Span (Reverse Nonet)



Built for time,

weathered by storms

and emissions’ waste.


tooled for purpose not beauty,

you loan your helping hand to the

weary traveler, crossing to HOME.


A picture word poem about a bridge.  Did you guess correctly?

Reverse Nonet: 9 lines with the syllables increasing by one each line.  Normallly a nonet starts with 9 syllables on the first line, I chose to reverse this!

Ode to the Gas We Pass

Ahh gas, a product of digestion:

a measurement of GI health.

Often related to food ingestion’

these bursts of air from our sphincters

are blind to socioeconomic wealth.

Throughout the day, this airy spray

is passed proudly or in stealth.

 Individual feelings about gas

sometimes result in ass retention.

Unfortunately, suppressing the pass

has not yet resulted in patent invention.

For the bowel that is suppressed,

more uncomfortable than detention,

will leave the suppressant distressed;

             and no one in range will be blessed               

when, finally, explosively expressed.

 Many names are given to gas;

fart, toot, flatulence to name a few.

Each person labels what we pass

a name most comfortable to you.

 Gas comes singly, loudly, softly’ or in chains.

These sneaky tornadic bursts of air,

 a final reminder of digestive remains,

can clear a room in a matter of seconds;

painfully if your caboose is “behind” the train!

 So be proud of the gas you pass,

a universal shared reminder of living,

for some day you will turn to grass

so enjoy the gift you are giving!


Gas, in all forms, take up much of our time from natural gas to heat our homes to gasoline to fuel our cars to gas we produce as a bodily function.  Our world as we know it would collapse without gas.  Our intestinal health would collapse without gas.  Yet gas continues to have a bad rap.

We do not like what does not smell good. 

Noxious odors remind us of rot and death and our limited lifespan; therefore they are avoided as a psychological coping mechanism.  Now if I were a psychologist, I am sure I would  be nodding my head assiduously.  But I am not, and the drivel I just wrote came right out of my booty hole.  So gas can also be a metaphor for a whole lotta’ air with no purpose other than to tick me (or others) off.  In any case gas, both real and implied, runs our world.

English: Treason!!! John Bull emits an explosi...

Until I went to college I was embarrassed by what I felt were crude reminders of functions that should not be discussed, no matter how foul the air.  I met my “yang” in college and my lofty opinions changed after associating with a charming, disarming, quirky and immature boy named Scott.  Scott reveled in his abilities to burp the alphabet,  give a concert with his underarms and “gleep” ( a rare and amazing “talent” to shoot spit out in a forceful arc).

Dating someone so entirely different than my own narrow view of life was an amazing experience.  I learned to laugh at myself, take myself a little less seriously, and revel in the moment.  As a nursing student, Scott’s attitude that all functions were normal and interesting was very important to loosening me up a bit, and I thank him for that.  Due to these experiences, I have a deep and lingering fascination for the underlying humor found in simple bodily processes.  In other words, to “dum it down” I am a 10 year old in a 40 year old body.  So I dedicate this humorous poem to Scott, the king of malodorous intestional  air.  Bless you for bringing me down to earth a little.  The following poem addresses the bodily function of gas. Return to the age of ten and smile…..



Obsession (Free Verse)

I am seized with ailing thoughts

as my synapses loop masochistic hindsight.

I drift in hazy dreams of If-Then……

These fragmented sentences and words unsaid

give weight to thoughts forever unanswered.

These layers-on-layers of half-written plays gather dust

and I cannot brush away the scattered pages.

I glide through present day untouched by feeling,

for fear of feeling the pain of a life shattered

as it slowly circles the drain.

Oh! Tether present day to hopeful tomorrow!

Or I shall drift into meaningless past,

undone by its incomplete script

and tomorrow shall see today’s loss.

I must release this unchangeable past

or go mad from wasted hope.


For introtopoetry, Day Nine: Apostrophe.  An apostrophe is an exclamatory figure of speech, sometime started with “O”, often directed to a third party.  Im not sure if this “hits the mark” but it suited my plea.

I wrote this some time ago, in a state of passionate exasperation, in less then five minutes one day when I was just fed up with ruminating over what was and creating dreams of what could have been.  My struggles with obsessive thoughts have, thankfully, softened with time.

Picture: psychology today


My grief clings

to your memory,

in the alcoves

of my mind,

where echoes

of a silent lament


to you,

my smothered potential

to you,

my ungraved progeny

and I,

with dry eyes

and unvoiced remorse,


for you,

my unfilled arms

for you,

my blighted soul

for you

for me

For intro to poetry, day seven: Anaphora.  Anaphora is a method where words, or cluster of words, are repeated at the beginning of multiple lines of verse in the same poem.


I have never had an abortion or had to give up a child.  But I know the grief that persists for some women who have had to make this choice.  And this grief is the stepchild of our culture, who celebrate the act and ignore the regret.  This is my personal epitaph to all the women who spend decades in regret for choices that cannot be undone.  I know so many of you who grieve alone, feeling that you cannot voice your sadness for choices made in your youth, for arms that are empty but did not have to be, for potential that you didn’t see until the perspective of age opened your eyes.  Whether in adoption or abortion, to some, the grief clings, an ever present shadow.

And for you, whoever you are and wherever you are, THANK YOU for giving life to my husband, who epitomizes the renaissance man.  You would be SO proud of him!

“Ode” to the Middle Aged Size of my Thighs

There is a body part I do not prize

and that is the lumpy size of my thighs!

For while getting older makes one wise,

it spreads the body to a larger size.

My thighs always won the humor prize,

with varicose veins as fat as French fries.

And no matter how many stairsteps I try

they look like lumps of lard, no lie!

Age makes one laugh when once I cried;

Now I just look, hide them and sigh.

I sure hope that when I die

God has planned a thigh surprise

for it would give me a total high

to have thighs that are a perfect size!


Erm…ok while this site is generally more serious tham my other, I must, now and then, mix it up with tongue-in-cheek humor!