All posts by Steve


For the Month of April have been writing poem a day using the daily Prompts from


Another April month of poetry done!
Thank you to all that stopped in to enjoy.


Day 30 NaPoWriMo 2020

Our final prompt! -I’d like to challenge you to write a poem about something that returns. For, just as the swallows come back to Capistrano each year, NaPoWriMo and GloPoWriMo will ride again!
Happy writing!

Many Returns

Surge of tide,
Break of day,
Waves to ride,
lighting of grey.

Seeding plant,
revolving door,
Flowers to grant,
turns once more.

Returns again,
all things,
to pretend,
Forgetting, to start anew, without strings….

       - W.B. 

Daydreams in November

Slowly forgetfulness
Overcomes her
Days lumber on
Different patterns emerge
This way
Quiet silence fills
Heart & soul
Regarding him
Ahh ships that pass
Ahh hopes morass
Sliding always
Over, into
The horizon
But then
Somehow life is sparked
Once again
New green shoots
Blossom out of Earth
His name already
A song
On her lips
A flower
At fingertips
She smiles
Warmly into
This ever new day
Slowly forgetfulness
Overcomes her

   - k


Day 29 NaPoWriMo 2020

Today, write a paean to the stalwart hero of your household: your pet.
If you don’t have a pet, perhaps you know one or remember one who deserves to be immortalized in verse.
Happy writing!

Shades of Grey

Tiny but mighty!
Came in for warmth
One assumes
Noises, nightly
Room to room
Shreds of paper
Nibbled bits
Then I saw it
Almost had a fit
Not alone
In my house
Have a wee mouse!
Need a safe trap
Company I guess…
Until I have that!
Any company on lock down
Will do!
Hello little buddy!
I’ll call you
Least til I find out
If you a girl
Or boy!

   - k

Stony faced

There, still, unmoving
An unwavering focus
My Loyal Pet Rock

   - W.B.

Day 28 NaPoWriMo 2020

Today’s prompt -Describe a bedroom from your past in a series of descriptive paragraphs or a poem. It could be your childhood room, your grandmother’s room, a college dormitory or another significant space from your life.
Happy writing!


Facing Mount Baker
Looking down
Over r garden in backyard
Huge rental House
@ Vancouver BC
11th & Commercial
This backroom..
Glass portal
Wall to wall
Generous, deep
Always warm
Deep into nights
Small space
With a corner!
To head
Rows upon rows
Aloe Veras
One year
They flowered
Who knew!?
They do that
In very warm places!

   - k


There is a maze in my mind
Of rooms that are not mine

Window seats
of views that repeat

seldom seen
what meanings mean

potted plants
fabrics at a glance

Floral patterned lined shelf, Open closet with its dowel hanging bar, or Sliding door
Queen, king, or jester like single, perhaps a pair in a twin.
Muted single colour or patterned or floral coverings.

Each window opens to a self
dated inner expression, colour, carpet, items on a shelf

To each a person in kind
that that room reminds me of a time.

– W.B.

Day 27 NaPoWriMo 2020

Todays prompt- I’d like to challenge you to write a poem in the form of a review. But not a review of a book or a movie of a restaurant. Instead, I challenge you to write a poetic review of something that isn’t normally reviewed. For example, your mother-in-law, the moon, or the year 2020 (I think many of us have some thoughts on that one!)
Happy writing!



Bought a tin button
Pressing machine
It had always been
One of my dreams!
Price was fair
Would be fun art
To wear!
2.3/4 circle
Seemed just right
Lay the tin, paper
Hard push on handle
Boom…it disappears
Where did it go?
I always tell them!
Swing machine base
Set button back
Press other side
Amazing, just amazing
Because then
Out pops newly made
A wearable badge
All ages love it
We now wish to buy
A bigger circle size
Maybe blue this time
One for the guys!
10/10 I mark it as
Such fun
For me & my pals!

   - k

My Left sock

‘My Left Sock, an unriveting tale of footwear. To nothing else to compare’

Delving into weave, knit and patterns without reprieve
The question to tell, of why one size fits all, and why ‘One size fits all’, fits none well

Two embroidered stars, one hole
But a little hole they said
‘These things happen, they add character’ though they said it with a note of dread…

‘Riveting! you’ll put it on one leg at a time’ says the laundry reviewer

‘Argyles, athletics, and even a pull-up’, if anyone wears those anymore

Mysterious and dark, heal and toe, how could anything ever stand up to THIS foe
Washed, worn and pilled, from one hundred percent cotton, milled.
Well that is a stretch, two percent is elastic around an ankle to catch.

‘you may never wear sandals again’ at least so they would like to pretend.
Hours waiting for laundry to finish, leads to impromptu filming of make-believe mock documentaries.
filmed barefooted, of footage no-one could, in good taste, defend.

A sequel is planed ‘The Right sock’ (*Working title) Due out sometime next year. Bigger holes are expected by then.
The left sock is rumoured to make a cameo, (Spoiler alert!) unless done in by the drier, ahem, I mean ’Lost’ before then.

In this reviews humble opinion, stay home and do your laundry instead, this is one short film you don’t want stuck in your head. Who ever dreamed up this nightmare should go back to bed.
But only after being forced to fluff and fold,
for who ever came up of a protagonist of a left sock to be told.

– W.B.

Day 26 NaPoWriMo 2020

Our prompt – You will need to fill out, in five minutes or less, the following “Almanac Questionnaire”
Then, use your responses as to basis for a poem.
Happy writing!

Almanac Questionnaire
Childhood dream:
Found on the Street:
Hometown memory:
Notable person:
Outside your window, you find:
Today’s news headline:
Scrap from a letter:
Animal from a myth:
Story read to children at night:
You walk three minutes down an alley and you find:
You walk to the border and hear:
What you fear:
Picture on your city’s postcard:                

Whom sends picture postcards anymore…

The weather lies, flora wilts.
Created spaces to open air, architecture flies, Outside the window is just outside from where light spilt.
Road markings found on the street, to control, tries, today’s news headline, repeated 50,001 times, lilts

Customs has long lineups and asks lots of questions, and likes few of the answers. Spies and persons of note are not always notable persons of interest causing heads to tilt.

You fear your fears because they are unreal, unfounded or exaggerated. All very unwise. Yes, that includes childhood dreams and its inherent guilt.
Conspiracy, hometown memory, often relating to ones home town guise. Whom told you to say that…! paranoia up to the hilt.

Dress down for casual, up for formal, the hight of wearing ties. You walk to the border and hear a line up, to art openings of Graffiti, usually best if of Tahiti. Export, Import, keep the economy going, even if you must pilt.

You walk three minutes down an alley and you find you found something three minutes away, an interest in you that buys,
for like lovers, best under cover, and mammals, reptiles and fish that always need feeding. The world gets to seem gilt.

Like old bed time stories, story read to young children at night just before turning out the light, ending in little surprise yes, yet childhood dreams still walk on stilts
Bookmarked of a scrap from a letter, do you scrap your letters? to be safe from prying eyes? Until tomorrows story of an animal from a myth. Mythical animals are just animals, if real, stalking from the silt

Lakes and back alleys plies, a question cries ‘What Picture is on your city’s postcard’ long ago found or built


Whispering Alder Tree

More like Van G Starry..
Swirly stars against
Blue black night
Ancient marine deposits
Deep underfoot
Remind us such
Ancient past/land mass
Stories in red ochre
Hand prints
Blue whales
Running mammoth
Dreams old- to fly
Pyramids call me
Bare feet
Warm sand
Distant relations
Beckon always
‘I love you forever
I love you for always’
Millions years old
Rocks tumbled
Mountain to sea
Paint them cheery
Bright acrylic colours
Leave gently
Dropped for another to find
Some just for my
Imaginary lover
Make him laugh
At least I hope that..
Long dresses-covered
Crawl into womb
Mother Earth
Sweat Lodge
Drumming singing
Loud & clear
Only sometimes,
I fear
To be alone, sick
For others….
The 5 G microchips
Crypto currency
Of our movements
No purchase unless tagged
No, Oh
Not war
No more war
And youth!
Being small
Kokisilah River
I swim there still
Always will be part of me
The day the eagle swooped
Lifted salmon
Talons strong wings
Rising, away
Strong proud bird
Like Cher
My musical icon
Grew up with her
Do you believe
In life after love?
A note in mail recently
A stranger wrote
‘You inspire me’
How I felt healed
Knowing others
Were cheered!
Take down all walls
That Earth could be divided so
Hopefully one day
Borders must go!
Love remains
The only answer
To everything.

   - k


Day 25 NaPoWriMo 2020

The prompt, which you can find in its entirety  here, was  developed by the poet and teacher Hoa Nguyen, asks you to use a long poem by James Schuyler as a guidepost for your poem. This is a prompt that allows you to sink deeply into another poet’s work, as well as your own.



Rainy day multitude of greys
Inside and out, wake ponder
Hear scratching, rise,look outside
Shiny black crows, tearing grass up
Like expert excavator operators they
Seek nutrition hunt down Chafer Grubs
Caw Caw Caw
Notes of the murder
Exposed,Slow my pc whirrs
Pending sign small blue circle
Blurs Ahh good I am patient!
Listen as clear wet drops
Hit my window 2020
Planet on lockdown
Curious eternally what
Will come next for us all
Curious I search your face
Your eyes
Plaintive call, white soft grey
Sea Gull flies by
Tired today
Think I shall rest
Small comforts matter

   - k

Season unread

Your letter arrives, softly drops, the postman walks away, his footsteps cover over in blowing seed husks of some tree down the street, over uneven sidewalks and the cracks, some falling between.
Squeaking lid closes, letter opener releases, the mailbox empty
contents unfold, unfurl, drawing out like the hours of the day
Snarls, turns into paragraphs and relays sentences imprisoned on the page. Converses of a world turning forward, persisting in every detail and want. Sputtering in idle moments, picking up, skipping over recollections in busy moments. A dirty silver car passes, turns, the next page, glances at the lines of traffic, the signs, the letters strung together into words, words follow one after another, Period, hexagonal stop to thoughts, as no one tickets run-on sentences, the weeds growing in the median, the unleashing of the word Go to grow, accelerating the thoughts and feelings into a journey, past the rows of houses, of all the people and their stories that will likely at some point intersect at a crossroads, one is to yield, will have to, but which?…

Your writing of seasons, the chill of the anticipation of Spring, cold shoulder of resentment to winters overstaying its welcome, harsh lettering, pens blue ink pressing too hard into the lightly textured surface of the giving paper taking down the emotions pleaded out in boxy forced letters drifting from the line of thought and text in distraction.
I leave the last page, for now at least, the turning of the point has not come, this is still the summer to read through, I have not prepared myself for winter in any sufficient way yet, not likely to, why turn the errant calendar before it is time. I shall content myself with the large butterfly longer, halting its migration by resistance, not to know yet what things might fill it’s space should I let next months image come, keeping the colours fresh.

The line echos in my mind “this young man in dun clothes who holds his hat so that the red lining shows and glows.” from this song line quoted through thoughts emoted of worn hat brims seasons shedding

The startling moment from the corner, startled by me, suddenly huge bulky a spider to see, darker than black, as my jaw goes slightly slack. One simply has to respond, or reread what will go on as actions become reactions that nothing can be done about.

The spider now trapped, glass ramekin, as it was the first thing I found, inverted beneath,.
glass prison holds it, the envelope that arrives to floor the prison, your stamp duly crossed out, dated, slips under to cary it away, release to the garden, off to follow the postman, footsteps lost now, only hints that seasons so still exist. Into the seasons of music calling out “the silence of a windless day’ to lead it away”.
I take the envelope inside for a second time.

There is more in this, I suspect on the last page, but who wants to go back into the cold slushy bogged down details of winter, rather shall I bring in flowers, keeping note of wayward spiders this time, branches of bud to open in the warmth of indoors, replaceable before the time they choose to drop leaves. Simple solutions to complexities of life.
And the reading of the ends of letters written in the midst of a storm.

– W.B.


Day 24 NaPoWriMo 2020

Today’s prompt is a fairly simple one: to write about a particular fruit – your choice. But I’d like you to describe this fruit as closely as possible.

Perhaps your poem could attempt to tell the reader some (or all!) of the following about your chosen fruit: What does it look like, how does it feel, how does it smell, what does it taste like, where did you find it, do you need to thump it to know if it’s ripe, how do you get into it (peeling, a knife, your teeth), do you need to spit out the seeds, should you bake it, can you make jam with it, do you have to fight the birds for it, when is it available, do you need a ladder to pick it, what is your favorite memory of eating it.
Happy writing!


Blue Berry

Well it’s dark blue when ripe
About 10 – 25 millimetres wide
The inside flesh is a light sickly green
And within that flesh are some very tiny seeds
Its overall shape is almost like a plump curling ball, with a crown of blue skin where the berry flower fell.
They are so delicious , sweet and sometimes tart.
I dream of days long passed where I used to pick them from rows of bushes in the sun
I picked to all day long, with a bucket around my waist
Those glorious days , all the berries I ate
One for the bucket, one to taste.

   - SDCRS

Natural Wonders

So tiny
Spot just a glint of red
Meadow wild strawberries
Alpine treasures
Forest delights
Remembering them
Never leaves my head
Small as thumbnail
Little beige cap
One bite bursts so sweet
Better then any other
Summer treats
I yearn for only a
Small wild berry
To eat

So neat!

      - k

Can do

What of the ever omnipresent ‘canned fruit’
shelved and ready
comparatively you’d think them terrible, pulpy and thready
but in the dead of winter who gives a hoot

To have halved peaches in the middle of a snow storm
sans hard indented pits, in a fit of hail
canned of a time when it was still warm
of over productive trees of summer, from fruits did sail

jared and saved
the popping top
now the sweet flavour raved
aroma, how does one, eating them, stop

the mould form from negative pit
dark pointy bit sticking in where it used to sit
Wedged and awash in juice

Yet not in a can, but a jar
Golden lid glints
vacuum sealed for date afar
on top someone the date canned prints

pealed and prepped for today
second to last, waiting its silky smooth texture to eat
The last jar of last year is set to stay
unless after the first jar I repeat…

Away from them I can not stay
my mind still feels the fuzz
even as I stroke the smooth glass of the jar
waiting for my sugary buzz

– W.B.

