lines and logic

LLines lost logic when looking out from within

Anyone could trace

But could they see beyond the space?

Yet for all practical purposes

Reason wasn’t welcomed in the

Intimate way fictional characters were

Not that it could quash the fantastical world within.

The jail was not the loony bin, nor the loony bin the jail.

Heartache & hope connected the dots, a place twixt heaven & hell.



JJust having a ball,

Nothing new, nothing at all.

No,  won’t break a window or aim for a car.

No, my mind isn’t that far gone.

Just having a ball,

Nothing old, nothing new.

No, I don’t need something to do.

Leave me be with these oranges three.

Just having a ball

Keeping one in the air.

Another here, the other…

Somewhere, oh why bother?

Just having a ball

No need to shout.

I’d rather stay in

I don’t care if you go out.

Just having a ball

Go ahead and fume

When you leave the room

I don’t care at all.

Just…where did it go?

No, no, not so fast – please talk slow

They were marbles, you say? I didn’t know.

Well, they’re lost now….oh.











Hell may have its many layers

And Houdini his many tricks

Virtually, every courageous artist and

Outrageous liar knows when they’ve been licked.

Connected like a red-white string, the truth and lies – the gray of reality.


Whether it was a cursed artifact or some supernatural thing.

Rotting away, some dead writer’s soul

Imagination was the key

To making what was once private and flat

Inventive prose on paper becoming rock-solid fact

Neverland emerged as did the road to Oz

Given the fantastical reality birthing, gives the writer cause.


Somewhere the story spinning

Lines that

Obliterate the once-fifth wall

Wanderers now in our world

Like a life-size adventure chosen

Yet still the fiction’s woven.


Imaginary friends now real

New doors in the air

To take the average person

Outside, outer space, anywhere.


Over hill and under

River, raven,


Escaping the many layers of hell

Rash reality forgotten.



*Inspired by the weekly writing prompt on SnoValley Writes!

Folded Foils

foil flower

FFoil Flora

She kept the tattered books because she knew the stories so well

They picked her up whenever she fell.

The plotting, the plundering

Got her through the lightening and thundering.

The worlds created let her escape

Through Secret Gardens or with a musketeer’s cape.

What fragments of foil she could collect

She would reconnect

Into flowers and swords

Tucked in between words

So when by chance there was a window sill or shelf

She could unfold the garden and blades she made for her elf.



Robinson Astaire didn’t have a care

As the bus ride got him there

From Point A to Point B

A chance to see the whole city

On the far side of the lake

His own rendering he would take

Of the mountains afar

And the Needle, its top light a star

Somewhere in the hustle and bustle

There were quiet parks where the leaves would rustle

But that would have to wait another day

For today was his time to look toward the bay.

Dancing Eight-Step

8th floor steps Dancing Eight-Step

Ocho, samane, e-walu, acht

Wyth, ara, otto. ocht,  

So were the numbers recited in sing-song voice

The first of many a linguistic choice.

The melody fit his favorite little ditty

As he loved to walk in the rain in the city.

He remembered the movies of long ago

And for a moment, wanted to be a little rebel colonel.

Upstairs, downstairs, clickety-clack

Concrete, metal, shingles, he’d give a whack.

Tapping on everything here or there

So were the moves of Robinson Astaire


infinity bowl


He remembered the story in the old testament about the oil container that never emptied. How the mother and child had enough for them and the guest they had taken in.

He remembered the story of David versus Goliath and why there were three stones.

He remembered the story of the stone soup and wished he had some now.

He remembered the chicken soup and rice and where the wild things were. What happened after the accident – well, that was all a blur.

But amidst the rubble of the looted store, one unbroken, plain bowl on the floor. He cupped it with his tiny hands, this treasure to behold. Whatever the limited use, the scarce resources, he’d dream of more than gold.

Of what remained and what was lost, he was somewhere in between. But once he’d find a decent shelter, he’d allow himself time to dream