Something happened back when I wasn’t

looking, or maybe I was looking and didn’t care.

Maybe it happens to everyone by a certain age,

or it doesn’t matter. Or it’s what is meant

by equanimity and it’s something to strive for

only I didn’t, or at least I don’t think I did,

and yet, maybe it’s the fruit of all that prayer,

the hours on the front step with my cup,

watching the sun come up, or set.



~Solstice 2017



Look at his hands and tell me what is his job.

Yes, rough like your pa’s hands, so hard work.

That lady has been crying, has red eyes.

See— gold ring on her thumb.

I think her husband is maybe dead.


There is accent behind; no, don’t look.

You know is not German, not Russian.

Czech. Is enough like Polish to make me laugh.

Someday you teach your children

always there is something new to see.


Why is that man wearing slippers?

Is he stupid, or did he forget?

Oh maybe no shoes,

but look at his clothes.

He is not poor.


Remember story:  I thought my papa

did not miss one pear. Foolish girl! Papa said

God looked down from heaven and saw me

like God saw Adam. Remember:

everything God sees.


Is that lady sister or girlfriend?

Yes, girlfriend. Look at their shining eyes.

Here is hospital so we get off. Your papa

will be happy. You make him smile.

Big step down. Hold my hand.


These people are all made up, but of course they are made up of bits and pieces of reality, since that’s all any writer has to work with.




She is a rural mail carrier. She carries dog biscuits and knows all the dogs on her route by name. When she must get out of her truck to deliver a package, every dog is happy to see her–even the ones with reputations. Although nothing “keeps her from her appointed rounds,” if she meets someone by the mailbox, she always has time to chat. Two of the people on her route are disabled, and cannot shovel around their mailboxes on snowy days, so she keeps a shovel in her jeep and does it for them. She has quietly replaced the mailboxes of several people with very low incomes when their boxes were smashed by vandals. She bakes bread on Sunday afternoons. When she found out that an elderly farmer on her route used to love the homemade bread made by his late wife, she began making extra loaves and every Monday she brings one to him. She and her husband have three children. Their oldest son, who is seventeen years old,  is a drug addict, so she and her husband are part of a parents‘ group at a counseling center. Their thirteen year old daughter is already an accomplished gymnast, and their ten year old son likes to read. She sings alto in a community chorus and in her church’s choir, and in both, she is known for her good humor as well as her pleasant voice.


He is an actor who teaches at a small community college and directs a community theater. When he is not on stage, he is insignificant and goes unnoticed on the streets. When he is on stage, he is unforgettable. Without being sentimental, he can make people cry. Without showing off, he can make people laugh. Once his wife told him that as she left the theater after a perfomance, she overheard someone say, “I don’t know what happened there, but it opened all the windows and doors in my heart.” He considers that the justification for his life.


She is the manager at a busy food coöp. Her desk is covered with piles of papers, and her telephone rings often. Staff members and board members are in and out of her office all day long. If she is on the telephone when someone comes into the office, she smiles and gestures them into a comfortable chair, and returns to the telephone call.  When she is listening to someone sitting in the chair and the telephone rings, she does not answer it. It rings twice, and the caller is directed to leave a message, which she will return as soon as her present conversation is completed. At home, she follows the same practice; her wife and their three children know that she will not interrupt, or be interrupted. She enjoys doing counted cross-stich embroidery, and grows dahlias that win prizes at the fair.


She makes indexes for history text books. She lives alone in a small house on the bank of a river. Every day for twenty years, in sll weathers, she has walked the same path.  She keeps notes about what she sees: when the kingfishers return, when the alder buds open, tracks of raccoons and possums in the mud or snow.  Once each week she drives her old car into town to buy groceries and to have lunch at a diner that she likes. The people in town say she’s a “character,” and she knows that, but she doesn’t mind. She carries prayer beads in her pocket. Every day she prays for everyone in the town.


He owns a laundromat on the corner of a busy street in a rundown neighborhood in a rundown city. His prices are low. He offers free coffee and bread and jam to his customers. Instead of tattered magazines, he keeps a shelf of books that he buys or gets for free at book sales:  books about birds and flowers, travel books, small volumes of poems by little-known poets. He doesn’t mind if people take the books home. The people who come in regularly sometimes talk about the books while they drink their coffee and wait for their clothes to dry.


She cleans rooms and hallways in the big city hospital. She mops the floors and washes the windows and dusts the tables and cleans the sinks and showers and toilets. Sometimes she has to wear a mask. Usually she is working early in the morning, before the visitors come, and before the doctors make their rounds. Sometimes patients talk to her.  Sometimes they tell her that they’re afraid, or that they want to go home, or that their family doesn’t like to visit very much. She is quiet and listens carefully, and when she answers, she always says something that helps.  One of the doctors, a new resident, has noticed her and thinks that she is the best medicine in the hospital, but he hasn’t told her. If he did, he thinks she would be embarrassed, and that is true.

STILL RESISTING–a prompt poem


Prompt #3 again: What did you most resist before you found it suited you?


I don’t do things I resist.


I resist swimming because

I sink like a stone,

I don’t like fish nibbling my toes.


Running makes my hips hurt.

Bicycling is too much work.

Inflexibly, I resist yoga.


Beets taste like dirt, only worse,

so I resist them. And goat cheese.

And martinis. And cocktail parties.


And answering the telephone

before noon. And attending

meetings of any kind of committee.


If I don’t like a book

or a movie, I stop. I resist

literary criticism with a passion


that borders on insanity.

Resisting does not diminish my life.

It suits me. I like


screens that keep out the bugs.

I like jackets and boots

that keep out the wet and cold.


I like my resistances.

They keep me unbitten.

They keep me dry.




. . if you can, where a woman in black velvet

wears a hat constructed from balloons.

