Brain Circus

RDP Monday: Today’s prompt is NIMBLE.

Common sense,  good ideas and smarts

perform daily

in a three ring circus in my head

they are nimble, quick, they can perform  amazing and incredible tricks

like escaping from my skull

and not leaving a trace

it’s as if

they were never here

at all.

Why Not?

Na/GloPoWriMo Day 30: Final Challenge,  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


Words and thoughts

meant for the page

not the air

the point and click same day delivery generation

created a new art form


It’s really a thing

it’s really a word.

The Shady Tree

Day 29 of Na/GloPoWriMo 2019 : Today’s challenge is to blend these concepts into your own work, by producing a poem that meditates, from a position of tranquility, on an emotion you have felt powerfully



if I smile more and dress in pasty oatmeal  colors

and hold open doors

and let everyone else pass through

and thank them for the chance

to serve them, to help them, to be there for them


One day I will fit in.


Maybe if I walk slower

and think slower

and give up my favorite spot

under the shady tree where me and my dog rest

after our long walks

and scuttle and hustle behind everybody else instead


One day I will be rewarded

and be allowed to fit in.


Maybe if I agree

I was not right, I am never right

where did I get these silly ideas of mine?

If I turn off the lights

behind my eyes


I will be allowed to fit in.




I could just be me

a flawed and imperfect Soul

sitting under a shady tree

with the best dog in the world


and not worry about


fitting in.

Pumpkin Seeds For Brains

Na/GloPoWriMo 2019 #28: Challenge Write a meta poem or  poem about poetry:


Do you know that thing you do to words Anita?

That thing where you bang them together on a page and you

cut and nail and draw all over them

and in the end you stand up and  call  your Freak show of malformed words



Don’t do that.


Poetry should flow and dance

and leave a trail of starlight  in it’s wake

It should shush you into silence

it should make you feel light and

you should always

but always

sit in reverence

as you read it, hear it absorb it into your unyielding skin

like flowers

in a field

feasting on sunshine.


So in all politeness I reply:


I have pumpkin seeds for brains

and a dark place in my chest where my heart used to be.

I always write about the things crawling and nesting  inside of me.


I am like  Poetry’s weird Auntie

who shows up at Funerals

and laughs at the graveside

as the coffin is being lowered into the ground

and everyone wonders as they stand there silent and somber


” Who in the Hell invited her?”



The Tearless Widow

27th day of Na/GloPoWriMo:  Here’s all of Shakespeare’s sonnets. You can pick a line you like and use it as the genesis for a new poem.
Is it fear to wet a widows eye
to ask her if she ever knew
the corpse in the box
at her feet?
Did he love her
did she care?
What did she feel when
she realized
he was no longer there?
When she planned his burial
and what he would wear to his grave
why on Earth did she hum and whistle and sing?
Is it fear to wet a widows eye
and ask if she always laughs
at funerals and why no one
ever hears  her cry.

And Nothing But The Truth

Day 26 of Na/GloPoWriMo 2019: Today’s (optional) prompt is centered around repetition. Repetition is at the heart of the rhetorical strategy of “Duplex.” We engage with it daily in the choruses of songs, and it’s long been recognized as one of the ways to keep a listener’s attention and create a sense of satisfaction or closure in spoken or written language, whether that language takes the form of a speech or a poem or even a comedy routine. Many forms of poetry expressly require or rely on repetition – for example, the villanelle or pantoum.


This is the truth and nothing but the truth so help me God:

Robert Johnson

did not sell his soul

at the crossroads

to the Devil

so that he could play the Blues


Robert Johnson

did not go to Hell

after he died

because he sold his Soul

to the Devil

so that he could play the Blues


Robert Johnson

was never at the


with guitar in hand

calling the Devil Forth

to sell his Soul

so that he could play the Blues


I know it for a fact,

I know this is true

because I am always at the Crossroads

and I know who has been there

because I am always here

when it’s time to pay up and pass through.

Creative First Aid

The World of Georgina McClure

Pack up some drawing paper, a box of crayons and some writing implements. Set aside at least an hour when you can be by yourself in a relaxed, reflective mood. Explore the estate and find a special space for yourself. Settle down on a garden bench, a rocky outcrop or simply lie on a rug under a sprawling tree. Close your eyes, relax and pay attention to your breathing. Imagine that you can picture your breath flowing in and out of your lungs like a silver, gurgling stream. A new online exercise is available to members of the Bancroft Collective. For details about how to join check

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The House Of Plenty

RDP Thursday – CORNUCOPIA  Create a post (words/images/both) inspired by this word!


If something is good

we want an abundance of it, we want to celebrate it, we want to revel in it

we want to get down on our knees and worship it

in a place where everyone agrees with you- with us- we are one

inside the House of Plenty.


Maybe that is why

being different is frowned upon

walking out of step

in discourage

having the wrong colored eyes or hair or skin

is a sin

within the sacred walls inside The House of Plenty.


I’ve had one true love, one  great adventure and a dog

that we write songs about

and I have never

been invited once, never a member of

the sacred congregation who live

Within The House of Plenty.









The Face Of Summer

Final Thursday of Na/GloPoWriMo 2019 #25 :

  • Is specific to a season
  • Uses imagery that relates to all five senses (sight, sound, taste, touch, and smell)
  • Includes a rhetorical question, (like Keats’ “where are the songs of spring?”)


I love the summer

so say my friends

who love to wear flip flops and insist they only feel alive

when the Sun shines relentlessly in the sky  and the cool nights close in

and the crickets chirp and the nightingales sing.


Cool fruit flavored  drinks in hand, swathed in slick, thick  Sunscreen

the Summer air is heavy  with the sent  of charcoal fueled  barbeques and freshly washed cars and

backyard shampooed  dogs

all around them

they sit upon their plastic chairs  and  cry in agony,  ” I hate the  winter”

relentlessly like a broken record.


My Summer loving friends sing their praises to the Sun.

Shouldn’t they be singing them all to Ra?

Because every Summer I watch my friends

take one step closer,  they are  one Sunbeam nearer

to looking like the

unwrapped mummies

on a shelf in the Museum of  Cairo.