Back to the Trees and the Butterflies

This morning, I read an article that made me happy. Published in The Guardian, the article states “Bondage is so last year. Publishers who spent much of the past year in search of the next Fifty Shades of Grey are now seeking to exploit another literary phenomenon: the British public’s seemingly unfettered desire for nature writing.”

Often, my poetry focuses on or touches, in some way, the wonders of the natural world. For example, here’s a link to a poem I posted a few days ago. In it, nature abounds. The poem is titled Ethics.

For me, nature possesses a magic that is essential in my writing, in my life. In it, all is possible. Beneath the real beauty of nature lies the imaginative beauty. Goblins don’t haunt our cities. They make their homes in the wood. Sprites don’t dart from window to street light; they fly from milkweed to daisy. Dragons don’t perch on skyscrapers; they rest on mountain tops.

In nature, all is possible. Look to it. Find something you’ve never had or perhaps once lost. It’s still waiting for you.

Let the Cakes Be Baked

“If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.” ― J.R.R. Tolkien

Let the Cakes Be Baked

Let the cakes be baked
and the sugar dizzled thick.
Serve each ale mug cold,

with a froth as thick as pie.
Sing the songs of bortherhood
as we raise each frosted glass,

as we cheer our goodly kings
and damn the tyrants’ swords.
And let our sleep be deep,

let our dreams be filled
with mirth. Far too soon the skies
shall gray and sorrow visit all.


In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Food for the Soul (and the Stomach).”


As I yearn for spring, I must rememeber the proper way to yearn.


You may repose
quiety in a spring meadow,

even sprawl as the orange
crowns of milkweeds

rise about you
inviting butterflies

and honey bees
to sip their nectar,

but let your heart’s thump
be your only yawp;

tis enough to slumber
where magic grows thickest.


In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “I Walk the Line.”

From Rose to Daffodil

Here’s a quick response to today’s WordPress Daily Prompt. The prompt reads “Tell us about a time things came this close to working out… but didn’t. What happened next? Would you like the chance to try again, or are you happy with how things eventually worked out?”


Yes, today, I watched
sprites dart from rose
to daffodil deepening
each petal’s hue

with finch feathers
dipped in paint:
crushed berries
and ground pine needles

softened with drops
of rainwater gathered
in empty acorn shells.
I heard the satyr’s harp

mixing melodies
with a meadow stream
that gently rumbled
against a large stone

and a birch limb,
white as bone, that
dipped its fingers
in the living water,

but I’ve yet to taste
the small cakes elves
bake, sweet bites
left to cool in the shade

of trees that still
remember Eden.
Perhaps, I’ll filch one
for breakfast.


At 3am this morning, a terrible headache chased me from sleep and clung to me for a better part of the day. I feel better now, but need a nap. Here’s my formal demand.

Reposed, Unaware

Right now, I need
to be sleeping
in the shade
of an oak tree,

reposed, unaware
of the gnomes, parading
by my feet, clashing
cymbals crafted

from lost pennies,
sounding trumpets,
a daisy’s petals
curled to proclaim

the proper cacophony
as the sun scales
the afternoon, finally
shedding its warmth,

drizzling it through
the branches above me,
until it glistens my face
and I wake, comforted,

rested: how wonderful,
how rich my dreams.

Just In Case You Need a Reminder

Remember these? We all need to remember, at least from time to time.

fair·y tale – a children’s story about magical and imaginary beings and lands.

Image result for goblin drums



To begin, once upon
a time is not necessary,
but it helps: however,
there must be a dark wood
where goblins beat drums
or trolls cool their toes
in the streams that slide
beneath old bridges,

and a traveler, carrying
only a skin of magic wine,
hears the troll sneeze
as he steps across the bridge.
The troll, kept awake –
that sniffle and those
drums – not able to nap,
clutches the traveler quick,
longing for the wine. It may
soothe his poisoned spirit,
his sleepless afternoon,
and smooth all
that wrinkles his soul.

If it’s a good story,
the captured traveler, will
offer the troll some wine,
if the beast allows him to live.
Then after a gulp and a belch,
the enchanted juice sugars
the troll’s heart; the monster smiles
until the magic begins to
billow in his belly like a ship’s sail
stretched taut with wind
until his belly bursts,
spreading seeds that,
in the spring, sprout wildflowers,
yellow and blue, about the bridge
in a forest where the dum-dum
of goblin drums beat the air,
and a traveler lives

ever after.


In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Weaving the Threads.”


It’s undeniable. The only way to spell Wednesday is by sounding it out “Wed-Nes-Day.” Everyone wants his/her signature to look like a work of art. Frosted Flakes for dinner is awesome. Facts are facts.


The stars – just holes
in Heaven’s floor,
but that’s an easy one.

Cats are reincarnated
dragons. Trees extend
their arms toward

the sun to catch
the birds suffering
fatigue, falling

after a day stitching
clouds to the sky.
Candles suffer

if not lit at least
once each week.

Blank books
covet ink. Poetry
is breath – indisputable.


In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Hello, Goldilocks!.” Inspired by the notion that poetry is “just right.”