Before a roaring fire,

people are singing Nowell.


Banjo and fiddle, washtub bass and guitar

echo through the hall.

Now everyone is singing

“Feeling Groovy.”


An aproned man carves turkey.

A woman offers a bowl of potatoes.

Boys and girls run to and fro

bearing pitchers, and plates of cake.


A magician pulls

a rainbow from his mouth

while children shout

words to make it real.


Everyone is there:

a man who recently bought oxen,

the one who took a wife,

a woman from the highway,


a beggar from the hedge.

a man most inappropriately dressed,

Santa Claus, and look!

there’s that maiden, all in blue.



sunrise,Cape Royal


~for David Brynn 


Focus on our pockets, you said,

and you didn’t mean

trouser pockets stuffed

with wallets, plastic and loose change.

You meant the ones that hold other things:

pebbles and prayer beads,

acorns, pumpkin seeds,

a useful knife, a fountain pen.

Music and fires and feasts.

This coffee shop, that bookstore,

that slope of forest,

these people who remember

to light candles in the dark.

November Writing Challenge #16

Only 14 days to go. . .



Peter: a tow truck driver

Jenn: a landscape worker



A roadside. Jenn is standing beside a toy truck. The hood is up. There are small trees in the back of the truck. Peter enters sage left on his hands and knees, pushing a toy tow truck, making Brummm sounds. He parks beside Jenn’s truck and stands up.


Jenn: It’s about time. I called an hour ago.

Peter:  Too bad. I am twenty miles away, you know.

Jenn: I didn’t know. You’re just a number.

Peter:  Right. And the only tow around here. So, what’s the trouble?

Jenn: Alternator. Like I said on the phone.

Peter:  You sure?

Jenn:  Of course I’m sure. What, you assume I don’t know anything about cars? This is my truck. I work on it myself. If I had a spare alternator, I’d be on my way by now. Did you bring one?

Peter:  An alternator? No.

Jenn:  Why not?

Peter:  Didn’t have one in the shop. This is an old truck.

Jenn: I know that. That’s why I told you.

Peter: I’ll tow you back to the shop and have the boys check out the junk yard at the five corners.

Jenn: But you’ll charge me for the tow.

Peter:  Or, you could sit here and I’ll charge you the same for my mileage to and fro. Your choice.

Jenn:  Can’t win, then, can I?

Peter:  Nope. None of us ever wins.

Jenn: I don’t like that idea.

Peter:  What?  That we’re all losers?

Jenn:  Yeah, that one.

Peter:  Well, it’s true. Think about it. We’re born, right? Not our choice. Parents aren’t our choice, either. Or how many brains we’ve got. Or where we live. Could be some dump, could be a castle.

Jenn:  But lots of people do okay.

Peter:  Oh, well, doing okay. Yeah. That’s about it. Unless you’re Bill Gates or one of them, maybe just doing okay is all you get.

Jenn:  But—I’m doing okay. I’ve got this business, see? A little nursery, trees and bushes and stuff. And even some flowers. I like the work and I get paid enough.

Peter:  Enough for what?  You sure as hell got an old wreck of a truck.

Jenn:  But that’s not important. I mean, I’m not rich, but I have this business and enough to get by. I have a nice little house.

Peter:  Little, though, right? Nothing fancy.

Jenn:  I don’t need anything fancy. What I’ve got is more than most people.

Peter:  Well, okay, that kind of proves my point, doesn’t it?  Most people are losers. You think you’re doing okay just because you’re better off than most people, and that’s not saying much.

Jenn: What about you? Are you a loser?

Peter:  Sure. Of course I am. Most people are. If I weren’t, do you think I’d be doing this for a living? Oh, cars are okay, but if I could do anything I want, I’d be on a beach someplace in Florida.

Jenn: That would get old pretty fast.

Peter: How do you know? Ever tried it?

Jenn:  No, but just sitting around is boring.

Peter:  Oh, I wouldn’t just sit around. I’d have some beers, play some volleyball, maybe surf a little. And I’d have a beach house, you know, one of them on stilts. And I’d have parties with all my friends. A big enough house for them to stay. And we could go to clubs sometimes for the music.  And I could have a good guitar.

Jenn: You play guitar?

Peter:  Yup. But I don’t have a very good one. Taught myself when I was a kid. Always wanted to be a musician.

Jenn:  So you think you’re a loser because you aren’t a musician?

Peter:  I didn’t say that.

Jenn: Well, it’s what you meant. Your dreams didn’t come true, so you think you’re a loser.

Peter: Well, aren’t I?

Jenn:  No. Be serious. Nobody’s dreams come true. That doesn’t mean we’re losers.

Peter: What was your dream?

Jenn: None of your business.

Peter:  Hey, it’s only fair. I told you mine.

Jenn:  I wanted to be a musician, too.

Peter:  What instrument?

Jenn: Drums.

Peter:  So what happened?

Jenn: Parents thought girls shouldn’t play drums.

Peter: So you didn’t.

Jenn: Nope. I didn’t.

Peter:  Loser.  At least I’ve got a guitar.

Jenn:  Hey, that’s not fair. Drums cost a lot.

Peter:  Yeah, that was mean of me. Besides, all us losers have to stick together. I mean, that’s about all we’ve got, isn’t it? Our loserhood. We should have passwords and badges and stuff. We could have a lodge:  The great brotherhood of losers.

Jenn:  laughing  Well, maybe you’re right. But you know, there’s still dreams out there. Maybe they’ll come true for somebody.

Peter: Maybe. Well, talk doesn’t move trucks. Let’s go.  He closes the hood of her truck and attaches it to his tow truck. Hop in.

Both get on hands and knees and push their trucks toward stage left, while he makes car noises.