Day 23 NaPoWriMo 2020

Today’s prompt (optional, as always) asks you to write a poem about a particular letter of the alphabet, or perhaps, the letters that form a short word. Doesn’t “S” look sneaky and snakelike? And “W” clearly doesn’t know where it’s going! Think about the shape of the letter(s), and use that as the take-off point for your poem.


Capital A

A pyramid – ancient energy and healing
A mountain – with a snowy peak on the horizon
A pencil tip – with the written word flowing
A for the air symbol – one of the elements
A scribe compass to draw sacred geometry
A letter of great symbology
A beginning
A part
An A

   - SDCRS


Silent much too
Or overpronounced
So carefully
But mistakenly
Adding S to Z
Causes trouble
At times
For me!
Surname from afar

Zigs this way
Then that
Hard to find
Being at the very
End of alphabet

Sounds like sleep
Or slithering snake
Fried electronics
Quick zzt zzt it makes
Lving with Zed
Keeps life
Now I have
Dancing Zebra’s
In my head

   - K



But I really don’t know that I trust a town that starts and ends with an O
For some reason it feels like it just falls out of seasonS
Perhaps it’s just me as an IndividuaL
as I am hardly an aficionadO


around in circles, same beginning to end, looping O! ‘O’ perhaps it is ok to be sO
but wavering undulations, ’S’curving streets, that steal away, turning back in indecisionS
and layers turn, hiding around corners of the ’L’, quite confrontationaL
repeating a being too close thereinto thereintO

Oh how I keep having Oslo circling round my mind
Steeping in my swerving, curving thoughts
Leaning through troubLing corners
Over and back again Oddly.

Oh Oslo, O
into, and out of, my mind flowS
Churning and turning a corner at a crawL
circling back yet again, just to say another helO

– W.B.


Day 22 NaPoWriMo 2020

Our prompt for the day asks you to engage with different languages and cultures through the lens of proverbs and idiomatic phrases.
Many different cultures have proverbs or phrases that have largely the same meaning, but are expressed in different ways.

Today, I’d like to challenge you to find an idiomatic phrase from a different language or culture, and use it as the jumping-off point for your poem.
Happy Writing!

Énêhpoése ma’eno.

The turtle is shrouded = it’s foggy.


Crawling ever slowly
Lumber, heave
Out of ocean,sea
Onto beach
Starting new life
Ancient ritual
So beautifully
Digs perfectly
Flippers that swim
Also make holes in sand
So deep
Eggs large
Her other children
See clearly now
Also live
Only by Her Grace

   - k

All my.

My connection to you
All that ever was
That ever will be
The song in the wind
The rain on the asphalt
All life , and every atom
Each animal and creature
Those that came before us
And guide us
and those that guide us now
Every being
Every soul
Every tree
Every spark

I give thanks

   - SDCRS

‘Even the rabbit dreams of the moon’

Even the rabbit dreams of the moon.
even, sure footed,
hopping crater to crater.
In fields of clover, burrowed in for the night,

Of flying high, rocket motors to blaze a rapid rabbit trail across the sky.
Past bushy tailed clouds,
where no hare has dare gone before.
Dreams of sciences and scenes beyond its means.
Awake, or as now as it does slumber and snore.
That soon, one small hop for a rabbit, will come, as at the door it preens
will come of perseverance, will power, over the planet to tower.
Imagination woken, by a moon that waxes, wanes and gleams
Still, leaning against the cage door, as the others in the corner cower,
Daydreams that illuminate big eyes, and do not sour.

Of proverbs, idioms, rabbit writings, found by them profound
the cultural utterings to me of a slightly different sound
yet all of us look up at the same sky as we lay across the ground
to what ever meaning we may have found.

Even the rabbit dreams of the moon
dreams and ambitions, that will stay not grounded, nor swoon.

Even the rabbit dreams of the moon…

   - W.B.

Day 21 NaPoWriMo 2020

Today’s optional prompt Find a poem in a language that you don’t know, and perform a “homophonic translation” on it. What does that mean? Well, it means to try to translate the poem simply based on how it sounds.


Energy interpret

O Wiraqochaya – oh weary soldier
teqse Wiraqochaya – tired soldier
wallparillaq – take rest
kamaq, churaq- eat drink
“Kay hurin pachapi – here There is res
mikhuchun uqyachun,” for the tired one
nispa.- be stoll
Churasqaykiqta-change is coming
kamasqaykiqta – on the horizon
mikhuynin yachachun papa sara – the great father
imaymaná mikhunqan – the great mother
nisqaykita kamachiq mirachiq-the quiet magic
mana muchunanpaq – life givers
mana muchuspa qanta ininanpaq – give life to eachother
ama qasachunchu -deep earth rumbles
ama chikchichunchu-as you sleep
qasilla waqaychamuy.- under a starry blanket.

   - SDCRS


le ciel est bleu; une
semaine; le ciel est bleu; un mois: le ciel est bleu; une année

Il regarda le ciel et le ciel était bleu.

Lay seal, established beautiful unity.
Sommelier, the seal establish, upmost: the seal establishes; unites

ill-regardless, the seal electrical effects, through .

   - W.B. 

All Through the Night
Welsh Lullaby

O mor siriol, gwena seren
Ar hyd y nos
I oleuo’i chwaer ddaearen
Ar hyd y nos.
Nos yw henaint pan ddaw cystudd
Ond i harddu dyn a’i hwyrddydd
Rhown ein golau gwan i’n gilydd
Ar hyd y nos.
Oh more, Gwen was serene
Aye, past she looked
Deep into the night
Cold, she wore a sweater
Yet such hard dark fell
Never did she ask more
Only straightened her back
Rowing into gales
I am glad she is strong
Against the hard dark

   - k


Day 20 NaPoWriMo 2020

Todays prompt asks you to write a poem about a handmade or homemade gift that you have received.

And whatever gift you choose, we wish you happy writing!



Woven threads
spiral , star , life & death
sacred geometry
a delicate tapestry
hung in my door Sill
In memory
a reminder from creator
of balance




With movements nimble
Shining heart & soul
She weaves wire
Into magic
Sore from bending
Twisting, wending
Labour of love
Her only goal
Small cuts happen
She carries ever on
Knows all will heal
She doesn’t mind
Masterpiece in the making
Unique, astounding
What, when she is set to
I admire this woman
My daughter
Whose fingers
My love continues to grow
May she always know!

    - k


By Hand


Paper card
Raffia wrapped


by heart.

– W.B.


Day 19 NaPoWriMo 2020

Todays prompt challenges you to write a poem based on a “walking archive.” It’s when you go on a walk and gather up interesting thing – a flower, a strange piece of bark, a rock. This then becomes your “walking archive” – the physical instantiation of your walk. If you’re unable to get out of the house (as many of us now are), you can create a “walking archive” by wandering around your own home and gathering knick-knacks, family photos, maybe a strange spice or kitchen gadget you never use.

One you’ve finished your gathering, lay all your materials out on  a tray table, like museum specimens. Now, let your group of materials inspire your poem! You can write about just one of the things you’ve gathered, or how all of them are all linked, or even what they say about you, who chose them and brought them together.
Happy writing!


Today iso dandy

Up stagger , plop
my couch spot
Up Reach blind a cup of water -vape + phone
Drop, slump ,zonked out
Head up stagger ,sore
Reach for blankets -snore
Awake , reach for glasses
Water, phone ,vape
Walk back to bed
Gaze at the parallel head
Awake-reach for embrace
A kiss
Glasses, my necklace, phone, vape
Coffee pot, tap , filter , freezer , coffee can
Phone vape
Mug, sugar , coffee ,milk
Satisfactory slug
Phone , vape
Back to bed , reach for blankets ,
Warm kiss embrace
2 mugs of coffee , phone, vape
Book , another, book
A crystal , a piece of jewelry I made
A cup of water, a jug of water
A song bowl , a framed artwork hung, crystals re re aranged
A cigarette , a lighter. Phone
A cup of coffee
An acorn cap
Super glue
My necklace
My love
A hug
See you later
Phone vape

   - SDCRS

Here To There

2 sets ceiling lights
Burnt out
House is dark
Carry candles for
I cannot change things
Up so high
Old lady plights

2 ply
No 3 ply
Happy to have any tp
At all to appply
New fancy shampoo
From my friend
Thank you!

Clean floors!
Mop buckets

Tree roots
Block drain pipes
In my yard
Kitchen sink plugs
I wait
Do work slowly

Boxes & bags
From community
Haphazardly stacked
Push them aside
Until a new day

I wander alone
Day after day
Waiting to end lock down
Visit friends
Go out about town
I muse

    - k


Pile of tiny rocks,
Handful of fanciful pebbles gathered.
The pile slides. leaving one side scarped.

A blade of grass, broad, from a reed bed,
towering over scene diorama-ic.

Lace of large skeletonize leaf
bridges gaps between wormwood stick ’logs’
sags, unable to suspend itself.

Billowing pink of a cherry blossom becomes shrubbery.

Micro nature pulled from pockets
Slides, finds its own form

To scarp and slowly dissipate back into the world
until pocketed by passers by,
caught by a walkers eye.


Day 18 NaPoWriMo

Our optional prompt for the day y challenges you to write an ode to life’s small pleasures. Perhaps it’s the first sip of your morning coffee. Or finding some money in the pockets of an old jacket. Discovering a bird’s nest in a lilac bush or just looking up at the sky and watching the clouds go by.

Ain’t no drought

Ode dilly dally
A song to be sung
bout that refreshing earth fragrance
after the first rain come.

Deep breaths through me nostrils
an o’er again
I love me the smell of dirt
after the first rain come.

I be lickin the air
an ‘ feelin em drops
be dancin starry naked if
me had me own land & props.

What a glorious feeling
a scent-uals d-light!
when the first rain come down
It lifts me troubles and plights.

   - SDCRS


One looks away
Eternities go by
Swivel gently
This way
Flowing train
Landscape ever shifting
Scenes close…down
Light up
We pass by
Blur’d neon
Set the stage
There it comes again!
Of the dream
Never ending

   - k

A Wayward Tulip

Oh wayward bud




Oh the small season of joy,
to bring flower, seed happiness bright,
that a wayward Tulip brings

Green form coy,
to colour in the light,
into one of the finer things.

Oh opulence, the joy
of a wayward tulip bright.
That singular finding of joy in wayward things.

– W.B.

Day 17 NaPoWriMo 2020

Our prompt Today, I challenge you to write a poem that features forgotten technology. Maybe it’s a VCR, or a rotary phone. A cassette player or even a radio.


Huge ever growing
Messy ball
Dreaded by all
Fear reigns
Cannot toss
For one will need
What was thrown away
The box is boss!
There sits unused
Cel phones
All old
But ever useful!
I tell myself
As I
Hide it
Under the shelf
Once again

    - k

Cathode ray tube

Our tiny tube TV
not higher than a ruler
fully equipped with a
built in VCR player
Screen high and wide
by 14 & 18 centimetres.
Our bookshelf is stacked
with with VHS cassette favourites
dreams and adventures and lessons within , come my love , I’ve got popcorn
It’s time to dive in.

   - SDCRS


in 1985 a universal electronic control device was created,
that responded equally to all.
But being a little too egalitarian a device, fated,
came of an increased scope to any whom did call
Soon, all too easily bated
from grace did fall.

Even added to, a model plus
had not the remotest of a chance
with any, but a very few of us
would give it a second glance.

For there was little applause,
as it just confused the poor things cause.

For few any longer, willing to ’Clap on’
There are few devices even left to ‘Clap off’.
Gone is the era of ‘The Clapper’

in tribute I shall flash my lamp off, and on
the best thing about the thing was the jingle, I do not scoff!
“Clap On! Clap Off! The Clapper!”…

 - W.B. 

Day 16 NaPoWriMo 2020

Today we challenge you to write a poem of over-the-top compliments. Pick a person, place, or thing you love, and praise it in the most effusive way you can. Go for broke with metaphors, similes, and more.

My love

Lost without you
Found within you ,within me
Unsurmountable depths & heights
I yearn for your healing , I reach for your wisdom ,I’m called to your service, to serve the greatest good.
You make a lover of me, and I love you with all my soul. Come to me , oh love, and spread over this earth.
You are my truth, without you I would be barren, the world a place of only death and despair.
You give me sight , and reason and knowledge
You give me integrity and choice and hope
My soul rejoices
My days are filled with meaning
I know my direction
And I walk steady with you
Still I may fall, but always shall I get up
As long as you my love
are in my life.

   - SDCRS

Top Drawer

Upper most shelf
You are so fabulous!
No-one better in any lands
I am left speechless
In my admiration
Shower of praises
Could not
Would never
Be enough
I mean totally amazing
You are
You are!

   - k

Ode to number 10

Of all the menu to defend
I have to say the best, by far, is dish number ten.
Its long luscious noddles, broad, thick and wide, leave it not even needing a side,
for all other dishes would pale, after number ten.
Mushrooms acme to perfection,
Pictured, plated, with the picture perfect reflection.
Glowing peppers, blazing like a perfect sunset,
dash of wonderment, of a seasoning unknown, but that you will never forget.
Probably loaded with MSG, but is that even a thing anymore, as it be.
Scintillating sauce flowing far as the eye can see,
over cubes of beautiful eggplant, rubbery amethyst, of taste buds to rant.
Floating slivers of silver onions, salivary, starts a quiver.
This unmatchable take away is quite a giver.

Foresight, ahead of their time, it comes around in a square brown paper bag,
sent out straight away without the slightest sight of a hint of lag.

Yet it says number ten, but it can’t even to that aspiration of perfection even pretend.
But then what is this thing they have sent me,
Could it possibly be…
that it was item nine they sent to thine, rather then the ten I loved so dear
had they skipped up a line, I started to fear.

It had not the texture divine, but rather tasted like an old vine
It was certainly not a ten, not even a nine
it would engender no love of mine.
Oh where was my perfect ten,
to be flowing around chopsticks, in sauce swimming, diving in without end

 - W.B. 

Day 15 NaPoWriMo 2020

Our prompt for the day Today, I’d like  to challenge you to write a poem inspired by your favorite kind of music. Try to recreate the sounds and timing of a pop ballad, a jazz improvisation, or a Bach fugue. That could mean incorporating refrains, neologisms and flights of whimsy, or repeating/inverting lines or ideas – whatever your chosen musical form would seem to require!

