Breaking the American Sentence

Breaking the American Sentence into a Canadian form. eh!

Broken from haiku, the American Sentence was born into poetry. Lovely.

A true bird of snow, no feeble fleeing snow bird, she waits. Silent. Still. Deadly.

Invisible against a snow sky, often missed against the endless blue. Sacred?

Seeing them is a gift we seek. A gift we treasure. Something dear. Snowy!

How many miss the magic? What other treasures pass by unseen? Mystified.

Look around, see what you can see. Owl. Deer. Fox. Joy. Blessings to seek and find. Go! 

Snowy Owl – she flies!

The challenge at dVerse is to break and enter – take a form and make it your own. I broke the American Sentence a wee bit by adding a Canadian ending word. A question. A comment. A statement. Sarcasm. Hope. Something.

Great to be back at the Pub. Stop by the link below, see the magic other poets have woven.


does it belong or not?

Overjoyed by the end of the road, celebrating in the wild.

So the road ended, big deal! Make a new one, or have a rest.


Wedding photos in a barn loft, future growing out of the past.

Getting dirty. Getting tired. Knowing you are getting it done.


God gave us gifts and talents to use, not save up for heaven.

We aren’t supposed to get there in ‘show room’ condition!


Dance until the shoes wear out and music drums from your heart beating.

Don’t wait. Dance. Laugh. Be silly. Get dirty. What are you saving it for?


Holding dangerous goods close to our hearts – this living can be wild.

Nothing more dangerous than loving someone without reserve.


What would you choose: quality of life or quantity? If you could.

Maybe there is a reason we aren’t supposed to know, live each day fully!


Claudia has us thinking about contrasts and things on the edge of ‘normal’ (which my husband says is only a setting on the dryer anyway!)…my mix of American Sentences and then italic commentary.  Stop by dVerse and check out the other poets!

More than words



“Use your words Jerry!” admonished a cartoon quasi-evil scientist to one of his creations.

“Ouch! No biting!” a response, without words, and yet very clearly communicating!

Talking heads talk and talk and talk it becomes “blah blah blah” and blank spots.

sawêyihtowak ᓴᐁᐧᔨᐦᑐᐊᐧᐠ V they bless one another; they love one another

Bless and love. More than words, becoming the bridge when the words fail.

They are the balm when words wound. They move and live word-free.


Maybe words should fail and more often. What if poets wove their words to fail?

If a picture is worth a 1000 words, what could our actions speak then? Millions?

We stare at screens. Books. Images. And freeze. Unable to act or move. Still.

We think because someone saw it they did something. We observe and are

removed from the mud, the blood, the tears and the pain. We are stone.


Our empathy mocks, and our “shares” and “Likes” and “Tweets” buy some peace.

“Well I DID do SOMETHING!” and yet we know, down in that dark place below.

We know there is more to do. Not across the ocean. Or even across the street.

Across the room. A hand or breath away. Our words should fail us then. 

We should be unable to be poetic without action, without touch or voice.


Poetry – a call to action. A place for words to fail because we should not. Cannot.

Poetry – the memorial, the eulogy, the celebration. A place for failed words.

I wrote today about time healing all wounds, and scars still there to ache.

Scars are where the words failed and action struck. Ragged poetry seen.

Dug into skin. Aching and remembering the wounding. The wordless

time when there was nothing but getting out, away, being gone.


Words should fail when we fail to hear their call to act. To speak. To reach out.

To them. Especially to them. To walk away. From them. YES THEM! Go.

My words bubble and boil to the surface. Banging against lips and teeth.

Knowing their acid and bile won’t wound anyone but me I chew them.

Swallow deep and plan my exit steps. Silent prayer for grace. Again.

Words meant to wound when I need to feel better need to fail.


“You shoulda gave her a piece of your mind!” and “Why do you take that from them?”

And I can’t help but see their words as bait, hiding a sharp deadly hook inside.

Their words fail as I walk away, poetry in motion, leaving the scene before a

crime happens against poetry, against words and against self and life.

My words failed. And I”m glad. My actions were loud enough.

And my prayer for grace, instead of repentance, was healing.


Brian has us thinking about when words fail for Meeting at the Bar tonight. I’ve had lots of opportunity to see when words do fail – in good and bad ways. And in ways that turned around unexpectedly from one thing into something else entirely. As I get older I am learning the wisdom of poetry in motion, of walking away. Sometimes it is good for words to fail, it leaves room for action. And then sometimes we make them carry too much instead of doing it ourselves.  Not sure where I am going with this but deep thoughts are rambling around, so thanks Brian!  Stop by dVerse and see how the other poetic people are responding! Share your own thoughts and leave love.


Seeding Poetry


It’s a Bourgot, well whaddya know?

9000 acres yet to go…seeding whoa!

Got half done and the rain came down.


Standing in the sun’s half light.

Supper at dusk, seeding half the night.

Driving through the dust, it’s gotta go!


Night shift is when the wrecks come.

They sure ain’t a lot of fun, son.

It’s a Bourgot, well whaddya know?


