Truth has a tranquility to it,
a kind of ease that no artifice
can equal. There is nothing frantic
about truth, nothing bombastic.
Complex now and then, but not
so hard to untangle, not so hard
to recollect. It doesn’t make
itself up for preservation.
As comprehension grows,
there is a duty to correct.
It listens for clarity.
It can look you in the eye.



. . . Surprise is a  name of God.

~Brother David Steindl-Rast


Who else would bring a pair of owls

to circle my head on New Year’s night?

Or a fox to the front step

just at sunset yesterday? Who

could have handed us a little child

with round cheeks, his mother’s mouth,

his daddy’s smiling eyes?

In the gray and icy drizzle of winter,

who else would have sent a foot of snow,

north wind to slice through our dismay?

Or gathered us together

and crowned us with roses,

taught us how to sing?

April prompt #33

Your zip-drive has started talking to you. What is it saying?

Ray’s #3


Why keep things, archive your intimacies?  . .

Losing things can sometimes gain you a space in which to live.

~Edmund DeWaal, in The Hare with Amber Eyes


What, precisely,

is the point

of saving

it all?

April prompt #16

IMG_3094April prompt #16

If the house was burning and you could rescue one thing, what would it be and why?

David’s #4

~assuming my husband and cats are safe, of course

I think I’d save the dollhouse that my parents
made for my fortieth birthday. The shingled
roof, the little doors and windows, the wardrobe
with its tiny hinges and a lion
and a witch penciled in inside. When I
open the bench, I see “Hi Mame” in my
father’s precise printing. It’s a name no one
calls me now. And Mother made the curtains
and the bedding—embroidered pillow slips
and quilts. She painted a canvas rug like
a watermelon slice. Oh, there are other
things I might miss: photographs, a few books,
Grandmother’s cinnabar vase. But yes, I’d
save the dollhouse, this sign that I’m
ascended from people who care.

April prompt #13

April prompt #13


Mary’s #2


Don’t think about walking down the stairs.

Don’t think about tying your shoes.

Whatever you do, don’t think about

taking off a pullover sweater

or backing up the car. How do you

turn on your computer? How

do you brush your teeth? Drape

your coat over the back of a chair?


Funny how the brain works,

how long-term potentiation

takes over. Remember when

you learned to ride a bike?

Or when you learned to type?

Music to set the rhythm,

the weirdness of qwerty.


Now I’m going to try it:

to type the word “poem”

and see where it goes.

Pinky upper right,

ring finger upper right,

middle finger upper left,

index finger lower right.



pinky upper right,

middle upper right,

index lower right,

middle center right,

index upper right

right thumb



index upper right,

pinky upper right,

pinky upper right,

middle upper left,

index upper left,

right thumb



index upper left,

middle upper right,

index center left,

index center right,

index upper left,


oops  i forgot the commas

this could take all day

November Writing Challenge #3

The dumbest so far:


November Writing Challenge #3

Scene: If I knew how to do sets, I’d have some kind of backdrop that makes the pinhead (spotlight) look like it starts out the size of a real pinhead. But I have no idea how this could happen.



two scholars, in doctoral robes

Angels—dancers—enough to fill a spotlight that covers the whole stage

Lighting guy—barely visible above the stage until the end, when he/she is spotlit him/herself


The scholars stand stage right.

Scholar One:  How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?

Scholar Two: I have no idea. Has anyone ever asked them?

Scholar One:  I don’t think so. Hm. Shall we try? pulls a pin from hat and holds it up

Both Scholars (shouting): How many of you can dance on this?

The shout echoes and echoes while the lights go out and the Scholars exit.  A small silver-white spotlight appears on the stage. Dim lighting elsewhere. The angels enter, stage right, in a line. One moves into the spotlight and dances. The light is just a little bit too big—clearly two angels could dance in it. The next angel in line is invited into the spot and the dance goes on—in a tight formation. This continues until the spot extends to the edge of the stage. The angels waiting in line should be like anybody waiting in line:  checking fingernails, stretching, texting, talking on phones, whatever. When the stage is full—and the angels are all fairly annoyed:

Voice of a Scholar, loud and echoing from the wings:  So, how many of you can dance on the head of a pin?

An angel:  (shouting toward the ceiling) How big is the damned pinhead?

Lighting guy: How big do you want it?