Boom Boom Boom

Moon Lodge
Medicine Wheel

Heart beat
Or drum?
I lay awake listening
In synch
In tune
High pitched Prayer
Low baritone rumble
Woman singer
All the Women
This time
Everyone together
Ancestors Respect
All living beings
I drift into the dream

    - k

Track of day


starts long… and slow…
too distracted to notice….

the day gains pace,.. FINDs rhythm in rushing
Rushing into the next half measure
TOO many things…. TOO many things to do,… TOO many THINGS to do BEFORE lunch…
The volume raises, intensity BUILDS

Running down stairs, up a flight, then dashing down again
BUILDING then falling
Pausing for breath on the landing

Sitting just for a moment,
The anticipation of the empty vase
Who has time for roses, either the smelling, or the buying of
Just because, JUST because

RUSHING through the kitchen, CLASHING cupboards and POTS
kettle, boiling DRUMS
Momentum rolling, full rolling BOIL
Crashing over the top, screaming clouds of steam PITCH
too soon, WEEK, too late a measure, tepid

Jutting change of pace,
into the middle of things, LUNCH does lace
RUTTING GROOVE cuts across the MIDDLE, pace, in place

Something on a sourdough, Wrapped in plastic wrap, fused at the corners
Imposible to open, imposible to rewrap
Hard to IDENTIFY, easy to MYSTIFY
A day half done, gets NO shorter..

Wrappings crumped up, cleaning crumbs, PUTTING out to trash
wiping counter, rinsing off, hanging up
mindless actions taken a thousand times.
repetitive refrains, repeats again
lulling, lulling, waiting next

Tranquil terror, a quiet triangle surrounds
note, soon to be lost to the next measure
Us, Them & ME…

Turning of sheet music
Oboes off, horns horning in
Elbows fly at the ends of bows
notes from desk fly like arrows

egress, egress, hovers somewhere ahead in anticipation
a weekend waits somewhere beyond
violin cases come out
somber realization that work will be done, another day

the furry of BUILDING an END
Away, comes the echo of notes
The last stands at the door, waiting for its opening
slowly dimming, DESK by DESK

Folding of sheet music…

The last sound of the closing door, the locking of the tumbler
FOOT STEEPS, trailing OFF, and OFF, & off, and off…

It’s the classical track of the day.

– W.B.

Day 14 NaPoWriMo 2020

Today’s prompt asks you to think about your own inspirations and forebears (whether literary or otherwise). Specifically, I challenge you today to write a poem that deals with the poems, poets, and other people who inspired you to write poems. These could be poems/poets/poepl that you strive to be like, or even poems, poets, and people that you strive not to be like. There are as many ways to go with this prompt as there are ways to be inspired.


Locked journals
Diaries keyed
Secrets of children
Small youth
Thro teens
Record of all,
All one has seen
Dates & times
To have them now!
What would we find?
Inner treasures
Such special finds..
Our earnest past
Hearts & Minds

   - K

Wordsmiths Timeless Chronicle

The chair is hard
Though comparatively, soft in comparison to the desk.
These are the only lines I can compare, across non-contemporaries, that I can draw.
Lines!, Illustrations seem so much more novel than cut & Paste clip art…
Even that only takes me back so far, perhaps the hard bench,
Soft blotter covered desk…
before even, out doors, turning page of notebook, no not that kind of notebook.
Spiral bound?… String…. There is a video of how to do that.
But I should be writing
Perhaps that is the only comparable thing,
So long as there be writers, there be writers block?…
I can think of nothing more to write on that at this moment.

Flickering thoughts of candle light,
as I write under Light Emitting Diodes.
They wrote of magic,
Love that lasts a lifetime when lifetimes were short.
Leather bound hardcover volumes soft, handy to prop up a hard leaning desk
Pulp, Paperback, three lovers by page 33.
Quill in hand, ink well dripping, Amateur Vs Professional
Short haiku or tome processional.

Writers of ages
lost in endless pages
Voices, voices, ringing out, the bell at the end of the line.
Editors.. Comment removed indeed, for that one line back I pine.

Sunset Sandy beach, or Tree lined drive
the perfect openings line derived, for strived.

The chair is hard, The screen cold
timeless act of words to mould.

‘Ode to a weed
as all the flowers long ago went to seed
Sitting, wooden edge rotten
the first things planted here, long forgotten
Rusting staples stain
the worn wooden grain
Nothing as noble as an oak
Through the nails poke.’

Poetry, words for strove
trailing off into the wooded Grove.
They awe, as timelessly as before
all the emotions of time into, that did pour.



Today, I challenge you to write a non-apology for the things you’ve stolen. Maybe it’s something as small as your sister’s hairbrush (or maybe it was your sister’s boyfriend!) Regardless, I hope this sly prompt generates some provocative verse for you.


(The alternative spelling — catsup — popped up in a Jonathon Swift poem in 1730)


Carefully carrying catsup
Tiny paper cups
Blocks to get back home
Both hands loaded
‘Work to fill our bottle’
Mom said
Ohh little
Peanut butter/jams
Yes we were childhood thieves
Full throttle
Vinegar packets
Honey mustard
Brown sugar
What a racket!
Tiny creamers
Bbq sauce
Sometimes a tp roll
It was all so messed!
Games of children
When parents get hard pressed

   - k

I shall stand by my last word, to impress.

I shall not, allegations and charges against say ,that they invest
I shall not recriminate or waste breath of mine chest.
I shall not at them, even jest.
I shall not rest.

I shall not confess.
I shall not confess,
I shall not confess,
I shall not, under any duress.

I shall not confess,
I shall not, no matter what state of dress.
I shall not redress,
I shall not confess.

I shall not do what’s best,
I shall not confess.
I shall not flee from the West,
I shall not guess.

I shall not, no matter the mess,
I shall not confess.
I shall not hold it close to my vest,
I shall not confess.

I shall not confess,
I shall know matters regressed .
I shall not confess,
I shall not repress.

I shall not confess,
I shall never a button press,
I shall not contest,
I shall never divest.

I shall not confess,
I shall not, no matter how it might test.
I shall not be as the rest,
I shall stay abreast.

I shall not confess,
I shall not confess,
I shall not confess,
I shall not apologize, I confess.

- W.B.


Day 12 NaPoWriMo 2020

For today’s prompt I’d like to challenge you to write a triolet. These eight-line poems involve repeating lines and a tight rhyme scheme.


We wake,breath,weep
Smile deep
Give ‘Thanks’
Each morning’s prayer
Are we awake?
Is this sleep?
Each breath weeps
Each joy
For we Pray
Good Morning
We wake
We wake
We wake

   - k

Still water holds me
Drowning my belief in waves
Still unknown is the sea
Still water holds me
To content to flee
Held by sandy staves
Still water holds me
Drowning my belief in waves.

‘The Lake’

   - W.B.


Day 11 NaPoWriMo 2020

For todays challenge – write a poem in which one or more flowers take on specific meanings.


Memory so young
Of weeds unsung
Picking Dandylions
Roots & flowers
Bag after bag
Day-dreams wild
Fields for hours
Yellow green fingers
Smell of sunshine
Shook off small bugs
Chased bees away!
Home we’d trudge
Root beer
Would be reward
We’d drink treasure
Each summer day

– k

Dear Flower Yellow

Mellow yellow
fellow flowers.

What things calm in a bower,
If meanings come to plants to shower,
yellow blooms, that terms cower.

-Regard – Daffodil
Thrill, on petard.

-Dandelion – Rustic oracle
Rhetorical bright yellow flash of charged pion.

-Sunflower, Dwarf – Adoration
Aberrations of hight, devourer of solar power.

-Sunflower, Tall – Haughtiness
Gaudiness, mirroring the sun, over all others to tower.

-Carnation, Yellow – Disdain
Refrain cowardly contentment at relation.

Bitter weeds,
to a root leads.
Body language that starts at a glower,
growing more open by each hour.

What meaning slander,
if just glanced at a gander.
We are more than just pretty yellow flowers to candour,
that through the garden meander,
we must leaf out and up our dander,
not to weeds to such needs to pander.

– W.B.

Day 10 NaPoWriMo 2020

Today’s prompt is the hay(na)ku). The hay(na)ku is a variant on the haiku. A hay(na)ku consists of a three-line stanza, where the first line has one word, the second line has two words, and the third line has three words. You can write just one, or chain several together into a longer poem.

Day sleeps
Look other side!

I refuse
Yes sanity hurts

Bridges connecting
Souls of earth

Finds everyone?
Check your lottery!

One ply
To the greedy

Not away
Ignorance is peril

Past lies
Build new lives

    - K

Kiln fired
Red, Square, stacked

Mortared, grey
In herringbone sometimes

Irregular sized
sharp pointed corners

Plane, wall
enclosing, by clay

soft, malleable
moulded, transformed, built

Brick House
Straw, Wood, BRICK

– W.B.


Day 09 – NaPoWriMo 2020

Our prompt for Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a “concrete” poem – a poem in which the lines and words are organized to take a shape that reflects in some way the theme of the poem.
Your poem can take a simple shape, like a box or ball, or maybe you’ll have fun trying something more elaborate, like a poem in the shape of a Christmas tree.



Day 08 -NaPoWriMo -2020

Our prompt for the day asks you to peruse the work of one or more twitter bots, and use a line or two, or a phrase or even a word that stands out to you, as the seed for your own poem.

Still I..

You may write me down
In history
But alive or dead
Echoes the
Poetry in my head
Life- greatest mystery
My truth
Your truth
We lived

With your bitter,twisted lies
We breathed
In synch
Heart to heart
Eye to eye
Lifting each other
Humanity denied
Watching souls

You may trod me in
The very dirt
From which we come
For to where we go
Even with my breaking self
My deeper path
Holds joy
All I ever claim
To know

But,still like dust,I’ll rise
For I see us all 
As family
Humans reaching
Greater goals
A life where we 
All stand beside
Honesty integrity
No longer had to hide
Thank you
One by one
We enter/exit
Earth’s amazing ride

   - k

To ripple the water

‘Suppose for a moment we are crowded around a pier, waiting for something to ripple the water.’

Shakes the Ground.
Ripples time, tears,
takes exaltations aside.
Intent follows actions,
The quiet stillness,
in dusty drops,
unremarkably, un-notable, un-satiable.
thin film, blends.

‘Suppose for a moment we are still crowded around a pier,


‘Still Waiting for something to ripple the still water.’

Dried out tear
Covered over footprints
forgetting our path,
tide of motivation.
unshadowed still water
planks underfoot onward.
brings to edge
clustered crowds confined,
reaching to ripples.

‘for a moment we are crowded around waiting for something, Suppose a pier,’


To ripple the water.

- W.B.


Day 07 NaPoWriMo -2020

Today our prompt is a poem based on a news article. Frankly, I understand why you might be avoiding the news lately, but this is a good opportunity to find some “weird” and poetical news stories for inspiration.


Woke in Strange Land

(life after death confirmed news article)

Overslept an eon
Woke A God/Goddess
No longer fleshed
No more a peon
Earth emeshed

All these
Around me
Stars for hearts
Wind of eyes
Truth a colour
Trust flowed
Streamed like electricity
Deepest love
‘Til I could see
New choices
Of universe
So I lifted up/in/off
Flew about the galaxy
Just to see
What one could be
Saw earth shining there
Made a vow
Return one millenia
To share
This dream unfolding
But will anyone
Beleive me?

   - K

The short of it

The news made me cry.
Tankers of trouble,
Normalcy downtime drain,

Why after all of it, this,
Double even what I have been though,
bane of it all,

my eyes had still stayed dry.
Till now, finally, had burst the bubble,
washing me away, taking my emotions on a journey down the lane.

Try as I might,
rubble of nagging thoughts tripping me up
grain, dark fleck of stone, highlighted by flow.

The short of it they say, is one must simply not cry over spilt milk

   - W.B. 

The news made me cry
As down the drain it did fly
Why over spilt milk?

Based on Article –> ‘Nowhere for it to go’: Dairy farmers dump their milk down the drain | CTV News


Day 06 NaPoWriMo -2020
Today’s (optional) prompt write a poem from the point of view of one person/animal/thing from Hieronymous Bosch’s famous (and famously bizarre) triptych The Garden of Earthly Delights. {} or you might write from the viewpoint of Bosch himself? Very little is known about him, so there’s plenty of room for invention, embroidery, and imagination.


I could be anything
But that H.Bosch!
Took me
Made me
Three panels of Gosh!
From nothing I became
Triptych of fame
Uncertain of name
Crass but never blamed
Curious without answers
Oddities of nature
Never seen
Actions of weird wonder
World set asunder
For all to see
Hopefully throughout
All of eternity

   - K


Tie on,
Knotted over boot.
Three holes, repeat the left.

Quivering cold,
stage, into the right boot,
quartet, feathered arrows.
Haunting hunting cold,
into I must go.

Following, exertions,
of pushing off to the sides, the icy white marks,
cloud of breath.

I fly across the sheet ice,
straight track of pursuit

Bright eyed, beak slightly agape in anticipation
The ice is perilous and brittle thin

I have dreams of prey within,
to shoulder,
Longbow, taught

To my torso winged arms wrapped tight, for warmth
streamlined, pursuit, closing in.
they wait to be caught

The heart rate quickens,
the Skate- the uncouth and disreputable man
Becomes alive, each moment he stays ahead
in honorable evasion

The chase endless…
The Pond, cluttered,
infinitely, we loop
Tomorrow, again must I strap on the skates

Tie on,
Knotted over boot.
Three holes, repeat the left.

Draw the long bow
take aim
The flight of arrows
too soon to fall short

For If I have nothing left to pursue
am I any longer the pursuer…
This chase gives us each life.

We must skate
Each to its own nature.

– W.B.


Day 05 NaPoWriMo -2020

Our prompt for today is to use/do all of the following in the same poem. Of course,  if you can’t fit all twenty projects into your poem, or a few of them get your poem going, that is just fine too!

1   Begin the poem with a metaphor.
2   Say something specific but utterly preposterous.
3   Use at least one image for each of the five senses, either in succession or scattered randomly throughout the poem.
4   Use one example of synesthesia (mixing the senses).
5   Use the proper name of a person and the proper name of a place.
6   Contradict something you said earlier in the poem.
7   Change direction or digress from the last thing you said.
8   Use a word (slang?) you’ve never seen in a poem.
9   Use an example of false cause-effect logic.
10  Use a piece of talk you’ve actually heard (preferably in dialect and/or which you don’t understand).
11  Create a metaphor using the following construction: “The (adjective) (concrete noun) of (abstract noun) . . .”
12  Use an image in such a way as to reverse its usual associative qualities.
13  Make the persona or character in the poem do something he or she could not do in “real life.”
14  Refer to yourself by nickname and in the third person.
15  Write in the future tense, such that part of the poem seems to be a prediction.
16  Modify a noun with an unlikely adjective.
17  Make a declarative assertion that sounds convincing but that finally makes no sense.
18  Use a phrase from a language other than English.
19  Make a non-human object say or do something human (personification).
20  Close the poem with a vivid image that makes no statement, but that “echoes” an image from earlier in the poem.

