Memories of a bike trip I took in my youth

The sun and the wind and the rain
All play their part
We liked certain parts more than others

Do you remember the signs
That warned of bears
And said, “stay in your car”?
We read them from our bikes
And laughed nervously

The journey is the point
The destination only marks the end

One thing I’ve learned:
Riding down might be more fun,
But attaining the summit is victory!

If not for our helmets
The freezing rain
On Sunwapta Pass
Would have really hurt!

When things go bump

When things go bump in darkest night
The bravest soul will still face fright
When shadows chill you to the bone
And in the dark you hear a moan
What lies in wait just out of sight?

You try to think of some delight
To chase away the haunting wight
Oh how you hate to be alone
When things go bump

There is no rescue from your plight
For you have not the strength to fight
You’ve heard an otherworldly groan
And it’s as though you’ve always known
Never more will you see light
When things go bump


A Rondeau written for NaPoWhttp://napowrimo.netriMo. This is a bit darker than what I normally write.

Backyard rosebush

In the yard behind our house
There was a rosebush
That had been planted by
The previous owners.
We were told before we bought
That there was something
That each year, without fail,
Prevented the flowers from blooming.
When the first spring came
After we had taken possession
Of the property – once the weather
Was nice enough
I took some tools into the yard.
I cut down the bush
And dug up the roots.
When one flower dies.
There is always an iris
Or a lily that will fill its place.


Written for NaPoWriMo. The prompt today is to write about a specific plant (for example,don’t say flower, say lily), and then somehow tie the lifespan of that plant to my own. The second part of the prompt might not be as obvious as the first, but it’s there.

Things a book can’t do

There’s lots of things a book can’t do
Like cook a meal or clean my room
A book can’t ride a dinosaur
Or make a cannon go KABOOM
It cannot dance it cannot sing
Nor can it play an instrument
It can’t saw boards or build a house
It’s useless mixing wet cement
I’ve never seen one shave a whale
(But do sea mammals need to shave?)
And if a king should come to town
I doubt one single book would wave
I think I might have failed to say
That this is only partially true
A book can’t do things on its own
It needs a reader. It needs YOU


The first time I participated in NaPoWriMo was in 2015. The prompt on April 1 of that year was to write a poem of negation (describe something by saying what it’s not). Today’s prompt is (once again) to write a poem of negation… So in some ways, writing another negation poem seems like “coming home”. If you’d like to read my original negation poem, you can find it here

Invictuals (a parody)

Out of the hunger that gnaws at me,
In my belly’s pit the rumbles roll,
I thank whatever chefs may be
For my amazing pasta bowl.

With pangs that made me squirm and dance
To the restaurant staff I cried aloud:
Bring me food when you have the chance
They brought me some and then I chowed.

Before this meal all disappears
I think I’ll drink a lemonade
I’ve eaten at this place for years
The kitchen gets a five-star grade

It matters not how great the weight
I’ve gained by eating “one more roll”,
I am the master of my plate,
I am the captain of my bowl.

Based on Invictus by William Ernest Henley I know a lot of people like Invictus… They find it “inspirational”. I’m not a big fan…I see Henley as saying, “look at me, I’m Superman”…a bit too vain for my tastes… Therefore it needed to be parodied. Written for NaPoWriMo

The tale off the self-Aware poem

We were given an interesting prompt at NaPoWriMo today. “Today, I challenge you to write a poem that addresses itself or some aspect of its self (i.e., “Dear Poem,” or “what are my quatrains up to?”; “Couplet, come with me . . .”) “. I decided to make my poem self-aware, and give it the opinion that I, the poet, am not doing a good job. The poem would rather write itself.


Dear poet who is writing me
About your choice of word:
The one that ends line number four
I’d never use “absurd”
I see you use a rhyming scheme
And meter in the course
Of how you choose to write me out
I’d rather be free verse
So why don’t you give me the pen
I think I could do better
I’ll simply grab it from your hand…


I’ve long believed that there is a two-way relationship between artist and art. A poet, painter, sculptor, etc. creates their art works, but at the same time, their artwork changes them too! I would not be the same person I am if I didn’t write. But it IS two way. The art, as can be seen in the above poem, cannot write itself… Nor can it affect me if I choose not to write.