Doing some slant poetry for Meeting At The Bar.  Because I missed Poetics, “It’s Quoteable” with Mary I have submitted a late one below.


This is one of my husband’s favorite farming songs, by a Canadian band:


Thank you Lord, for the blessings in our lives.

For those things which You bless us richly.

That we do not deserve, nor are worthy of.


Thank you Lord, for the blessings in our lives.

Those things which make us stronger, better.

That which gives us character and scars too.


Thank you Lord, for the blessings in our lives.

Those things which we worry about, and pass us by.

Those things which never pass, and leave us in peace.


Thank you Lord, for the life and the way of life.

The land, the animals and our family together.

Those things which witness to Your greatness.


This is part of our family, poeticized and lengthened. Enjoy!


And my quote, from that song,

Thank you lord for the sun
For giving life to the seeds I sow
It’s the only life I know
Thanks again for the rain
For giving hope to the work I do

[file not found]

[file not found] as I rack my brain.

What did I name it? [search: |]

the blinking cursor still  flashes.


[error: 404] WHAT? That can’t be

I know it’s there. [webpage moved]

I don’t think SO. Type S-L-O-W-E-R


[voice command unavailable] ugh!

Speak slower, type slower. [restart Y/N]

No. What I really want is to shout at YOU.


[errors are personal] my hubby disagrees.

He says they are just glitches. Hiccups.

[entry not understood, retry? Y/N]


It FEELS personal. Something simple. But no.

[waiting for network response] tap. tap. TAP.

I wonder, will they roll their eyes at us? [o-o]


[file not found] and then the keys slow down.

The search becomes ablzlhd123 instead.

Type slower. Mouth out the letters. S-L-O-W


[search results: 500] ugh. *.* that sucker. Ha!

[unable to open file, source location changed]

Don’t break the electronics. Don’t break the…


Okay Plug in external hard drive. [new device]

oh…no…[format new device?] NO! NO! unplug

Plug back in. [browse folders on external drive?]


Browsing folders. Files. Searching. Finding.

[file not found] no it is not. BUT look! At THIS!

Old photos, old poems, old treasures. Found.


[file not found] is sometimes okay. Just fine.

[save over previous document?] No. Leave it.

Found what I wanted? No. Found what I needed!


This is my form, I came up with it a while ago – you can read a couple more in it here: and


Gay has us thinking about inventing a form all our own at dVerse. This is my form. It doesn’t have a true name yet, maybe [message] form would work?  It takes the messages we get during our day from electronics and other devices and incorporates them into poetry. They become more and can add depth to our musings. Stop by and read the other amazing poets who shared on this.

Like that

I can’t tell how it feels

Your nerves fire sssst 

Mine tingle and  snap


can tell you it is like…

that first sip of coffee.

too hot to swallow fast

smelling rich of memory


I can’t tell how it feels

Your presence draws

Mine pushes too hard.


can tell you it is like…

that first blossom in spring

the one waiting to open

the one you smell in sleep


can’t tell you how it feels.

Your coolness like a shadow

My seeking the side of sun.


can tell you it is like…

knowing the song in two bars

every word, in your voice

singing my missing parts.


I can’t tell you how it feels.

Your voice close as breath.

My heart pounding hard.


I can tell you it is like…

Finding the missing  part

inside a long packed box

treasure packed too long.


I can’t tell you how it feels.

You right there to touch.

Me, afraid and yet brave.


I can tell you it is like…

Like that, that one thing.

that makes it all make sense

that makes it worthwhile.


Like that. Always like that.


Claudia has us sharing emotions, without naming the emotion, for MEETING AT THE BAR for dVerse tonight. Mine has a mix of emotions, the ones you would find after being away from a loved one for a bit too long, with a bit too much stress, worry and a lot of faith guiding the way. Enjoy the other poets, and remember leave love!

Knowledge and knowing

Finding a way between two worlds.

Heart-path and mind-way move.

Ancient ways walk-along to new.

Belted-light beckons in the sky.

Hunter walks in story-world.

Mind-way seeks the why.

Heart-path seeks the who.

A place-between is built,

where talking-stick passes.

In that place of knowledge

and knowing grows the

one thing we all need –



Bjorn has us thinking about kenning, knowing, and poetry today.

Here is my share for this amazing prompt. Why don’t you share your ken with us?

Join in with your own poetry, read some poetry and leave love. ALWAYS leave love.

Flying Blind


Laying in bed, awoken to a sudden silence.

Darkness thick like a blanket. I can’t see.

My eyelashes brush against the pillow.

They sound loud. Grating. Brittle.

My fingers reach from under the blankets.

Groping slowly, tips flared back from palms.

A cool corded neck brushes my wrist.

The lamp, as cold and dead as a cod.

Down my hand travels. Confident now.

BANG! I forgot what I left there that fell.

Hands pull back and I push myself up.

Feet drop down through cooling air.

The floor comes too soon. OuCh!

The stillness is thick. Breath loud.

The electric hum of our life dead.

There is no silence like it, that

takes our sight on a dark night.



I stand, face to the early spring sun.