Happy writing!


Her smile broke ground like an emerging flower
Our whole planet knew peace that day
I smelled purple & just knew you were close by
Great Mystery I give Thanks
Here in Heaven
The tears that dropped watered the roots
But the salt needed filtering slowly
Existence was always micromillesecondal
They loved deeply but still all was not well
Blue, his eyes spoke to me
Stay where your’e at I will come where your’e to!
The airways birthed life of the heart
The days light brought only darkness
Humbled they flew, jumping mountains
He said ‘Then how they knew the wrath of Kath’
I saw clear skies, heard new babies sighing happily
All would be well, very well
Today the crows mewed like cats
What’s up with that?
Reached out, caressed the air & was comforted
Living forever, still we all died
My delicious pillow called my name-Shhh I told it!

उन पर ध्यान मत दीजिये जो आपकी पीठ पीछे बात करते है,
इसका सीधा सा अर्थ है आप उनसे दो कदम आगे है!

Hindi quote-‘Do not pay attention to those who talk behind your back,
It simply means that you are two steps ahead of them!

In beautiful technicolours we rise while remain stationary

   - K

Insanity, but whom was keeping score of this bore?

The Grass sauntered off the field
The game all but long over, the people having exercised their rights to exit via three lefts.
Looking back ,the scent of red in the red banners, with its bright texture was a bitter sight to hear about, It almost left one staggered or, reeled.
Its grid of floorboard joints exposed, The bare field sat banner-less.

One gets tiered of being underfoot, trodden upon.
The Liquid door faithfully yielded, solidly slamming without a sound
as the Grass stormed on until the calm anger was gone,
Tender windows passed partially reflected acrimony from all around.

Crowded after game dressing room, Turning on the lights brought darkness,
‘Ayy, ye Bark, ney net no matter moor then yoor overbite, er bit, ney goood ta mention bed orthodontics. Cause in as indelance as soo nootch afair of you know no naciance matter of little importance en too find too much cracker matter of do think, know what Im meaning?’ …. … .. . . . . .
. . .. … …. ……. Dumfounded at the starkness
Unable to weed out understanding of words un-banding, unfounded and un-gleaning

Turning away
From, or back to, loyalties, impartialities, and blind loyalties
leaving to not stay
staying for the mindlessness, at the end of the day, escalating royalties

There was no home team in deep space, it was just a metaphysical argument that saturated the stands, along with the usual ‘how do you know the gravity is the same as at home’ and Whoms home would you set it to’?
‘Yo, Rhyme that!’
Half time, Locker room, the same old, same old, half the galaxy through
Rivalry, competition, ego and the usual unending spat

If the shoe fits, It’s not you, and maybe one really should go find a pair of boots
Cleats perhaps, steal toe?
For the salesmen are all old coots
What about deep space sport can they really know!

Of Jasper Okra, From Jupiter
Lead charger
They say he cheated on his exams, as in no way could he be worldly stupider
only his ego was, than his points tally, larger

Grassy was going to go insane
why did he stay
if there wasn’t anything more here for him to gain
it was all to do, just for the rest of the game there for him to lay.

The Whole game was pointless! There was simply not point in coming to watch these two teams play,
well other that the entertainment, challenge and need to try ands second-guess the outcome and micromanage things you had no control over or held of no clout
This was what filled the bleachers at then end of the day
and it could hardly be claimed pointless, as it was scored by points for the bout

Tomorrow coming an hour late right now,
In twenty minutes would be the second quarter,
Five after that will be the opening somehow
Thirty three later the awards ceremony, 5-3 for the Blues, in standard order

twenty two after that the end would start.
This all assumes that we will hold warp factor Y
Why, the real X factor would be where we managed the Zed threshold at heart.
We had to hold power as no one would ever settle for a tie!

The sight of the ebony bounded green lit scoreboard again starting up
Drew down the smell of rectangular trays hawked foods synthetic,
hearing the droll monotone calls from the players bench shouting, hands cupped
in bad bitter taste, just another forceful touch of the pathetic.

Crossing through space, motivation turfed, Grassy lay there in mirth
At this crazy game, flying through space, all but worthless
one team fighting the other, Egos Vs
The empty shadows of the arena, fading smell of red, in vivid textures, another fifty thousand lightyears into space, waiting for the fifth of four intermissions, turf-less.

– W.B.


Day 04 -NaPoWriMo -2020 

Our prompt for the day asks you to write a poem based on an image from a dream. We don’t always remember our dreams, but images or ideas from them often stick with us for a very long time.


Drummers In The Sky

This sleep I had
Woke me deep
I felt
Whole planet panicked,
Our global combined stress
Seeped, weeped
Build this huge glob
Of our souls
Collected aura
That then
Broke off from the Earth
Formed itself into spirit
Of us all
Our human hearts
Joined a circle
Spirit Elders
In @ dusky sky
BOOM The loudest sound
Uttered forth
In a flash
More then lightning
All was transformed
Was it

– K


The canyon, jagged angles, smoothed off, yet still rough,
Angles jutting out, running down the length.  
sitting there in the shade, as away mid day sun fell
cold walls tower in strength 
carved into stone tough

I can’t say if I am coming or going
it just goes on, into the distance
Lines come together, lines diverge
but never seem to merge
the walls go on in resistance
with no end showing

the strip of sky flies overhead
The world lies, out of sight, beyond
this liner maze
inside a calmness lays
Where cool air sinks to pond
To where ever it is I am to be lead

The flow of thought
river of subconsciousness
worn into my mind
into dreams, its way to find.
Tunnelling through dry heated deserts of maliciousness 
To bring needed escape, sought.

   – W.B.


Day 03 Prompt NaPoWriMo -2020

Today’s prompt asks you to make use of our resource for the day (Rhymezone Web site ).

First, make a list of ten words. You can generate this list however you’d like – pull a book off the shelf and find ten words you like, name ten things you can see from where you’re sitting, etc.

Now, for each word, use Rhymezone to identify two to four similar-sounding or rhyming words. For example, if my word is “salt,” my similar words might be “belt,” “silt,” “sailed,” and “sell-out.”

Once you’ve assembled your complete list, work on writing a poem using your new “word bank.” You don’t have to use every word, of course, but try to play as much with sound as possible, repeating sounds and echoing back to others using your rhyming and similar words.


Sans Souvenir

A lucky plucky Albatross came across a ducky Caravan,
from the ocean gloss, just a span and a toss.
All mucky and covered in green putty sea moss.

Sitting on tan sand,
In long refuge from Deluge,
and to the collective breeze
subjective to decrees, yet no pleas.
Would refuse to churn a cloud,
to form from astern, a rain to dilute,
only to see, to high mountain screes, every raindrop always flees.

Prairie’s tarries snares, to green squares, morning dew on chairs,
but over the seas beach only a hot sun flares, rays descending by stairs
to dually delude and denude, that any moisture might ever extrude or exude.
Next to ferries to skerries,
Like little UV fairies, to scan and burn flan flesh, to the colour of ripe Strawberries

Effective of directive perspective to yearn,
how of holes in sky to durn, to be able to learn to retard,
to be on the vanguard of how, of unwanted things, to discard.
Able to return to picturesque unflappable card of verdant image of the picture postcard
taken, once, in its prime, from high above on the Boulevard.

   - W.B.
Word bank --->

	-across -gloss -toss -sea moss
	-mucky -plucky -putty -ducky 
	-card -discard -vanguard -postcard
	-collective -directive -subjective -perspective
	-yearn -durn -churn -stern
	-breeze -screes -pleas -flees
	-prairie's -tarries -skerries -ferries -fairies
	-chairs -flares -snares -squares
	-refuge -refuse -dilute -delude -dually
	-scan -span -tan -flan



Mimosa trees with rosaries
We bowed, we vowed
Paid notaries
Meanwhile sphinx blinks
Together we weather
Following moot routes
Heading somewhere?
Eyes seek a spare
Any variation
Ah vexation 
No train at station
Even after I’d paid
A reading of palmistry
Her finger doodled
Feudal across my hand
Searching my inner nation
Climbing high branches
So high up
One cannot see

   - k


Day 02 NaPoWriMo-2020

Our prompt for the day asks you to write a poem about a specific place —  a particular house or store or school or office. Try to incorporate concrete details, like street names, distances (“three and a half blocks from the post office”), the types of trees or flowers, the colour of the shirts on the people you remember there. Little details like this can really help the reader imagine not only the place, but its mood – and can take your poem to weird and wild places.


Remember 9

Meadow straw
Berries, tiny
Bursting such
Each more treasure
Then gold
Flash of red tint
Among short grasses
A cherished afternoon
When country
Youth’s diamonds

We’d walk so carefully
Sun drenched
Eyes happily scanning
Mother earth’s colours
Of summer
Above & beneath us
Gently drinking
Softest of fresh Alpine air
My little Sister
Memory forever
Her hand in mine.
Tell me…

What childhood
Great memory
Do you find?

       – K



Tin Corners, at the folded standing seams, just rusting here and there, 
where scratched, dented.
Or at the dimpled meeting of the occasional Philips screw cross crossing. 
The vertical streak of rust running down.

The horizontal stripe, 
to add interest to the otherwise faded dull siding of a dull building.

The flat roof, of a tin utilitarian box, 
Sided, bottom third white, 
middle third an off white freight,
 a sort of cream, the top again white, 
this time less faded and so a little more bright, 
a colour scheme of which no one ever would dream.

The glass sliding door to save space. 
Opening only occasionally in the sea air to let pass, 
White shirt, dated collar, the old logo, dark slacks of someone with no one, for to pump gas. 

Circling now the centred tin sided building, 
sweeping the barge deck of the floating station,
just jutting out from the building by a meter and a half,
around the edge, 
swept over the edge and into the still waters today. 

Cleaning of two square shaped old pumps, that at no one in the last few hours stopped to pay.
Before returning through the sliding door
to await more boats, fuel to pour.

We watch the station, as it sits across Mosquito Creak,
in all its lack of presence, meek. 

From a park, short walk down from Bewicke Avenue, 
past the fenced off parking lot of the Burrard Yacht club, 
with its ugly chain link fence,
Holding back dark green, olive leaved hedges.
Down the other side, the beauty of the Cedar split rail fence framing the water.  
Next to the three cold metal, power-coated bright red Adarandock chairs, and one bench 
lays the view, wedged between two marinas
off the end of the breakwaters,
rows of boats flank.
But in the center floats the station, barely labelled,
nudged by old messy, abandoned dockwork un-fabled,
some half submerged, yet not looking too unstable.
Tethered to docks lining back up to breakwater, 
running to shore.
It blends in there, too easy to ignore.
Connected, unevenly by narrow planking
Floating in the distance 
blending into the background with little resistance 

In the time it has take to eat a lunch,
clean the sandwich crumbs of sourdough,
All the little nothing details,
so often overlooked,
have come alive in my mind
into a story I find. 
Telling, of an old boat station, 
into an odd space, oddly crooked 
I find myself to it, an oddly strange relation. 

       – W.B. 


Day 01 Prompt NaPoWriMo -2020

Todays prompt, which deals with metaphors!
Today I’d like to challenge you to write a self-portrait poem in which you make a specific action a metaphor for your life – one that typically isn’t done all that often, or only in specific circumstances. For example, bowling, or shopping for socks, or shoveling snow, or teaching a child to tie its shoes.

Happy writing!


Kindling the Fire

Springs murmurs wake moist soil
Where Sophia’s seed laid sleeping
White roots break brown wrapper shell
As her responding belly begins to swell
I wonder as I observe her unfurl,
Was she afraid as she entered the yawning dark?
Did she interrogate the lingering night?
Resent the bitter wintertime cold?
And was she comforted, obtaining refuge in the earth
Dreaming all the while, of a verdant and fecund rebirth.

       – Tree


Taken for granted
Ownership convoluted
Need solutions
Not rantings
A better way
To grow
Mono crop plantings
We come to see now
More precious then gold
Wars fought
To buy it-be sold
Moves undergound
Can be 10,000
Years oldMen learn not
It has memory
We only now see
Much more respect
For H2O
I plead
We need new laws
Re-think it
No life least 
We drink it

– K

The Lanyard

Within a loop is to pull.
Pulling against itself,
Binding within.
Caught on its own conflicts,
but first, a needle to be thread.
The fine eye blinks every time,
the opening unseen, the opportunity missed.
A premature pulling, closing off,
the conflict of push verses pull,
The secure connection of solid webbing, waiting on this tiny thread.
The whole, waiting on a start,
the end, unfinish-able until.
Loops around again,
the knotting of nerves, frustrations at the unbound.
The infinite loop, needing to be never-endingly caught
The simple act of turning it into itself
and pulling through.

   - W.B. 

Day 00 Prompt
Early-bird prompt, I’d like to invite you to write a poem about your favourite bird.

Beached on branches, but moment
Bleached white breast, capped black
eyes dart
Branch to branch
Plump form follows
calls from perch to window
Pauses a moment
Gone before the echo fades
Chickadee, dee, dee…..

   - W.B. 



Friends of the Grove presents free pop up public art button making in the Newton Grove 

Wednesday July 24th 3:00-6:00pm in the Newton Grove 

Come make free tin buttons with Friends of the Grove! You can bring artwork or design something at art table! 2-3 buttons per person!

Hope to see you there

       – Friends of the Newton Grove

CedarBarkPoets: Book# 32 ‘Tables & Happiness’

CedarBarkPoets: Book# 32 ‘Tables & Happiness’

And now, heres Poetry Book Number 32 ‘Tables & Happiness’ 

Thank you to all the people that sent in poems, or stoped by the Espreso cafe to take part in Aprils ’ Pay with a poem.

