I talk you talk we'll talk


March 2016

city’s strange noises (haiku)

city’s strange noises

source of which I’ll never know

feel like country mouse


(from stepping outside first thing this morning)




words levy power like

wizards casting spells in lore


words do take over

especially with nothing left


when everything has failed

and utterance remains


we are words

we are made of words


well we are not

though it can feel that way


do you know the secret

word that elicits gnostic will


do you know the word

that can heat a frozen spirit



inspired by recent posts of

annie at what the woman wrote

melinda kuscera at in media res

working together


Easter Uprising

Easter Uprising



Some chose to mark

Easter day with willful



Family picnics in

Lahore Pakistan

Christians targeted

Though tell me there

Were no guests of

Islam other faith or



Day of faith and

Homely celebration

We who were not

There can nonetheless



Imagine those we

Love even those we

Forbear by mere



Scattered rent apart



Reunions friendly or

Indifferent never



The soul the spire

Tying through a

Family broken taken



Now the future holy

Day focuses alone to

Count those of us


Sunshine Blogging

Questions for my nominees are:

(my questions to answer)


1.What do you write and Why do u write?

2.Who are you n where do u belong to?

3.What do you love beside writing?

4.What is your ultimate aim in life?

5.Are you single, in a relationship or married?

6.What is the best thing about you?

7.Which is your favorite book and why?

8.Who is your idol?

9.Give some tips on becoming a good writer.

10.What would you do if you were the last person in world?

11.How many friends and fans do u have? Describe your best friend.


My thanks to Isolated Girl,, for the nomination!  What follow are my responses to the questions above, then in turn my nominations.


  1. I used to say I write because I need to, and that’s right. But I write because I want to, too.  I started my blog during recovery from surgery.  The blog—writing and corresponding with other bloggers—kept me sane.  What do I write?  Poetry, each day.  I’m also keeping a journal.  Last summer, when I pretty much couldn’t do anything, I drafted a novel (in verse) and started drafting another.  I write prose, too.  Letters to the editor, when I’m moved by something exigent.  Essays and articles, too.  Course syllabi, when I’m teaching.
  2. I live in Pennsylvania in the USA. I live in a small town (called boroughs, here) named for mechanics who used to fix covered wagons for pioneers heading out west.    My immediate family is four siblings.  I am the middle child.  I grew up with cats and dogs and other creatures (besides my sibs).  I had a cat who died a couple of years back at nineteen.  She had all that time to train me.  I’m sure I failed.
  3. Well, reading, naturally enough. I read young-adult literature.  I read works about spirituality.  I also read mystery novels.  I walk.  I spend time with friends.  I take day-trips to nowhere in particular.
  4. My aim in life is to publish a small book of poetry. My other aim is to live more comfortably and completely than I do.  There’s an image of Bilbo Baggins, retired and writing verse in Rivendell.  I like that.
  5. I am single. So far never married.
  6. My best day-to-day skill might be listening. Each one has a story, and that story has great value.  I enjoy eliciting parts of others’ stories.  And hearing what else someone might want or need to talk about.
  7. My favorite book (see note 4, above) is The Hobbit by J. R. R. Tolkien. I’ve read this novel a number of times and listened to various readings.  I’ve researched and published some about it.  I’ve taught The Hobbit many times.  I like the hobbit’s lifestyle and the one great adventure he is talked into taking.
  8. I wish I’d had a Gandalf in my life or a Merlin, parent, school advisor, or work supervisor who was a mentor for me. I didn’t have such a one.  I grew up in a strange time, when everything was questioned with few good answers provided.  So I guess I’d say my idol is C. S. Lewis who took his smarts about literature and life and became Christian and an apologist.  Faith doesn’t have to make sense as thoroughly to me as it had to for Lewis, but he clearly argued that belief is reasonable and that believing is intelligent.  I respect that about Christianity and any other faith tradition.  Or none.
  9. Every now and then, a student will ask about increasing vocabulary. I say read something.  Read something you enjoy.  Your vocabulary and diction (choice of words) will grow this way.  When writing, a writer should write.  And keep writing, even when most of what’s set down is set aside.  Art used to mean theory and vision, and science meant practice and skill.  At the foundation of the theoretical part of writing is understanding that writing is a process.  The science of writing is to keep practicing until you make something with which you are satisfied.  Then get the writing out there.  Writing is not complete until it is read and responded to.  Writing is a chore, as it should be.  While you write, avoid cliché, unless you mean to use cliché.  When writing poetry, if rhyme becomes too laborious, then don’t use it.  Same with metre—it’s possible the poem wants to go another way.  Allow exploring and discovery through the writing act.
  10. If I were the last person, I’d find things to remind me of humanity. Videos, sound recordings, photographs.  I’d gather in ways and means to drink and eat and dress and with which to get around.  I’d spend time each day trying to find someone else in the neighborhood, the cosmos, maybe the multiverse.  I’d read and write each day and still find ways to grow my mind and heart.  I’d talk with God all the time.
  11. I don’t know about fans. Members of my family are friends, and I am thankful.  The next generation of family is friendly, too.  My neighbors are my friends.  I live in part of an old house, and those across the hall and downstairs from me are wonderful companions.  We help each other out as well.  I have friends with whom I socialize.  In my life, a short thread of best friends has been intertwined.  One friend moved way.  A couple of times I’ve moved.  One best friend has died.  My best friend now is someone with whom I communicate pretty regularly.  Right now, I’m house-sitting in a distant place; so we communicate electronically.  We help each other in substantial ways.  We gone to the hospital for and with each other.  We also watch movies and read things to talk about.  So I have a small circle of family, friends, and a best friend.  Blogging has brought me new friends.  I find these happy and important relationships.


