Fiction In The Car

Drove right by the store
Forgot my destination
Foggy brain dreaming
Characters and narration
Plotting fiction in the car


Sunday’s Sunset/7:35 pm

Emboldened rush of
Daring, declaring
Blaring light
Right at

Long, large
Looming contrast of
Branches and

Drained, depleted
Charcoal gray
A shifting line
Crawling to the

Gleaming, glaring
Smiling, leaving
Gasping, sinking
Drowning in the

Sky will clear
While we sleep
Sun will rise
While we drink
The surge of yesterday’s
Caffeine forgotten.



Springtime sunset surge
A rush of end day sunlight
Evening caffeine


Medieval Marginalia? You’re Kidding me, right?

Medieval Marginalia.
Sounds like a disease.
Draw cats with snail shells?
Is what you do with no tv’s?

Monkeys hold court.
The plague cavorts
through feudal fiefs
and bloodletting European life.

Cardinal dogs.
Fish with arms.
Murderous beasts from the fogs.
Twisted serpents sent to harm.

The strangest poem I ever wrote.
Rhyming’s stumbling across a castle’s moat.
There’s nothing like a sweet haiku,
’cause this medieval stuff makes me go boo hoo.

Ronovan Writes Weekly Haiku Poetry Prompt Challenge #146


Behold spring oceans
Puddles of Sunday showers
Worms eye cautiously


Nasturtium seeds sprout
Behold red summer jewels
Optimistic eye

Elevenie by Ron/Rootbeer

Fizz, froth
Lips, teeth, tongue
My mouth says Awh

My husband’s inspiration on a napkin.


4 Elevenie for World Book Day

What I am reading today.

Dreams verse
Art on paper
Emotion and illusion elevate

Creative typist
Life is fiction
Enchantment and suspense commence

Life’s narrator
Tragedy and comedy
Plot and scenario entwine

Reports news
Hopefully the facts
Cable news and interviews

Now You Dear Things Grow/Earth Day 2017

Now you dear things grow
said my mother after planting
holly hocks, bachelor buttons and anemone.
What funny names, thought Little Girl me.
Now you dear things write
said NaPoWriMo asking for a georgic,
a poem about agriculture or rural affairs.
Don’t know much about agriculture,
though I hear it’s called Monsanto now.
Rural for me is more suburban.
I think my husband is afraid if we own
some land I’ll morph into a reclusive
goatdogunicorncat lady
though I hear unicorns are owned by Starbucks now.
I can write about affairs, though.
Not those, get out of the bedroom
and into the dirt.
You know, that soil we supposedly all return to,
though I don’t see how, as many are encased
in cement in land that is becoming a
whole lot more scarce than death.

A Host of Golden Daffodils by Wordsworth
was recited so often by my mother
Little Girl me thought it was written exactly for
the hill full of daffodils just before the
bend that led to Mansfield State College,
which I read the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania
is considering closing, because apparently
no one wants to go to college next to a hill
with a host of daffodils.

But the annual chant was
Now you dear things grow
by my mother
and grandmother
and great grandmother.
Or was it a command?
All three women, tempered dictators.
Now you dear things grow
probably was a firm decree.

My mother proclaimed
me hyper-sensitive and overly empathetic.
Inferior traits
that turned my voice of
Now you dear things grow
into a wish or hope
maybe a request, if I’m feeling bold.
There is a bias toward nurturing and
tending possibility.
To plant, to peer over the soil each morning
with ephemeral anticipation is mine.
Big Girl me says
Now you dear things grow.
It is more than a whisper.

Now you dear things grow.
Now more than ever.
Mercy and grace.
Restraint and forbearance.
Kinship and connectedness.
Now more than ever.
We can grow!
We can grow!
We can grow!



Fully Equipped

I wish I could drive
Said the snail in my garage
A shell instead of steel
Antennas replace GPS
Chews on my pansy blossoms for fuel
This snail comes fully equipped!


I Woke Up

I dreamt I was falling
Someone let go of my left hand
It was a long, long fall
I knew
And relaxed
I laid sideways
Enjoying the rushing air around me

I’m falling, I thought
And woke up with a jolt.

I dreamt I was running
Someone let go of my left leg
It was a long, long road
I knew
And relaxed
I ran upright
Enjoying the cool breeze around me

I’m running, I thought
And woke up with a jolt.

I dreamt I was writing
Someone let go of my brain
It was a long, long story
I knew
And relaxed
I sat in a chair
Enjoying the stillness around me

I’m writing, I thought
And woke up with a jolt.

I dreamt I was alive
Someone let go
It was a long, long life
I knew
And relaxed
I experienced so much
Enjoying the diversity around me

I’m alive, I thought
And woke up with a smile.


Thursday’s Doors/Beale St., Memphis

View from our lunch table.