiku Heights prompts writers to ponder LUNCH (a topic that is never far from my mind).


hunger's open mouth
devours all self control;
succumb to more cake.


enhance your days with
salt, pepper, garlic, thyme, sage.
settle not for bland.


closed eyes, open mouth
there is joy in the unseen.
tastebuds, awaken!

Saturday, April 6, 2013


step on a crack
break your mother's back
or worse:
her heart.
can't disappoint the woman
who gave you You
and the tools to find the undefined self.
an omnipresent fog hovers over my path
will i rise to the mystery
or delve into the dirt?
getting lost in the unknown is bittersweet,
the quest unfolding into deep oblivion --
its marvels expanding the mind
at the expense of momentum.
there is no staircase to the answers
but steps must be taken everyday,
steps in midair, no ground underfoot --
life is not guaranteed,
curious breath compels me to continue on.

Tuesday, March 5, 2013

Exiled from Pangea

I don't quite feel ready to jump into a writing prompt, so I'm returning to vocabulary-expanding tasks. To challenge myself today, a week of words tossed together.

There was really no reason for the intergalactic dust-bunnies to coalesce. But there was someone shuffling his feet through carpeted corridors somewhere, an aumildar whose static energy convinced them to join forces and birl around one particular star. In the exordium, aggregate particles were content to reside in a heterogeneous world. But the couthie conditions did not last; Sea soon sought to differentiate itself from Land, eroding those who would not acquiesce to the distinction. Land struggled to retain its oneness, but Sea's intrusion upon the soil of Pangea would prove unsurmountable. Land began to divide itself into pseudonymous segments. Over time, even violescent mountains' majesty was torn from amber waves of grain. Today, division is so ingrained in our minds that we advert on difference, blind to the sameness that inhabits it. We were exiled from Pangea, but is it possible we can regain some of what we lost?
  1. exordium: the beginning of anything.
  2. advert: to remark or comment; refer
  3. violescent: tending to a violet color.
  4. couthie: agreeable; genial; kindly.
  5. aumildar: a manager or agent.
  6. birl: to spin or cause to rotate.
  7. pseudonymous: bearing a false or fictitious name.

Thursday, February 28, 2013


I suppose I should feel fortunate. I've been with the same man for six years, I've worked for the same company for nine years, I've lived in the same state for ten years. But my college diploma says "English" and my job screams "Business" and I fear that this life I’ve built is Stagnation masquerading as Stability. I’m not planning on doing something drastic like running off to join the circus or the Scientologists or anything, but maybe I should just stop planning for a change. Stop standing still. Do something spontaneous. I am too young to feel this old.


Thanks for the 100 Word Song prompt, Lance (of My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog). This brief introspection was inspired by Elvis Costello's "Brilliant Mistake".

Saturday, February 23, 2013

thirsty darkness


stood aloof
nothing stood in the way of her purpose.
buffeted by the cool winter breeze,
nothing stood but


had watched others fall to the whirr
or tumble into thirsty darkness
but she refused to let the world assign her pain.
Her pain was her own.


stands calmly, patiently awaiting tomorrow.
will it bring an end or another beginning?
what use in new predictions?
tomorrow we chase the yesterdays
we did not catch today. 

will herald the end to nothingness
by giving in to it
and tumbling into thirsty darkness
as winter blows itself away

...Prompted by the 100 Word Song writing challenge at  My Blog Can Beat up Your Blog
This week's track: Tom Petty's "I Won't Back Down".

Thursday, February 14, 2013


a heart may be precious
but it's not a diamond
and papercuts bleed

a heart is a muscle
but it's not invincible
and races fatigue

purple mountains pierce potential
blues roil on the sea
black drowns ambition
can anybody shield me from

these bruises
on my heart
the hemorrhage
of my soul
yes, i know the blood is flowing
but it's clear to me it's going
down the drain

a mind holds such fire
but it's not an island and
bridges burn quickly

a mind is the center
but its social life
often steers it toward apathy

purple mountains pierce potential
blues roil on the sea
black drowns ambition
can anybody save me from

these bruises
on my heart
the hemorrhage
of my soul
yes, i know the blood is flowing
but it's clear to me it's going
down the drain

a soul is eternal
but joy is elusive
(though laughter is free)

a soul is untethered
but today it's here and now
today must be seized

purple mountains pinpoint potential
blues roil on the sea
black blinds inhibitions
will anybody ever free me from

these bruises
on my heart
the hemorrhage
of my soul
now i know the blood is flowing
but it's clear to me I'm going
down the drain

Sunday, February 10, 2013


Jacobin / JAK-uh-bin\ , noun
1. an extreme radical, especially in politics.
2. (in the French Revolution) a member of a radical society or club of revolutionaries that promoted the Reign of Terror and other extreme measures, active chiefly from 1789 to 1794: so called from the Dominican convent in Paris, where they originally met.
3. a Dominican friar.
4. (lowercase) one of a fancy breed of domestic pigeons having neck feathers that hang over the head like a hood.

The birdwatcher would have cooed in delight at his find, but to Terrance the jacobin was just another stupid pigeon.

Sorry, kids (self?). This word just wasn't sparking anything for me. I suppose I could try to write something about a friar torn between his love for his God and his love for cacao. Though I think a Carmelite (brown friar) would have a better story, given that the same robes which covered up the evidence of his sin (scars from self-flagellation, chocolate stains) would at the same time scream of his sole weakness with their color. But it doesn't look like we'll be stepping into either chocoholic friar's world because I opted to splash in the birdbath today.

Saturday, February 9, 2013


my heart is not irrefrangible;
i break it more than anyone else.
apologies to all of those i have blamed;
i've blinded and bloodied and bludgeoned myself.


irrefrangible / ir-i-FRAN-juh-buhl \ adjective
1. not to be broken or violated; inviolable: an irrefrangible rule of etiquette
2. incapable of being refracted

Twenty minutes into the exam, nature was screaming into Chad's face. A childhood full of terrestrial ferries between the pond in his backyard to the Great Lakes in his grandparents' had developed his ability to endure eight-hour stints between trickling streams, but the waterfall of caffeinated drinks from the previous night's cram session (not to mention the Writer's soppy sponge of metaphors) had stripped him of all restraint. The professor's irrefrangible policy against any interruption of testing sessions must be violated, else Noah's ark need be summoned to save the devout from the amber deluge.

Friday, February 8, 2013


who have i hented this life from?
surely it was not meant for me.
i was supposed to be traveling the world
and writing novels
and money was supposed to be irrelevent
at the same time it was to be in ready supply.
instead i struggle to connect the ends
instead i work on a sponge i must wring joy from
(when i dreamed of a place where joy overflowed its cup)
what choice do i have but to follow the path
though i realize i can create a fork with some work
i dare not step off the path into the brush
for i have too many responsibilities
and too many ropes tying me to the ground
i will wring the joy out of work
and soak in the joy of play
until that day when play and work are one.


hent / HENT \ verb
to seize

It had stood unclaimed for almost a month, she was certain. With the expiration date a mere two days away, Kate took her growling stomach to the break room and hented the strawberry Yoplait for herself.