I’ve enjoyed the pleasure of nominating bloggers for awards.  I’ll try to think of some others, here, and probably will overlap as well.  And if an award-free blog is kept and one doesn’t mind, simply enjoy what pleasure might come from being nominated.

I nominate

(I think my citing your sites pings back to you.  I hope I have this right.)



  • Thank the person who nominated you in the blog post.
  • Answer the 11 questions set by the person who nominated you.
  • Nominate 11 blogs to receive the award and write them 11 new questions to answer.
  • Copy the icon to post at your blog site.


My questions for you (borrowed, adapted, and new):


  1. What do you write?
  2. Why do u write?
  3. What do you love besides writing?
  4. What is an aim in life you are working on right now?
  5. What is a positive quality about you?
  6. Do you have or have you had a mentor? If so, who, please?
  7. Which is your favorite book and why?
  8. Is there a favorite way (place, accompaniments, posture) you have to write?
  9. What are some tips on becoming a good writer?
  10. What would you do if you were the last person in the world?
  11. Why are your friends your friends?

Unopened daisy (haiku)

Unopened daisy

Signals an arriving spring

Earth: Hallelujah



haiku inspired by

Rosema, A Reading Writer;

Melinda, In Media Res,

who wrote about spring,

My Two Charges

My Two Charges


They’re small like cats

Not even big house cats


They’re dogs and must

Be compensating

Wishing all felines

Into tolerable targets


Thank goodness, I have

Them when they tire

With age, sleeping more

Than running varmints

Down in the yard


Actually, my greater

Concern—my aim—is

Is that they live until my

Sister returns


Hear that, lump of

Turned-in white-curled

Thighs and back and

Ears, snoozing beside me

As I type?


And you, over to the

Left, long-brown dog

Sleeping in a circle on the

Floor, back bent from

Early trauma—your

Heart will keep its

Rhythm (yes?), when

You set your four pins

To the ground to trundle

Over to the door?


Please, dogs, stay with



After long-sleeping

Hours, I’d be thankful

For you waking up

Each time

Reading the Sunday Paper

Reading the Sunday Paper

on my First Day (Back) Here


I am in the City

Of Bridges, the

Renaissance City,

The Steel city


And today I look

At a major

City’s newspaper


Horrors and other

Troubles in Brussels,

In Istanbul, and

Syria (reported

From Beirut)


Also talk of state

Candidates for the

Fall that in my

State part

I haven’t heard



A hopeful market,



It is a special day,

Which is covered

Through testimony

From leaders

Of movements

In communities





There is a story

Of architecture here,

Appropriately given

The age and grand

(Sky-scraping) efforts

Of artists and

Builders over



The obituary

Section’s long with

Detailed histories told

Of those now



Editorials, reader

Opinions pretty


One take arguing

That civility

Itself must rule

Practices in public



I skipped the ads

And comic stories

(So far) but pore

Through tailored

Regional parts (the

House I visit is in

The west)


There are big

Cities over many

Points in our

Compassed globe


While enormity

Conveys impersonal



There is an appreciable


Nexus of talent



And neighborly



Freedom in



Inexorable, the

City strives

With many things



Then to celebrate

Passion Play, Act Four

Passion Play

Act Four


He is arisen now

Who caused the rising


Disciples will say the

Spirit of God breathed

Into his body once



So that he might walk

Upon a mortal land

To testify

And heal


And more simply to

Take meals with friends



“Nothing mattered now.”

After Aslan is slain in

The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe

by C. S. Lewis




Christ is dead

Not now but long ago


And on the full day in between

(Counting days on calendars)

When the body lay in Joseph’s

Tomb, the movement sleeps

As well


Nightmares of capture

And, worse, hopelessness

It is a time for cynical

Reasoning among the


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