       -The Cedar Bark Poets 


The theme for the next Poetry Book(#33) will be

‘ Fireworks & Phases ‘

Due by July 31st 

Sent your Poems to


CedarBarkPoets: Book#31 ‘Emotions & Pen’

The first 30, and now Number Thirty-One! we’re on a roll here poetry people! Keep up the good work!

The theme for the next Poetry Book(#32) will be

‘ Tables & Happiness ‘

Due byJune 30th

Sent your Poems to

And now… Book#31 ‘Emotions & Pen’
Happy reading…

– The Cedar Bark Poets


And this is it for 2019 National-Poetry-Writing-Month for the Cedar Bark Poets, we hope you have enjoyed  30 Days” challenge for National Poetry Writing Month

Each day we have  been following the prompts from
—-> NaPoWriMo

Tune in again next year for more NaPoWriMo.


Day 30

The final prompt for this year! I’d like you to try your hand at a minimalist poem. What’s that? Well, a poem that is quite short, and that doesn’t really try to tell a story, but to quickly and simply capture an image or emotion. Haiku are probably the most familiar and traditional form of minimalist poetry, but there are plenty of very short poems out there that do not use the haiku form. There’s even an extreme style of minimalism in the form of one-word and other “highly compressed” poems. You don’t have to go that far, but you might think of your own poem for the day as a form of gesture drawing. Perhaps you might start from a concrete noun with a lot of sensory connotations, like “Butter” or “Sandpaper,” or “Raindrop” and
– quickly, lightly – go from there.



Day 29

Todays prompt – Write a poem that meditates, from a position of tranquility, on an emotion you have felt powerfully. You might try including a dramatic, declarative statement, you might try addressing your feeling directly, as if it were a person you could talk to. There are as many approaches to this as there are poets, and poems.

Cast in Resin

Thinking outside of the box is easy, getting out is hard, getting in near impossible,
figuring out why you’d want to sometimes

The sharp corners
Uncertain mass

The thing sits
Unapproachable, Yet

Even proportions
Odd feelings invoked

Yet now inactive
Terror contained

Look closely, The pattern veined
Far reaching

It’s not the box, but the contents
Never content not to try to peer inside, but it calmly resists

There are corners in the mind, corners that hide boxes, of boxes without locks or keys,
sharp corners un-dented, that turn, churned into points,

Surreal walls of boxes, beige
Mazes within the grey of mind, of changes in time

Packed away and harmless, we let them slip away into the back of our mind,
Lacked caution of causation in the untucking of box flaps

Here in lies the Black cube,
entombed in detritus, bubble wrap and scrunched up newspaper

of, the boxing of the old, no longer needed
Change comes to all things, next steps come

the strange black cube,
of moments, places, meetings, plannings, we have left behind

the startings of startling new things underway
now the ‘beginning’ terrors packed away

Past, sweating of palms, pacing, endless glances at the clock
moving to the middle, past starts, new

Come to, and must remember resolutions
of present solvable woes, as was

of the moment, confusion, will not last
no matter the concussion of things around us that seem to blast

Past hesitations and doubts
Should act as packing slips, proof that we can fight our way out

Through madness with passion and solid reason.
out of chaotic winter, to spring to the next season

onward out of the box,
dive into the next thing that blocks

Past past doubts
the reminder cast, set forward touts

Cast in resin
Past, the set fluid madness of flailing reason

– W.B.


Day 28

Todays prompt – Write a meta-poem, Which are poems about poems


Is this a grocery list or a poem?

Avocado, three onions, Sponge cake
if the list you even remember to take

A rhyme here and such and such there
words don’t even need to a wine pair

a reusable bag, meal plan, or just plain wing it
there are endless things into a poem about meals to pit

Should poetry make you hungry? or fill you up
Could all the rules be reversed
like all hors d’oeuvres and an overflowing cup
or should words be main course, poised and pursed

Like a meal of herbs devoid,
and are there ingredients with which you plain become annoyed

a favourite meal, just plain, just plain, just plain repetition
just plain, just plain, just plain, just plain, just plain, until interdiction
seven days a week, a habit now, or a superstition

three courses set, following a set length
alternately ending the same each time
Patterned the same, onward to the same strength
Same message, set to run again to mime

I ponder all this, waiting in line, poetically preparing to double bag in kind
perhaps I just am hungry with a meal on my mind
But also I crave poetry, and its many variations I find.

so is this a poem, or a grocery list
shelves full still, of all the poetic devices I’ve missed
carting off if only a few, of poems or Groceries, I think you may know the gist.

– W.B.


Day 27

Todays prompt -ReWrite a Shakespearean sonnet, I’d like to challenge you to “remix” a Shakespearean sonnet. You can pick a line you like and use it as the genesis for a new poem. Or make a “word bank” out of a sonnet, and try to build a new poem using the same words (or mostly the same words) as are in the poem. Or you could try to write a new poem that expresses the same idea as one of Shakespeare’s sonnets.


most the day, directed shade would shadow
show dreams bright blessed clear, When in heavy sleep
show How fair form day shines thy sightless dark,
when happy with looking on unseeing
clearer look would sleep, When unrespected
But form to dreams on eyes made light To wink!

thy imperfect nights whose much living day
then darkly say mine eyes How, I do see
bright night in stay, dead view When things best so.
For the shadows Through days doth see Then nights,
And in thy days bright, thee make shadow’s on
eyes, mine doth see bright, they By thy shade me,
All are in thou, And I, when all they be;
I do thee, thee eyes are thee! till to I

– W.B.

XLIII (-the Original)

When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see,
For all the day they view things unrespected;
But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee,
And darkly bright, are bright in dark directed.
Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright,
How would thy shadow’s form form happy show
To the clear day with thy much clearer light,
When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so!
How would, I say, mine eyes be blessed made
By looking on thee in the living day,
When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade
Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay!
All days are nights to see till I see thee,
And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.

– Shakespeare


Day 26

Today’s prompt is centered around repetition. Write a poem that uses repetition. You can repeat a word, or phrase. You can even repeat an image, perhaps slightly changing or enlarging it from stanza to stanza, to alter its meaning. There are (perhaps paradoxically) infinite possibilities in repetition.

There is in the middle a center.

There is a forest in the middle of the trees
Of evergreen trees in the middle of a deciduous ring.
Straw birds nest, sits in the middle, with two bright blue eggs,
On sticks and straws in the middle sat, a leg to either side.
Overhead, cloudy sky, in the middle one darker, menacing
a somewhat mid tone, in the middle of greys I’d have to say.
Drifting, in uncertainly in the middle of moods,
Rain or merely shade, in the middle of deciding.
Blustering wind across, in the middle of overriding,
as the blue clearing sky in the middle sliding,
filled out and took over in the middle of the afternoon.

Half way across dashing, in the middle of a stride the eyes shift,
A dashing fox stops to look in the middle of the clearing,
A small Purple flower sits, in the middle yellow stamens sure to stain,
lazy bumble bee circles in the middle, working his ways, of dusted pollen, strays.
The fox watches his ways, in the middle of a daze,
Transfixed and captivated in the middle of his way.
Dozens of times before in the middle of the month
he’d just run on through in the middle without a care,
today, is a bee buzzing in the middle at which to stare.
Of pollen it took a share, in the middle of it all hurrying to finish,
this flower, then the next in the middle of its route.
How he looked the brute, in the middle of kicking his legs out to scoop
But the quick old fox, lost in the middle of his day dreaming,
of bees, flowers and flying, in the middle now, of mid day,
had got lost in the time, and in the middle of being led out of his way,
now dashed off quickly from in the middle of the forest.
To a canopy of leafs where, in the middle of each a stem, divided, a line drew,
and somewhere this morning in the middle of dripping branches, ran a drop of dew.

A low flying bird, back to its nest in the middle, somewhere,
With a twig firmly in beak, held in the middle, darted between branches,
under a clearing sky of blue in the middle, singing a song in tittle.

There is center here, holding in the middle, the hub of nature,
in the middle it radiates from in the middle to dazzle the birds, foxes, and bees,
Even the now blue sky seems in the middle to freeze

From a center point held fast in the middle to please.

– W.B.


Day 25

Today’s prompt -Write a poem that:

Is specific to a season
Uses imagery that relates to all five senses (sight, sound, taste, touch, and smell)
Includes a rhetorical question.


The blinding smell of seeds.
The pungent sound of budding flowers.
Velvety weight, heavy feeling, of unfurling leaf.
Flavourful colouring in stones under a runoff stream.
The shiny look in lightness of air.

The odour of the sound of spring,
warming feel of flavours of things soon to again sing,
rain showers, fogged behind the last due dew of winter

What sense do you have past the last hour of winter, into the first of spring?

– W.B.


Day 24

Today’s prompt -Write a poem that, like “Dictionary Illustrations,” is inspired by a reference book. Locate a dictionary, thesaurus, or encyclopedia, open it at random, and consider the two pages in front of you to be your inspirational playground for the day. Maybe a strange word will catch your eye, or perhaps the mishmash of information will provide you with the germ of a poem.

X 6426-6427

From Dusty shelf, piled at the end

Harmsworth’s Universal Encyclopedia Vol.X ‘Pensn-Rotti’

Somewhere in the middle,
Opened Pages, 6426 – 6427, of Volume Ten
From the days past, when you had twelve volumes of anything
from the Q’s,a page to spring

There is a nobility in the small print, justified
Top of page ranges,
6426 Quadrat to Quagga
and facing
6427 Quai D’Orsay to Quantock Hills
Underlined, the Importance of words

Fine inline illustrations in greys,
of Quadruplet, Sir Richard Quain, Quail, and Quake Grass
Spread across pages inline to stay,
adding another element of class

Quadrat, Quadric Equation, Quadratrix, Quadrature, Quadrilateral, Quadrilateral, Quadrille, Quadrille, Quadrireme, Qudroon, Quadruplane, Quadruple Alliance, Quadruplet, Quaestor, Quagga

It sounds like an incantation when spoken in time, incantation 6426
words off the tongue flicks.

Flip to facing, 6427,
Quai d’Orsay, Quail, Quain, Sir Richard, Quake Grass, Quaker Girl -the musical comedy, Quakers, Quality, Quality Street, Quamash, Quantification of the Predicate, Quantity, Quantity Surveyor, Quantock Hills

Quality quantity of words here to make you all but ’Quake’, but oddly not here.

From Quai d’Orsay in Paris, beside the Seine, to Quantock Hills in Somerset England, the words are crystal clear.

Printed between embossed fancy covers, a family of twelve,
23,500 Illustrations, into to delve

The brown bound, black lined set, on a shelf set,
in lieu of bookends, the first, and last, three, turned to stack at ninety degrees

– W. B.


Day 23

Todays prompt – Write a poem about an animal.


Raise to the Menagerie

The Oryx

Oh the Oryxes, I had never seen,
African, arid loving Antelope
Herd nearly never heard again, or been
Drinking melons, like me and cantaloupe

The Quoll

Cat like, short legs, white spotted coat, pink nose
Sitting poised , eyes steely, marsupial,
No idea, by night, where to he goes
Solitary, with ears perked, nocturnal

The Raccoon

Greyish fur, adaptability, lies
Ringed tail, Climbing fence, dexterous front paws,
Facial mask, Black band. Whiskers begging eyes
Without fear, constant pleading for its cause

The Ferret

Attentive little thief, slender and long
secreting away little items, quick
Sleeping mostly until dawn to dusks gong
Dance, frenzied sideways hops, leaps looking slick

The game is on, ‘It’s Friday’ is the phrase
Foursome, unlikely nightly poker game
Ante up, to the menagerie raise
Party animals, raising stakes the same.

– W. B.


Day 22

Todays prompt -Write a poem that engages with another art form – it might be about a friend of yours who paints or sculpts, your high school struggles with learning to play the French horn, or a wonderful painting, film, or piece of music you’ve experienced – anything is in bounds here, so long as it uses the poem to express something about another form of art.


Ode of Terroir

In the countryside,
Of views far and wide.

In descriptions of colours and shade,
of posts pegging down the hill as it laid

Of the expressions of silty soils,
and how light lime green climbing tendrils around wire coils

Of Weather, Moisture levels, Sun and Temperatures, that would peek to new highs,
of seasons, birds flying off for the winters, and their goodbyes.

Picturesque hill sides, landscaping,
and new paths and levels reshaping

Wiring, Drip emitters, Mulching and post
of spring birds again to spring, and around clouds to coast

all of these things form pictures, paintings, poetry and stories
The narrative of it all can turn out incredible works and great glories

But all are editable, retouch-able, rework-able pieces.
even if they start to go bad, there are certain releases

But what of the vineyard, wine produced
there is, until too late, not ever really any way of even knowing if it’s quality has been reduced

There is a unique form of each Terroir grounded
That must be in each batch of fine wine be carefully founded.

With only one single chance
you have only a few chances to get it to dance

On the pallet, and off the nose
there are a thousand decisions of which direction best goes

The committed art of wine making
more that a mere thirst to be slaking

for there is less satisfaction, for Grape Juice, grape skins to be breaking
so much to take for granted, so much information for the taking

Elements bottled
and all the issues and processes that need to be throttled

And finally in the art of patently waiting
for reviews by critics stating.

– W.B.


Day 21

Todays Prompt -Write a poem that incorporates wild, surreal images. Try to play around with writing that doesn’t make formal sense, but which engages all the senses and involves dream-logic.


Does it Bend, or Break

Pages turn, not over, but in content in kind, when put away, or read by another
Worlds there in reinvent themselves, plots refine and details redefine
The March of letters, march off to new adventures, come back to record the details of undone deeds done
Never Booking off, Bookcases cover for the absence, knocking over or the pushing off others,
The world is in motion, only seen when we still move against it
Covered for in story, exposed, changing when unseen
Is there gravity when you sleep, as in the floating slumber
May words worm off to change before tomorrow comes.

The dawn brings illumination of that that the sun did not glint off last night, in the setting.
Garden Gnomes, become trusted by commercialization, friendly things that alter surrounding by night, moon powered mischievous things, that softly sings, trouble in delight, trouble by morning light
Garden Gnomes, with implements rusted, March not ever onwards, oddly trusted
Marching never past garden fixtures trussed
Walking, waking, through un-dreamt gates slaking.
The hose, the hose.. did you leave it uncoiled?…
In chase, or league with, something over ground unspoiled.

Do you remember, from above, the line, ‘of the book spine’ from before
Can this change you simply ignore
will by the end these lines be anymore….

