Matters of Facts – A Poem

Matters of Facts

When everything around you
sold to the highest bidder
changes heart and soul
of person and place
and you see him wear a gas mask
to blow the fallen leaves
from that last remaining
open space
of his,
for miles beyond your tiny world
it suddenly matters
that he’s eccentric enough
not to care
who cares.


On Second Thought – On Self Publishing

*  I am rethinking self-publishing a collection of my poetry/prose at this particular time.

*  I am not chickening out.  I am being realistic for my own self.  I have a faithful group of people who consistently read my work.  I’m so grateful for this…some days this is what keeps me writing.

*  Realistically, I haven’t reached a large enough number of people – who like my work – to self publish at this time.

*  I’ll begin sending new works off for publication online or otherwise. I won’t be able to post the works I submit.  That doesn’t mean I won’t be posting my poetry.  That’s so stupid, right?  Any poem I may post here…well that’s not near the final draft.

*  So there ya have that.  It’s where I am right now.  I may bind up my poetry collection to date..and give to my siblings.  Perhaps other family members.

*  And that’s that for that for now :P


What We Meant To Say

I wrote this for this week’s   Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle     100 words  (or so)  based on the photo prompt below.  Come join us!


What We Meant To Say

“We must empty the room now, Mamma.”  I reached out for my mother’s hand.

Papa’s office had been the smallest room in the house.  Without windows;  just a small wood stove to chase winter away.  He had died 5 years ago, and Mamma had not entered the room since then.

“Let’s go through the desk, Mamma.”

“Burn all of this,”  Mamma said.


“He would want it so.”


“And so do I.”

“Isn’t there anything you want here, Mamma?”

She walked over and took the feathered quill from his ink well.  “He still had something to say.”


PHOTO PROMPT -Copyright – Jan Wayne Fields

Why Introduce Your Own Chaos

I’m in my craft room sorting through pipe cleaners.    I’d just purchased the most wonderfully soft cotton pipe cleaners.  Most of my other pipe cleaners are bristly and have pieces parts that hurt my skin :)

Me (holding one soft cotton pipe cleaner in my hand and staring into a box of craft stuff):  I think what I’ll do is I’ll put this one soft one into this box with all my other stuff and then I’ll put the package holding the other soft ones some where else.

You (Dr.  Physicist) :  What?  Why introduce your own chaos?

Me:  What?

You:  Isn’t there enough chaos already?

Me:  Well pardon moi :P

And I put the soft cotton pipe cleaner in the same box with the few remaining bristly ones I don’t like.  Not because I want to introduce more chaos but because it was easier than reopening the soft cotton pipe cleaner bag.


Gardens Are Like Pressed Flower Memories


When I first moved out here to be with you – before we even married – we had our first disagreement.  It was over a Stefanotis plant.  You became impatient in the garden shoppe. That was 14 years ago.  This afternoon, we both were stunned to see it with more blooms than any other year.  Late in the evenings, with the balcony door opened, a breeze will carry its wonderful scent (like jasmine) into our living room

creeping charlie

And this Creeping Charlie.  The last hanging basket we bought.  You no longer become impatient at the garden shoppe.  Just this afternoon, as we walked below our balcony you said…”Look how nice our hanging baskets look today!”  I know, from my 63 years of living on this earth, that men do like gardens.  Even balcony gardens…and we kissed as we passed under the creeping charlie.