Grocery Poems – Aisle 2


If you live long enough
you might see the
birth and death
of a king, maybe two
but I measure my life
not by the comings
and goings of monarchs
but the rise and fall
of dynasties.
My bark has seen
two millenia of years
and that which to you
is ancient history,
for me is but the
memories of my youth

so consider
next time you stand
in Aisle 2
that the olives you buy today
pickled and preserved in brine
may possibly be the
sisters and brothers
of olives
picked off my branches
by the likes of Napoleon
or maybe even
Alexander the Great



written for dVerse, where we are writing poems from nature’s point of view

Helium Dreams

when the string is released
does the helium balloon
rejoice at her newfound freedom?
does she laugh exultantly
that she can soar so high
without constraint?
does she boast
about the sights she sees?

or does she feel fear
in losing you
her anchor?


written for the dVerse Quadrille balloon prompt

Grocery Poems – Aisle 1


“The world is nuts!”
the manager heard the stock-girl say
as he was walking
into the break-room
to drink a cup of coffee
with butter-pecan creamer

and he listened to her list
the woes and worries of the world
that she had heard on the evening news

she spoke of terror and war,
global warming and famine
trafficking of drugs
trafficking of girls
of chaos and calamities
too numerous to name
and so…

his break, ceasing to be a break,
he went and stood
for a while
in Aisle 1

which held, among other things
the nuts

file and rank,
rows and columns
pistachios, peanuts, walnuts, cashews
almonds and chestnuts and hazelnuts too
walnuts, brazil nuts, all in their place
and seeing this order
he felt great relief

and if you were near him
you might have heard him sigh:
“Oh no, my dear girl,
the world is certainly not nuts…
If only it were.”


photos by the author

poem (and perhaps a series of poems to come) inspired, in part, by Bjorn Rudberg‘s “Aged Librarian” poem series.

Sharing this with dVerse for OLN

Parable of the Snowflake

I studied a snowflake until I knew its every nook and cranny, every bump and divot, every point and every void until I could see that snowflake with eyes closed tight. I examined the trace elements held within the water molecules that composed it. I weighed it, measured it, took its temperature and even photographed it.

I became an expert on the snowflake, writing essays and theses, and even books. I traveled the globe presenting lectures to packed houses.

I was world-renowned for my wisdom and insight into my snowflake until I came to the conclusion that no-one could know more about the snowflake than I.

Until one day, a child presented me with another snowflake and told me, “Look!”

I scoffed at the child and said, “I have studied my snowflake for more years than you have been alive. Of what benefit could there be for me to look at your snowflake?”

The child simply held out his snowflake and again said, “Look!”

With haughty superiority, I took his flake, knowing exactly what I would see, but to my surprise, I looked at a structure that held almost no resemblance to what I thought a snowflake should be.

Then, with the child by my side, I looked around where we stood and beheld a million billion flakes of snow covering the countryside, and I wept, because I finally realized how little I know.


On March 2nd, at dVerse, we were invited by host Frank Hubeny to write prose poetry.  Alas, at the time, inspiration did not come to me.  Therefore, I will be sharing this at dVerse for Open Link Night instead…and thanks, Frank, for the prompt (even if I am responding a bit late!)

Bricks and Mortar

bricks and mortar, glass and steel
are the things of structure
sconces and chandeliers, and even candles
bring light to dark corners
plants and paintings, sculptures too
lend beauty to the place
chairs and couches and tables of food
bring comfort and conversation

but all will shake
and fall to pieces
if the pilings are not sunk
deep into the bedrock of love

Unless the LORD builds the house, the builders labor in vain – Psalm 127:1, NIV


for dVerse, where we are using poetry to construct buildings


Sometimes I feel
that I’ve been drenched in tar
from toe to hair
foul smelling

and though I scrub
with water, pummice, and lye
I cannot get clean

I emerge from my bath
as foul and polluted
as I ever was before

but if I shake my arms
in just the right way
I can

– fling –

some of that tar
off of myself

in no way
does this make me
any cleaner
but now

someone else
is contaminated