Dream, notice not as unusual, the Beaver that comes for your nickels,
nor the Fish that asks you if you are alright, note that he doesn’t seem out of sorts in doing so.
But are you still awake, woken to an assertion that you were out of pickles
or dreaming still, un-woken by the tickles, untouched as you go


Gaps, gaps? lapses?


Money brings time, and time will not buy you space, but space will give you no credit, and Money does not make change.
Where slim wallets are heavy, and giant bulky tiny purses float, yet there will be nothing given for getting on the boat.
The trip to a sunken shore, where footsteps raise in a sunken sand, and the path behind you builds up into mountains, walls of popular paths, to stop you from going there again.
The smell of scentless-ness-ness pervades, into borders that smell bad wafting into solids
Sinking into sinking evergreen trees, roots branching into the sky, and leaves that leave to delve back into the earth.

Bands of blue, trap madness, in stagnant earth, Happy Garden Gnomes denoting sadness?…
A tale of, written, in a book knocked over
Of floating hose, recoiling from the imprint, in a field of clover
Dimes sail by, across an insomniacs dreamy sky to fly.
Unwavering, in a world of change,
Of unwritten laws and bills,
That flutter around the flying carp that harps, on serious questions asked on a lark
Who nose what smell next is to be unknown,
or what things, in wrong directions grown.
Smaller now, than then, will it shrink enough to one day end, only to have to begin again.

all mannerisms sum, the maths add up, the equations done
but life is variable, and the variables make it run
you just need to work out, a simple estimate of just how stout is the pun
of just how much it does it bend, or break, is it by dream or by a reality, a madness spun.

– W.B.


Day 20

Today Prompt – Write a poem that “talks.” What does that mean? While it isn’t a monologue, it’s largely based in spoken language, interspersed with the speaker/narrator’s own responses and thoughts. Try to write a poem grounded in language as it is spoken – not necessarily the grand, dramatic speech of a monologue or play, but the messy, fractured, slangy way people speak in real life. You might incorporate overheard speech or a turn of phrase you heard once that stood out to you – the idea here is to get away from formally “poetic” speech and into the way language tends to work out loud.

Say “What!”

“How long… They left at Two forty five, remember, it’s the last turn on the left.”

— It’s gibberish, its all gibberish

“No, left, last one on the left”
“Got it”
“No? Left is right… err, correct”
“Three forty five”
“No, two”
“Two forty five!”
“Can I scream Now?!“

— It’s gibberish, its all gibberish

“$17.99 for flowers, and wilting ones at that!”

“The head is not always in conversations, not when romance takes over as the dominant driving factor, there is, you know… the haze of heart taking away weighting, Words lose their balance and… a haze of heart fogs the way,”

“Is that what they used to say. Surely there has to be something to do,”

“Fog horn, really loud bloomin foghorn, I mean thats going to be your only chance really, but really, probably you’ve already figured it out.. I mean, your either on the rocks already or drifting out to sea, and! It’s bloody ice cold out there.”

“It’s almost Three, are we gona make it?….”
The other half of the statement was silently, implied
“Questions and answers, Questions and answers,” Questions and answers,…

— It’s gibberish, its all gibberish… ‘unless you know better’, they’d said that before, I don’t think I got that, but I’m sure it’s fine.

“Their replies may not be exactly what they are, Time wires us together you know, the unseen expressions heard”
“Does any of that even make sense?….”
Pauses, Pauses,… “Pause?”
“Pause? do we really even have the time anymore…”

— It’s gibberish, its all gibberish

“There are conversations you have with yourself right,… one sings in the shower,.. everyone sings in the shower right?… and there are place to have conversations out loud, thoughts that need to reverberate through air, echo off surfaces, safely contained in private areas where there is no one around, possible with a white noise of a soundtrack playing in the background…right…?”

“There are conversations that you have, and they just seem to fill in the blanks”
“There are these conversations that you have where I fill in the blanks, and wonder if I just had it alone, I wonder if was I alone… or did I just have it for you, were you even there at all… “

“Did I say any or all of that out loud? Say what!…

– Wait,.. am I just thinking this, or saying any of this Gibberish out loud….

“Excuse me?” was that a Question? “Were you talking to me?”

“What?” !

– W.B.


Day 19

Todays prompt – Write an abecedarian poem – a poem in which the word choice follows the words/order of the alphabet. You could write a very strict abecedarian poem, in which there are twenty-six words in alphabetical order, or you could write one in which each line begins with a word that follows the order of the alphabet. This is a prompt that lends itself well to a certain playfulness.

An Up and Down, or across Zig-Zaging

Anyone know where or when the Zebra
became obsessive of his Youth?
Changing up his stripes like a bad Xerox
dramatically, Thinking he was upping what he considers his worth
Every moment contrasting his self virtue,
for a Zebra can not change his stripes underneath,
great efforts aside, as he might try
he will ultimately be sorrowful
in that he will no doubt rue
just about every line and thing he tried to hide or redrew, as his self demands started to Que.
Keeping him unsatisfied and unable his wants to placate,
leaving little outward
modifying, line by line neatly,
neearly into new lines thinking himself moulding.
Off to fit into greener pastures, thinking to contently, confidently lay,
pushing ever onward for new ground through, hopping fences like a kangaroo,
quash doubt by leaving behind questioning jurisdictions,
running by lines of shadows, strobing black and white inked,
stubbornly unwilling to look back, only forward to hoof
trying along the way to not to look too aloof, failing greatly.
Undeniably, on him grating going forward,
virtue always seemed over the horizon, ever elusive
where ever he found himself for the night dreaming, or daydreaming.
X-ray like stripes revealed his innermost self, by caught.
Yielding to patterns of self torment wrought before
zags of stripes, slowly as they were, he came one day to adore.

– W.B.


Day 18

Todays Prompt – Write an elegy, one in which the abstraction of sadness is communicated not through abstract words, but physical detail. This may not be a “fun” prompt, but loss is one of the most universal and human experiences, and some of the world’s most moving art is an effort to understand and deal with it.

O Leaf De-leaf

Green, yields to brown, to skeleton of frame
delicate ribs and stem, fade to the earth
no longer to shimmer in winds that came
ornamentation lost of a trees worth

Serrated edge, to slice into the wind
capturing the suns rays, feeding the world
holding onto branches, offset pairs twinned
peeking out between flowers to unfurled

Tree sustained, another seasons refrain
feed a ring, branch for perched bird to sing
one of a kind, never to be again
your time to shine like a jewel, crowned a king

O De-leaf

Green leads to brown, to mottled brown, to bare skeleton of frame
cleft leafstalk, sits down now on exposed roots
I shall not, my dimmed skyward view, any longer by you be blocked
Yet I shall not have your purview in my view any longer, so it’s all rather blandly moot
But I shall miss your curved form, and dipping tip, the delicate ribs and sturdy stem,
as they slowly to fade, fade as you return to earth

to see no longer you to shimmer, dance around in stiff breezes and strong crosswinds that came

the bare frame now, now that ornamentation has been lost, a certain loss of a trees worth
the bareness of my days that I must winter though bitter fall

for all the days of the months to watch as your serrated edge, bit, and moved to slice into the wind
Turning it back on itself in self defeat
Twisting tracking, capturing the burning suns rays, a delight of joy feeding the world
joyfully holding onto gnarled bark of branch tips, dancing in offset pairs in synchrony, of maneuvers twinned

Peeking out between buds, and as flowers unfurled
a counterpoint overlooked, oh how my love tapered towared your tapered form and where you curled

A mossy crooked tree sustained, by green another green seasons refrain
I know soon the past memories of joy will bud to ease my pain

Of that you fed for a year a ring, and grew a branch for a perched song bird to sing
flying as a flag fluttering in tune on the wind.
You were one of a kind, growing with your siblings in a line, but a singular singer and singular all around, and never to be again
Of joy, heavy branches to bow in the wind
It was all your time to shine, like a jewel, in the crown of a tree, crowned as a king.

– W.B.


Day 17

Todays prompt – Write a poem that presents a scene from an unusual point of view. Perhaps you could write a poem that presents Sir Isaac Newton’s discovery from the perspective of the apple. Or the shootout at the OK Corral from the viewpoint of a passing vulture. Or maybe it could be something as everyday as a rainstorm, as experienced by a raindrop.

The Life…

There is nothing on the TV, till Channels I flick by
in a dim room, the light illuminates
Running down halls and through rooms
To ninety seconds worth of microwaves, into popcorn to explode
Click of a phone being hung up on a telemarketer
Another email processed lands in an inbox
clock to tick over another minute
Coffee brews
Wired, spinning down again.

In the blink of an eye, all these things done
a thousand times, pulled away
Jumping form one task to the next
Dysfunctional nuclear family I pull away from
a negativity that drives me away
into electrifying adventures
running, nucleus to nucleus to play
The power, the light, phases of emitting
right down to a simple heartbeat as you are sitting.

I do it all, where ever I stray,
Jumping from one point to the next
flowing power to the world, across what ever conductive path lay
In batteries stored up,
in generators vortex vexed

An obstacle course before, pushed, pulled, held
Cumulated, dissipated or converted
in analog or digital,
Amperage or volts,
I find solitude of Ohms.
You never think of all the things I run through, or just how much work it is that I do.
all the little junctions jumped to near conjunctions
Every time you use anything that functions

I run your life, I know all
every time you switch on anything, I come to call
watching, as I race by, every time for electrons you trawl

This is the Life of an Electron

– W.B.


Day 16

Todays prompt- Write a poem that uses the form of a list to defamiliarize the mundane.


There are 4,528 Pennies left
There is little room left in the jar
There in the corner
There dust sits over the edge of the lid
There saving, because it has built up from it not being opened
‘There fund’, started a life savings, misspelt because it was long ago written by two small children
There in red crayon, because red was all there had been
There it had grown
There to all whom walk by shown
There was a pride in accomplishment
There another jar started beside
There had been a dispute
There it was decided that each should have their own
There, unknowingly it was raided by a sibling
There she went when she needed bubble gum and shiny things
There was sometimes a repayment, but not always
There, a spot of wax to seal was added
There a daily check, and measuring of level started
There where shinny sat next to dull
There one could dream of what one wanted to buy
There of change, day to day was little changed
There still tucked into the corner, a side table square
There sat four thousand five hundred twenty eight faces
There in every direction out to gaze
There for the counting on rainy days
There for catalog items wanting to be for paid
There all change had to come to stay
There of pockets emptied into, before laundry hamper
There waiting to bank
There only bringing interest in the form of intense staring
There, crude knurled slot, centred in lid
There to swallow coins
There to stop them being shake-d or snaked out again
There in hiding, sailing ships, worth all of ten cents
There to sail seas of copper, with beavers swimming around too
There also paddles the occasional Moose
There was nothing loony way back then
There became the need, the slot to extend
There is nothing that jar can not buy, given enough time
There is frustration in stores, from people waiting in line behind
There comes delays in counting it all out
There, the realization dawns, that the bank becomes a better option
There, to pool larger, Childhood dreams that would grow
There, from soon to be relocated, as on a high counter I lined up change, rolled in rows
There a maturing portfolio, of that that had outgrown a simple jar
There though was only the journeys end, the jar still was the start
There today still Four thousand five hundred and twenty three dated pennies lay
There sitting still, as growing as I grow still
There only on a blue moon now, another found stray penny to come
There now, mostly nickel and dime-ing along, as lonnies and toones seemed to be immediately re-spent
There until I unscrew the lid in moments of week will
There sitting all these years under my window sill
There cashing in on left over money
There There, my jar of change
There nobly waiting another clink,
There of another new coin, to the bottom to sink

– W.B.


Day 15

Todays Prompt -Write your own dramatic monologue. It doesn’t have to be quite as serious as Browning or Shakespeare, of course, but try to create a sort of specific voice or character that can act as the “speaker” of your poem, and that could be acted by someone reciting the poem.


What is this world?
When choices are different
Just upon fact of birth
Born either
Boy or girl!
Seems slight
Of hand
To understand
The seeming
To be a man
Across the globe
For young
Or old
Us fems
This fem
Continues to demand
For you
For me
Balance in all things
We be
I hope for those
Still being born
We all can matter
Just the same
Cuz gender discrimination
Remains very lame!

– Katheren

A Moonlight Soliloquy

Tyranny of gravity, will not relinquish its hold on me
Tightly I am held, no matter how I plead!
The night gives me chilly reception, clouds mock me by their very conception, darkness hovers overhead as far as I can see
I know the moon is still there, it’s shifting glow illuminates the blocking clouds from behind as I stare
Slowly melting through to show bare
Gravity draws me, but of another, the tug of the moon, near causes me to swoon

But this blue pearl, and encapsulating clouds that around swirl close in, in a curl, to hold me,
But can not stop tides of torment that rack me from within, as down to this world I find myself unwantedly pinned.
Overhead, in part, the machine of the skies cratered cog, turns without turning, stitching across the woven black fabric of the night sky, pulling from afar as it traverses by.
Stirring the very sea, beneath it to lie. Into a distorting mirror of sky
But across them both I dream to fly, even space to pass by.
And to the moon, in opposition of foul gravity! I must decry
But why this idea, must pull at my eye
I need to make the leap, to the moon, I simply have to try.

There are of course stories of flight, and sunspots icky blight, of, of course Icarus and his last half flight, the story of suns and wings bound of wax, but I’d never pay attention to any warning so lax.

Besides the moon is too cool, to ever fall onto like any old fool
The moon, has me entranced by perfection, even with all its flaws and cracks
Even if someone has already walked there, I still dream of following in their tracks
But gravity, my body down heavily tacks
Unyielding foe, it tries my foolish ways to stow, but onto that monochromatic sphere I feel I must go.
If but gravity would just leave me be, I could, this crusty boundary, flee.
Float across to the moon, would the earth even notice my loss
But over absolutes, and rules, it will simply not gloss
It just has to show me the complexities of whom is the boss

The moon drifts away, to be lost into another day
Yet still with me the pull will still play,
Deep within I feel it lay,
As somewhere it goes to sleep, where ever it must stay
But it still pulls at me all the way.

The moon I wish to tuck in, but the earth will not let me toward it splay
Trapped here under a sky slowly turning an unremarkable gray

The moon fades out, and back in again through overlapping cloud
In quiet breezes of wind, and gusts exhaled loud
Pulling at me all the while in the crowd
soon too far of the horizon to be too proud

I shall beseech, and I shall not just watch as it slips back into its shroud.
But by gravity I shall not, into submission, be cowed.
I shall not accept that it is unbreachable
Unreachable, is not a word I will let bound me
I shall keep trying, until the moon wholly surrounds me

– W.B.


