Awakening – Just A Poem

What in the world does Ellespeth do when she’s not on WordPress or being wifely?  Sometime she imagines things.  Fearful things.  Scenes.  Moments like this one:


And now, here we are
the left wondering why
but then
somehow suddenly
why doesn’t matter
that we aren’t lovers anymore
or what my name was
or who you were to me that time
we loved each other.
Come now and don’t deny the dread
of lovers when the witch’s tit runs cold
and reason meets its fancy.


When A Dream Came To Pass – Fiction

Another installment of   Friday Fictioneers  hosted by Rochelle.  100 words or so based on the image below.  Click on the link (after this piece) and come join us!

on-on-offWhen A Dream Came To Pass

As Isabel dozed off, the image of her little girl went with her. Tiny Selene, intubated yet blue. Isabel went to sleep whispering to her little one,  “Mommy loves you so.”

And that’s when Artemis came singing. “Hush little baby, don’t you cry.”

“Is that you?” Isabel asked.

“Yes,” came the soft reply.

“That’s one of my favorite lullabies.” Isabel hummed along. “My sweet Selene isn’t going to make it, is she?”

“She’s with me now,” Artemis whispered.

“Is she happy?”

“She is.” Artemis ran her fingers though Isabel’s hair.

“Does she remember me?”

“She does.”


photo prompt – Copyright Ted Strutz

The Dream Whisperer – A Poem

The Dream Whisperer
Know well the galley way
where oven’s
light illuminates
a darkness
brightly smiling
to beg a dance
or two
round the tilting floor.
Take not the stairway down
with her to bed
nor any ladder upward bound
and beware the haunting echo
of distant choirs singing.
Stay steady.
Between sun splashed deck
and ocean floor
be sure.


It Feels So Good To Be Home

So we’re going to take off, in a couple of weeks, to that little cabin we love so much.  Just at the foothills of the Sierra Nevada.  If my life were different and I actually could control my own destiny without taking others into consideration…well…I’d be living in that old gold mining town today.  Right now, that’s not possible.  So we visit there as often as possible and stay in this old miner’s cabin in a little cabin/motel-ish setting.  I’d like to spend a month there – once. Maybe get it out of my system.  It’s a very small town and it snows there.  I can’t imagine liking either one but I can imagine living there.

I’d like to get New Orleans out of my system, too.  I’d like to spend the entire month of August back in New Orleans with the bugs and the mosquitoes and rain and humidity and stiffing heat.  Hahaha!  How quickly one forgets those minor details 😛

Cuz then, ya know, it’s always so damned nice to get home again.  Home with our birds and our eclectic (aka Goodwill/Salvation Army) decor.  Two large matching knotty pine book shelves and 5 mismatched ones.  Sometimes, on a damp winter’s day, one catches a whiff of old books.

So we’re going to take off, in a couple of weeks, to that little cabin we love so much.  Just at the foothills of the Sierra Nevada.  I’ll put all of my poetry on a memory key and pack our tiny laptop.  While you drive us to hiking destinations, I’ll read aloud my poetry.  The way we do it is this way:  I read a poem.  When I’ve finished, I ask you what you think of the title.  Most of the time, your answer to that question gives me some indication that you did or did not get my point.  I keep a list.  I bold the ones you didn’t get.  Sometimes I change some.

So we’re going to take off, in a couple of weeks, to that little cabin we love so much.  Just at the foothills of the Sierra Nevada.  It already feel so good to be home again.

I’ll go ahead and post this under random thoughts.  It’s not random, though.  It just seems random… to some parts of me


Twilight’s Thread – Rev.3 (A Poem of Sorts)


illustration by Michele Tremaine

Twilight’s Thread

Because the loom of time and space
entwines its soothing silken yarn
between perplexing fringes frayed,
does not prevent my brief return
to long abandoned faded folds.
I tumble back, against the nap,
and feel familiar patterned ways
confine me in discordant scenes
with broken symbols, pulled so tight
I can’t discern
the energy that gives them life
in frequent fitful slumbering.



Somewhere, on WordPress, someone claimed to be having a contest.  I entered it. My entry was unclaimed.  My parts were:

It was the Holiday Season. I was napping and breathing in the scent of pine and berry. You were nowhere to be seen, but I sensed your presence around me. Like a soft blanket against the morning chill. If only you’d say something. If only you’d appear bearing coffee and toast and orange marmalade. I hate orange marmalade and I’ve loved you such a short time. And that’s when you walked in. Carrying a baby. You were both smiling and cooing. She was licking orange marmalade from a spoon.

Into the story it goes. With the lace and the blinds and the passion vines…