The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.

–A Farewell to Arms (1929)

Ernest Hemmingway

he showed me his spine
like embossed building blocks
he’d pulled from the bottom of a toy box
and spread over the rug

this one
he said
was my mother’s rolling eyes
this one
he said – stacking it on top –
was my father’s sudden turning
on his heel to leave the room


Writing prompt at dVerse Poet’s Pub

A branch of forsythia waves
from the other side of the window
and grabs my attention –
maybe because the flowers are gone.

From the other side of the window
I watch the World moving through lifetimes.
It layers itself like a pearl

and grabs my attention,
an unintentional omen
a mother-of-pearl revelation

Maybe because the flowers are gone
there’s nothing to distract me
from noticing everything as an irritation


Nature Note: Pearls are created when an irritant seeds an oyster.


dVerse Poets Pub prompt – more info here

a packed lunch
brown bag rolled at the top
where my fingers catch cramped
armful of books cutting into an elbow
loose papers wedged
between random pages
like my wrong vowels
my wrong shoes, my wrong jeans
sliding onto brown vinyl seat
a decade before safety belts


dVerse prompt from a minimalist photograph
more associative than ekphrasic – but minimalist in the sparseness of detail and the lack of narrative.



I was going to gather eggs in the pretty basket
I’d found hanging on the gate near the coop.
Playing farmer in the dell –
Hiking boots, skirt, my hair pulled back
to show my naked face.
But the eggs … smeared
with shit … blood.


dVerse quadrille Monday – on a Tuesday as always because my Monday writing time is before dVerse wakes up to Monday. So it’s a good think I am mainly here for the practice.

in the red dawn like a rose petal a sailboat rocked on the sea
in the red dusk like a dying ember a quiet settled across the empty sea

there’s a trace of wild in the northern wind
there’s a trace of musk in the terrestrial wind

and there’s no one to note the life of a ghostly presence
and there’s no one to lament, there’s no grieving presence


The prompt is from dVerse: Symploce – the  combined use  of anaphora and epiphora.