Day 14

Todays prompt -Write a poem that incorporates homophones, homographs, and homonyms, or otherwise makes productive use of English’s ridiculously complex spelling rules and opportunities for mis-hearings and mis-readings.


Sin Crony

Bach’s back
Bench pressed
Keyed up
Butt composed
Weighting notes
His bent bee
Oh pus peace’s
Nun Bea
Rocket rolls
Witch bean
Awl eye new
Moor thyme
Fine alley
Eye herd
Grate fingerlings!
Muse sick
Four soothe
Wee classes

– Katheren


The english language, in effect, is greatly about affect.
To muse, bemuse and even amuse.

At first sight one has to cite councils that have long counselled from positions of loose morality and lose objective and subjective perspectives over climactic climatic waves that crash over sites of great battles and arguments of words, sentences and paragraphs, their ability to weave together words to waive all responsibility. To breach through arguments and counter arguments, eyed firmly from a breech.

Evening minute battles, to compose shallow compromise comprise, to digest, and digress of overly long digests. settled in less than a minute in late evening .

It complements by compliment where it assumes to presume bizarre facts that come to bear, laid bare, as if some odd bazaar duel between dual meanings that faze at every phase. Formally formerly formidable formative words, to honed statutes back home, of noble figures honoured in statue, as some sort of naval bust, oddly just from the navel up, to practical practicable peaks to peek at, while not succumbing to parody, or pique of the lack of parity.

– W.B.


Day 13

Todays Prompt -Write a poem about something mysterious and spooky!
Your poem could be about something that is mysterious and spooky in a bad way (like a witch), or mysterious and spooky in a good way (possibly also like a witch? It depends on the witch, I guess!) Or just the everyday, mysterious, spooky quality of being alive.


Eye Twitch

At birth
So tall
So fair
Completely unaware
One day
Calm lake
Single look
My ‘Clan’
I ran
But alas
Spell cast
1000 years
Since passed
2 worlds
Mean lumped
Tears clumped
I jumped
Oh fooled!
Back the trail
I followed
Truth swallowed
Heart hollowed
Soon entered
Forest deep
I knew the way
Slowly return
Tho stomach turned
Here at least
I am known
Full grown
I will teach
High reach
For Human
To stop stealing
From each other
‘Hello Mother’

– Katheren


A Number of Spooky Horrors

An unknown horror sits inside…
Held fast within, but only by two staples…
Many boxes,
Some eerily highlighted!
Lines strung between some of them
I think to trip you up
carefully you try to figure it out…
Almost otherworldly, the strange language
Incomplete, full of gaps that make it difficult, if not impossible to read outright.
Eerie floating numbers punctuate the mystery.

Even more mysterious instructions offer no further help,
a creepy crinkling sound as you turn the pages.

Flipping back and forth, the numbers change before your eyes
Disbelief grows…
A cold shiver raises in your spine as the number again higher goes
Spilling over, box after box changes before your very eyes
In motion, varying still.
BAT LIKE FLUTTERING!, suddenly takes flight, spills out, caught by the light!
You futilely give chase, only to loose it as it lands somewhere just out of reach under the back of the couch
TOO many unknowns there to go after it?… But it must be caught!
You can not let it escape, or it will bring Doom!
So you circle the room, trying to find it’s hiding place,
But alas, it stays concealed, mysterious enigma, perhaps redundant, maybe no longer needed!…
it has no way out, as you stand guard over its only escape Route, but it’s location still not revealed

Of defence, to the last line, without it, you have little.
The vast lines of evil within,
plotting escape, at your expense.

Trapped! the hidden trigger, or perhaps it will be caught and bring salvation.
Found finally under the coffee table, discovery bring momentary elation.

A last, T4,
To slot into a box on line 3314 (or some other number you’ve come, by repetition, to deplore), but certainly not one to ignore!
For there is nothing more Spooky and Mysterious, to bring shadows of grey to the fore
than a tax package,… filled with red tape to the core!

But will it bring a good end or evil, I wont know till over far more numbers I pour!
over all the unknown, mysterious things it still has in store.

– W.B.


Day 12

Today prompt -Write a poem about a dull thing that you own, and why (and how) you love it. Alternatively, what would it mean to you to give away or destroy a significant object?


Soapstone or Granite

How faithful
So common
So seldom noticed
Tattered and
Old now
Only some random
Doctor cares!
Looks in and checks
Much more often
Then I
God given
Felt it grow large
Other times shriven
It was home
Before each
Is ever, even born
Given away
So faithful
Ever grateful
This journey
Of my heart
From finish to start!

– Katheren

A plain thing, worn Matt

I’m not even sure what it was,.. or is
In it’s simplest sense it was garbage,
But, chance, I came upon it
so I guess I could also call it lucky.

Carefully machined, the ribs and lines catch the light,
Bolt holes and pins, though I do not understand it’s ins,.. nor outs
I can see its long history through wear marks and nicks.

I envision it’s rhythmic operation, its rhythm, like an old song pulsing
It could be a paper weight, or door stop
yet it is neither of those things.

It sits in a corner, Casting shadows
This part of a part of a former thing

We all have our broken pieces
and the things we have worn through.

Its a dull thing, a worn piece of metal
Found scrapped, in an oily rag wrapped

it is a mystery,
a commitment to some operation, I shall probably never know or understand
Designed, refined, machined, cleaned, maintained.
Each detail, a function?
a supporting feature of another bit?
Mounted outside, or deep inside to sit?

it is a worn dull thing, hard worn with use and age.
Ground down in places, where time has taken its tole
seemingly uninteresting in its whole
but it no doubt has it’s individual story out to roll

And don’t you just have to love all that!

– W.B.


Day 11

Todays Prompt -Write a poem of origin. Where are you from? Not just geographically, but emotionally, physically, spiritually? Maybe you are from Vikings and the sea and diet coke and angry gulls in parking lots. Maybe you are from gentle hills and angry mothers and dust disappearing down an unpaved road. And having come from there, where are you now?


Land of Freedom

My country is a symbol
For all:
Good and true
But underneath the shiny gloss
Runs deeply through
No where seems safe
Village,city, town
True justice seldom found
Many work to lift
To build
To stand
Reach for policy,laws
Yearn across our country
Rights and equality
Much more healthier lands
First Peoples suffer most
Others not far behind
One by one
We rise- we rise
Hope eternal shines
From peoples eyes
Soon -soon
Working truth
May we all find!

– Katheren


Multi plane

Two buildings, another slotted between
On the hill side. By things downhill slide.
Brick building, stucco, Laundry line between strung,
the balance hangs,weighted, to one side to lean
The small windows from past behind between.

All life runs down hill
to water, to laundry, to practical things.
All life climbs mountains,
to lay foundations, of villages higher up.
Rivers and Oceans to cross, new beaches across to mill
beachheads to rally, to new views uphill

In forests, across vast grassy fields,
Dotted by tiny trees, life, you can wrap your fingers around.
Cool shadows and ferns. In time, of limitless imaginations, a possibility burns
Of other far away seas, Expanding under blue clouded skies, plowing, shadowing growing fields.

Two houses, another slotted between, of green grass and a view, a scene.
A marbled pool in the back, far from here, other side, mountain set, foot of stream
All water comes to one, to fill pools, or just drink, and water crops.
Milking in rewards of travel and hard work past, unseen

Drive back to the shore
commute, Traffic lights to dispute
Yet one lives conveniently, just blocks from the store
in flat land, built up. Instabilities, built up to shore

Of memories of other tiny tree dotted expanses, life, you could wrap your fingers around.
Now overgrown, and getting cut down.
Changing faces, of remembered old places, cutting down to build up
it is never the same town, as you look around.

But of all the places they have been, the balance hangs, weighted, to one side to lean.
All life climbs mountains, In forests, across vast grassy fields,
milking in rewards of travel and hard work past, unseen, in flat land, built up. Instabilities, built up to shore
It is never the same town, as you look around. As back over the edge to look back you lean…

This is the past, with it’s angled planes, this is where I have been
This is where they came from,
this used to be the scene
I am still in me, a part of everything that they had ever been….

If none of this helps you, try to find photos, mountains and valleys of old,
old foundations, tree forts and foot paths, that lead to places more bold
From far away places, and hand build spaces,
in shadows cast of bright shining lights, of lanterns tarnished and old.

– W.B.


Day 10

Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that starts from a regional phrase, particularly one to describe a weather phenomenon. You may remember one from growing up.


Fishing for a Chinook

I tire of the wet winds treading around me
the cold ones deflate my soul
Turning, the storm drives again under eaves, pelts the windows

For the clouds are fluffy white,
the cold rain drops are blue.
One comes from the other,
but the meteorologists don’t seem to have a clue!

It was supposed to be a very nice day out Eh…
that means rain, just aboot the time you get outside.

But stereotypical Canadian weather never keeps us in doors
even when it just outright pours.

But some days I want to escape from drizzle,
leave the streams of cold rain, and in sun somewhere sizzle

Perhaps I should take a ride, go up to the mountain side,
on the oft chance that down, a Chinook may slide.

A warm wind to dry, and towards an end of cold, damp, winter guide.
Net that better weather, that about, that forecaster lied!

It’s either that, or sit here overcast on the window sill still, and for spring wait my time to bide…

Or just get on and go aboot my Business, in the fishy weather outside

– W.B.


Cat’s and dogs

Off the roof
They did fall
Unto the ground below
What they were doing
Up there anyway
Perhaps we’ll never

Tales of old
Roofs were thatched
A place to keep
Small critters warm
It all became
Weather turned
To storm

Frogs,snakes and fish
Have also fell
From a golden sky
Scooped up by chance
Mother Natures hand
Like a terrible
Ne’er do well!

I carry an umbrella
For one never knows
What the sky
Might drop on us
Other then
Rain or snow!

– Katheren


Day 09

Todays prompt for the day asks you to engage in another kind of cross-cultural exercise, as it is inspired by the work of Sei Shonagon, a Japanese writer who lived more than 1000 years ago. She wrote a journal that came to be known as The Pillow Book. In it she recorded daily observations, court gossip, poems, aphorisms, and musings, including lists with titles like “Things That Have Lost Their Power,” “Adorable Things,” and “Things That Make Your Heart Beat Faster.” Today, I’d like to challenge you to write your own Sei Shonagon-style list of “things.” What things? Well, that’s for you to decide!


> Morning Joys

Waking slow
So warm
Smell of pre-set coffee
Bird song
Whether or not
Sun creeping
Over the rise
Greet the new day


> Dislikes unavoidable

Meeting bitter angry folks
Spewed views
Oh those damned teenagers!
Discourse on addicts
Bomb this area
Let them all die!
The whole world is terrible
Judgment, judgment
From glass houses!


> Happy times

Meetings with friends
Artwork and poetry
Good food
Lovingly prepared
Bargains and discounts
Start the car!
New movies
Neighborhood children
Playing outside
Hopscotch and laughter
Calls from family
Good news
We can share


– Katheren



The new life of a pillow book

Lists of change, dated elements in need of change, or things oft to be stuck with unchanging
The start of a new season, or day 9 of a journey to unknown results. The retouching of things, the recollections of things you wish to remember as depicted

Things to clean up after
-Marigolds, beloved racing pony
-The dog, it’s not my dog, but the dog that seems to think this is his front yard!
-Uncle Bob, and the trail of muddy tread marks, from a lawns edge that he didn’t feel a need to stay of
-a bed of tulips, that used to sit at the edge of the lawn…
– years of neglect

The rewards of an empty space, just cleaned
– a newly turned flower bed, it’s black compost waiting for seeds, smelling of earth
– a shiny shovel just hosed off, and the old wood grain of its ash handle
– a clean shed, freshly emptied of things , as all its contents are scattered about the yard for the season
– a taped room, trim tucked under a band of masking tape, waiting

The following of a ladder, in the picking up of small things knocked over

One forgets how many things one owns, or to what degree one cares for them until they become under threat. Dotting counter tops, shelves and niches that you forget to even notice in the course of everyday life, imperilled by first and last rungs most particularly, as when carrying a ladder one can only pay attention to one end at a time in transit.
The swiftness of action and lightening fast reflexes is a testament to the human machine. A fast ranking in aftermath of the durability of items you have come to collect, and prioritization of relocation to safer spots before the ladder make a return journey later.

New colours to paint things, and contrasts of trim
-A fire engine red
-Cobalt blue
-The colour of a seagull’s beak, and the futile attempts to describe that colour
-Shadow line of dark grey under, to bring a colour to fore
-That left over can from… something, I mean it’s here, it’s only half full, so it had to be from something…
-Large wooden planter, brightly painted in three coats to stand up to the weather, and possibly Uncle Bob’s bumper, if still not seen.

Stinking stench of solvent

Even when not used, its the brilliance of man, and his eventually coming up with low odour paint, the strange bit of memory that still make you smell it when cleaning brushes after all these years still… The quarter jug of thinner, still in the garage, even though you never use it anymore for anything… just in case… only to be found to be dry.. when finally found that is. The mystery of why, as you don’t need it, as the paint cleans up with soap and water…?

Rows of pictures that refuse to hang straight

-Scratching freshly painted walls with their sharp corners in trying to get them to obediently set onto hooks
– each a degree off each way to the opposite side from level as you shift them
– beloved Marigold, giving you the eye, framed
-painting of flowers, leaning in the wind, well I could claim, if not for the canted frame
-equally canted family in the photo, or at least some of them
– the arm of uncle Bob, not all of a family fits into a frame you know

Seven items taken off a shelf, yet only five of them fit back on….

-the lack of recollection of what order they had been in before,
-realization that if you can’t remember, it really can’t make all that much of a difference
-dawning afterwards of the reason why it made a difference, and that you don’t have time to rearrange everything again
-the misplacing of the last two items when you finally think of a good place to put them
– the eighth item that might have been on that shelf, but you instead just now threw to spook that dog off your newly planted flowerbed before getting down to business.

Life is far more boring in its whole, than the minutia of its anarchic parts
the messy bits, and things that stink, but you just have to do to make the whole thing sing.

– W.B.


====================================================Day 08

Todays prompt – I’d like to challenge you to think about the argot of a particular job or profession, and see how you can incorporate it into a metaphor that governs or drives your poem.