So bright I close my eyes to it.

Let my senses tell me about things.

CrEaK! That broken branch rubs

crying a death song in the wind.


Rustle. Thwwwwwwop. Two!

Woodpeckers start the ritual.

Clouds make the air chill,

and my eyelids flutter against

the shadows they throw down.

CrUnCh! cRuNcH! The snow

breaks under dog feet running.

Thssssssssssssssip. Thssssssssssip.

Tires on asphalt covered in melt.

I can almost feel their passing me.



I close my eyes. My fingers seek them.

Two nubs. F and J. The ‘home keys’.

I can type blind, and fast, if they I find.

A new keyboard is slower though.

Why can’t they all be the same?

Waiting for inspiration, eyes closed.

I rub the keys, worn smooth from touch.

Fingers brushing F and J. F and J. Home.

If only I could find a place that felt

that good to the touch. That made sure

my words, and world, made sense.

I can type blind with my homekeys found.

Without them I am flying blind. Making

no sense. No words that matter. A cat

chasing shadows on a keyboard left

unattended, or by a muse gone quiet.



Close your eyes. Don’t make eye contact.

Keep still. Very still. Feel the seeds in your hand.

Listen for them. Twittering. Flying. You can HEAR.

Did you know that? Wings sound so LOUD when you

aren’t looking for them, or counting their beating flight.

I wait, still. Listening. FEELING their approach. Cautious.

The bold chickadee challenges me, but wants the seeds too.

She lands, sharp feet holding tight to my skin. I don’t flinch.

Suddenly a rush of air, hard feathers dust my skin and she’s gone.

A fly by, a feeding bomb done by a woodpecker. I stand, alone. Again.


Brian has us thinking about being blind, or being without sight as we compose poetry for dVerse. So often we use our sight, even in our comments, “I can see that!” but there are other senses that can also convey the story when we lose, close or bind our eyes.  I will try later to do a blind contour drawing to add here. Until then, visit the other amazing poets taking on this challenge!


Manifesto: Riding my own broncs

Saddle your own broncs


Riding my own Broncs

I will write. My poetry. My own way. For me. Sometimes, for an audience of one, or maybe none. Sometimes for more. And to them who come to read, to share, I say, “Thank you”

I have written in the dark of the night. Through the tears. Laughing with utter joy. And those times of the greatest hurt awaken my muse to words.

I will keep alive the story telling legacy of the cowboy poets, the romantics. T.S. Eliot the cats. All those who stood at the cross roads and took the road less trod. And those who took the well worn road and made it their own. And those who stood at the cross roads, grabbed a machete, a pack of matches or a strawberry roan bronc and blazed a new trail.

I will respect the muse, and I will also lure, bait, promise and chase her down when the words are shying away. I will ride my own broncs, and ask only that those who also ride to come along on the wide roads, and the narrow mountain trails. We need to write, it is to our spirits the breath of life. I need to write, the words speak to my soul as my eyes see poetry everywhere. My hands feel it. My heart beats for it. I dream it, and will never forsake it.  Like the breath of my beloved, the heartbeat of our child – it is part of me.

I will not succumb to the threats of busy-ness, boredom, harsh critics, lazy readers and those who won’t try to see the poetry that breathes right in front of them.

I am a poet. I will write. I am a poet. I will breathe, bleed and sweat poetry. I am a poet.

Gay has us writing our Manifesto for dVerse. This is mine. Trying to keep it within the criteria given, and yet taking it on my own ride. Come on over!

Character Sketch

The lines become blurred. Smears of color.
Flash of red temper, blue introspection.
Purple passion and yellow smiling face.
A life long follower of rules not his own.
Never did he suspect the more that lurked.
The invisible neighbor, the nice guy.
The worker who did his job and, well…
This is the guy who lived his life.
And never spent a day truly alive.
The instruction sheets for life stacked.
Each day, each role played scripted out.
Be this. Do that. Smile. Laugh. Be that.
Nothing more, and oh sadly so much less.
He never suspected the rebel beneath.
One breezy night blew the plans away.
Life went wildly awry and blew his mind.
Colors came to life, brightened by fear.
Never had he faced the pain of living.
No TV show prepared him for this life.
Character is what you are when no one sees.
Not a mask or facade. It is the man.
Character moves our lives only when pressed.
Like diamonds, shining after great pressure.
A ‘nobody’ becomes the most interesting man.
The “Special” becomes who he truly is.
When he discovers how un-special he was.
And in that he finds the value of being.
And the value of doing as who we are.
Rules and ‘off the reservation’ we fly!


The song becomes something more real then.
“Everything is awesome!” is more than…
And becomes the total of the unknown.
Ordinary awesome gets blown away then.
Life goes wild for the secret master builder.

Brian has us writing about Character and I can’t help but think of my son playing Lego, and all the depth of character he infuses in each little plastic minifigure. After watching The Lego Movie we are more convinced that even under the surface of the most rule abiding, ordinary soul there lies a master builder, master poet, master artist just waiting to emerge and show their true character! Join us over at dVerse.

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