$2.00 Maximum Bet

Casino Blues
Black Jack
Merely a worker
The ‘pit boss’ though
All up-town!!
Strutting like a crow
A wheeler and dealer
At times we see
That long nose grow!
More like a penguin
Dressed black
Builds self up
No matter the fight
Like one who
Owns the joint!
So sure it is their
We all playing with
Tells me I must
In emergency
Cover the dough
Not worry about
To Me
Are you crazy!
These rules
Seem shady
Next I worked
In a cafe
Oh the Chef’s!!
Too proud!
I need self employment
Don’t do well
In these crowds!

– Katheren
Station Cat: Similarly, the ‘Station Cat’ is the officer who wanders around preening themselves like an arrogant tomcat, finding any excuse possible to avoid work


Wholly Sidelined

In the path of life,
navigating, rather than preferred avoidance, of strife.
Unless hiding in the hole.
Waiting for the crackle of a radio, waiting to be told to go,
There is only forward, there is no point in going back.

But what of standing still in the hole?
Head down, I stay on track,
red board sat upon,
until opposing has gone.

The black cloud comes,
Slowly creeping across the horizon.
It comes, hovers overhead, passes on,
a clacking thunder rolls by as a storm,
Gathering speed and intensity,
shakes the ground.

I look on for a sign
The storm can not last forever…,
though it seems as if it already has.

The sliding of time on the side lines of a siding,
as by another train, and the hands of a clock, endlessly by fling.
Sitting here listening to the idling engine sing,
waiting for a highball to go again riding.

– W.B.

-In the hole: This is a word for the siding where a train waits for another to pass
-Red board: Stop signal
-Highball: Signal made by waving hand or lamp in a high, wide semicircle, meaning “Come ahead” or “Leave town” or “Pick up full speed.”

Day 07

Todays prompt- Write a poem of gifts and joy. What would you give yourself, if you could have anything? What would you give someone else?



This place remake
Share together
A peaceful world
Fair give
Fair take
Fear never to be known
A planet of love
Food and health
Organic and home grown
Already we have
But we forsake
This natural wealth
All we truly
Need is here
Garden of our time
Miraculously sown!
One day soon
Will our Mother
Reclaim her own
With a Goddesses mirth
Her beautiful earth
Wiser re-set
Re group
Will we start again
End the same?
Begin a new game
Of life
I offer my hand
Out firm
For all to take
As together
We journey
Space time long
At least to know
We hold
Each other
Truly we
Are Sister & Brother
Understanding and true
So hard sometimes
The day and nights
Be lonely
If only I knew
Were my friend
Held me tight as well
Id never need wish
Smile into
The beginning
The end
Love is the
Never release!
Join me Please
Pass the popcorn
Start the show!
Here we go

– Katheren

No thing = Nothing

Of all the things, it was the nothings I loved the best.
The tiny memories from the dark,
in shadows of rocks and trees,
a long burned candle from the bees.

Bared twig, fallen blossom, or tiny things that had gotten comparatively big.
Flit leaf, bit of bark, corner of a paper; creased,
colourful cloth, knotted string,
simple bell to ring.
Paper crane, shell, polished rock. Little gifts found of, to take stock.
No, things to over look, no nothings to be mistook.

Small bits of bigger things, possibly with a slight crook,
sits on shelfs; at ends of stacks of books.
No, no things,
These are a precious gift
into special little places to lift.

Trinkets and bits,
given to make the pulse ping.

Anything, but no thing, more than to make the heart sing,
these are the power of no ordinary things.

– W.B.


Day 06

Todays prompt -write a poem of the possible. What does that mean? poems are squarely focused not on what has happened, or what will happen, but on what might happen if the conditions are right. Today, write a poem that emphasizes the power of “if,” of the woulds and coulds and shoulds of the world.



At least 4 archaic
Of classic upright man
Hominid and x
(one we still don’t understand)

If people lived across this earth
Thousands years prior to recorded time
How could we say we Know
We know!
Old journeys
Ancient plans?

Should we make assumptions
Hide away new fossils finds?
DNA is telling tales
New stories
What we thought ‘cavemen’
Archaeology reveals
New glories
Stretching modern minds!

Old majestic ruins
30 k years before
If we could know
Will we know?
Which way our knowledge
Of Our Human History
Is about to go!

– Katheren


If if, possible If

If if was a thing
If If could wish
if if, into action could spring
if if inferred
if if could be summed up by a single word
if if should be sir-ed
if if never became lurid
if if of uncertainty could be cured
If if became iffy
if if became spiffy
if if knew, what would if be willing to go through

If if
If If as I, had sat at the window, watching, instead of leaving to stew
if if as I, had gotten involved, instead of watching it all go by
if if as I, and you had worked it all through
if if as I, might have better imbued

if if had wandered into shrubbery, of twisted shadows and bulbous berries at the dawn of night, to see shifting perspectives in undulating patterns of growth
if if had

If if drew along the tall trunks of shadows, branching into coulds and shoulds rooted in the woods
if if would, dancing across tree tops shading the forest floor

if if had open eyes to see, refused to ignore
if if realized it might have held a key, and somewhere lay a moss covered door
if if stopped being stumped
if if grew on its own, instead of being into groups clumped
if if found that it’s step extended into bound
if if

if, if impossible things were possible, only if

if if, only if, if could cut it’s strings
if if would have, should have, could do incredible things… if….

– W.B.


Day 05

Todays Prompt – Write a poem that incorporates at least one of the following: (1) the villanelle form, (2) lines taken from an outside text, and/or (3) phrases that oppose each other in some way. If you can use two elements, great – and if you can do all three, wow!

The classic villanelle has five three-line stanzas followed by a final, four-line stanza. The first and third lines of the first stanza alternately repeat as the last lines of the following three-line stanzas, before being used as the last two lines of the final quatrain.


I have a Dream.Full stop

I have a Dream.Full stop
To know our distant moon
Shiny suits that come with props?

Van Allen radiation danger belt
Somehow past we must hop
I have a dream.Full stop

Problems leaving orbit post op
Bubbles from the pool
Tethered to that bunny hop?

Space agencies tall tale talks
Jonah and his whale
Quadrillions spent,I balk

Humans investigating like cops
Truth in the end be known
I have a dream.Full stop
What is this place so close to home?

– Katheren


Don’t forget your towel

Would it save you a lot of time if I just gave up and went mad now?
This became the baseline for the entire proceedings, short of the last, and final instruction
Don’t Panic

In times when advice was priceless and divisive
one never left anything behind, for fear, of others near, that it might be picked up.
Would it save you a lot of time if I just gave up and went mad now?

Diving in, for a few laps in another skin,
you had to make sure to get away before there was nothing left on you that they could pin.
Don’t Panic

For there was a constant refrain, held in the back of ones brain, that there had to be more here to gain
yet flat out, hard as you dare, but reserve enough to stay sane, till the end of the game. Just stay in your own lane.
Would it save you a lot of time if I just gave up and went mad now?

In your head, time is away ticking, as at your nose endless waves licking
The dirt to you has surely sticking, waves of panic into, needles and pins pricking
Don’t Panic

Swimming through emotions and maters political, trying to stay somewhat analytical
one needs to wash one’s hands of it to again feel clean, but suddenly realizes one has left ones towel in the machine!
Would it save you a lot of time if I just gave up and went mad now?
Don’t Panic


– W.B.


Day 04

Todays Prompt write a sonnet sad poem, but one that achieves sadness through simplicity. Playing with the sonnet form may help you – its very compactness can compel you to be straightforward, using plain, small words.


1980 Helen
Mountain side gave way
Lahar flowed
Experts agreed
All will go
Predictions based on other
Tops that had blown
Loss of life
Homes, bridges
Ohh Cascadia!
800 mile range
California to BC
Modern seismology claims
They are
Ancient but ready
Today we have
Clear blue sky
Mother Nature
Has surprises
Inch by inch
The land up rises
Mere mortals
At her whim
No matter we try!
Will local Baker be next?
It breaths
It has flex
I watch the mountain
Waiting for
The next immense fountain

– Katheren

Gone, the Old Mill Bridge

The old mill bridge closed for good late last year
Gone after memories of a lifetime
that old wooden bridge, bridging water clear
in times of trouble it was a lifeline

Weathered wood grain railings held securely
in moments, anxiety or despair
a place I thought alway around, surely
but now it’s torn down, and no longer there

Unburdened, empty stone abutments sit
The void reflected in my empty heart
of abandoned feelings that will not knit
across two banks forever held apart

I will not walk the old mill bridge again
the empty echoing footfalls refrain

– W.B.


Day 03

Today’s prompt (optional as always) – Write something that involves a story or action that unfolds over an appreciable length of time. Perhaps, as you do, you can focus on imagery, or sound, or emotional content (or all three!)


Elixir of Life

20,405 days
I begin
Child like plays
Watch cartoons
Listen bedtime stories
Enjoy my days
Let go
My worries
Giggle unstopping
Life is just
Room now for
What I could
Do then
Safe now
In neighborhood
Reclaiming all
Standing tall
Fun times
A hopping!
Overcoming a life hateful
Blessed now
I am grateful

– Katheren

Of the many stops between here and Willoughby

There are many stops, between here and Willoughby
that I have yet, in depth to see

There are few stops, the middle of the line
None worth stopping at at any rate
Half the morning, clacked away
Trying to sleep, as sleepers chatted by
the whispering of rails bedded, ballasted by crushed stone
none with anything to say, but for a dull hum
a hum and a clacking, like a clearing of the throat as if waiting,
pausing before something important.
The small violets, peeking out in passing,
flashes of colour too soon gone to comment on perhaps
A sale in a glass paned window
the last item sold, rumbles by, the carriage shakes
Shadows hide, shift out of sight
Sales come and go
Violets, … Violets sprinkle themselves thinly
Dainty, special, defused through the country side,
Clustering in small pockets
As if in groups, running to catch a train
Desperate to escape here
here and there, waiting
un-dissuade by lateness.

The tic-tock of sleepers, passed over
a clock like metronome, lulling on sleep
to slowly fall behind, again the engine sighs
Yawns out, falls off it’s time table.
Wanting to rest, by pillow like moss peeked outcroppings,
Climbing into rail beds cut into mountains,
the climb onwards tires.

Weary, the end of the middle passes behind
Junctions, shifting paths to navigate.
Chipping of china, clatters travels onward from the dining car
preparing for the oncoming night.

Lit squares of windows, slowly climb the mountain side
Parts, too cold for Violets, or some with no sense of heights
far below watch the line of square lights chug away,
A station name, I never bother to recall, on to call
Pause, wait for seeming nothing, before waiting no more
This, ahead we drive for, again several station for

I have seen it all, traversed similar before,
all the stations in the middle seem a bore.
Yet of the end of the line, I have no idea whats in store,
as somewhere a well dress conductor starts to snore.

Top of the mountain, and down again
with the unbroken sound of a tired engine’s yawning refrain.
I shall perhaps not see Willoughby
Last on the line,
at least as far as I am going, in my time.
But where ever I get off, until, I shall lazily recline,
until jostled and tussled on my way across the line
Marking the dim sight, of the next station sign….
It’s not to be Willoughby, says the faded white lettering, half covered in vine.

– W.B.


Day 02

Today’s prompt – Write a poem that similarly resists closure by ending on a question, inviting the reader to continue the process of reading (and, in some ways, writing) the poem even after the poem ends.



Just a frequency
You and me?
Self aware
Inter dimensional
Is where?
Breath & bones
A bonus?
Questions re
Future & of
Do you have answers
Our great mystery
All of us
One day
Shall see!
Will we?

– Katheren


Where the box flaps fold in?

In corrugations of brown
Is it the ridges that show, or the depressions between?

Running around the corners
darting in circles
Beginning to beginning
End to end?
Is the joint where it starts, or where it ends?

Depth folds into height
Darkest corners open to light?

Can you feel it, if it doesn’t feel right?
Has someone already opened, peeked inside, your parcel tonight?

– W.B.



Day01 – NaPoWriMO 2019

Todays prompt -Write a poem that provides the reader with instructions on how to do something. It can be a sort of recipe. Or you could try to play on the notorious unreliability of instructional manuals (if you’ve ever tried to put IKEA furniture together, you know what I mean). You could even write a dis-instruction poem, that tells the reader how not to do something.



Say nothing
That means anything
Make it all
Speak Cardashian
Clothes and travel
Shh about truth
Don’t let
Mirages unravel
Cute puppies
Save my cat
Don’t look
Don’t see
Not sure I
To be ‘part of’

– Katheren

Check Telescope

I have fallen so far behind, and so laggard
and it is only the beginning of time
there is a whole universe of night to stretch before me
one step at a time, to check

Simple eye piece, -Check

it’s all so simple
a view to such complexity, -Check
seemingly over simplified –
in near black and white -Check

Dark night sprawls out before me -Check
Sun just having finally moved far enough -Check
it’s streaks of grey fallen from the sky -Check

knobs and angles, tilt -Check
and yet…

Space and time, do not before me unwind
I am left with just blackness in kind

of constellations I am blind
all the night sky, from a box
but right now its all a bit too much to ply
as nothing come to focus before my eye
dusk cap off -Check
right way up to detect -Check
No new images to my brain to inject,… sadly -Check.

My telescope, the sky will not court,
instructions read, as matter of last resort,
seeking solution to import.

Even as with clouds I try to comport
yet, despite the checklist, no success to report

– W.B.


Day Zero warm up! And HERE ( NaPoWriMo ) we go
National Poetry month for 2019.
Cedar Bark Poets writing


Day 00 -Early-bird prompt

Todays challenge -to write a poetic self-portrait. And specifically, we’d like you to write a poem in which you portray yourself in the guise of a historical or mythical figure

My pogo like spring away from limelight

In unseen photos, Near unseen
Trapped in glare, of overexposure
Lapped by the shadow of wave
Pin behind, half out of frame

Capped by obscuring branch
din of camera, tips off
Shin, I turn on to evade the frame
Clapped, nearly by shutters late snap

Grin, missed, away into grainy grey
Mapped off, cropped
Gapped too far to fit in
Spin down to cutting room floor

Apt alterations, can not restore
Binned photos, to be ignored
Wind blows elusively
Dapped, caught dapple evidence flawed at the core

Thinned, Proof lacking
Sapped, Ogopogo like photos
Tapped too fast to be certain
Tin, tinted glare, was there any anything there?….

– W.B.