This morning I was stalking reading some of my favorite lovely blogs. My friend Gerry wrote a brilliant flash piece as a response to Brenda Warren's Sunday whirl. I read the word list and looked at the paintings in my bedroom for
Me! This evening I wrote a slash-your-wrists-by free verse to a prompt on Rosemary Mint. My excuse is that the prompt was a wordle from Sylvia Plath
I've become a little addicted to flashy, flashy, flashy fiction. Ok, it's only Flashy Fiction but it's the name, such fun to say, isn't it. Go on
What happens when my two talented daughters decide to create something? Magic! This time magic took shape in a huge dream catcher. Left-over willow branches, yarn, found glass baubles, crow’s feathers. Then the sun caught it and it ignited. Only sweet dreams in our house
Spoke to R this morning about balance. More specifically, where the balancing point is between intellect and emotion. I can tell you right now that my intellect is so not dominant. Not at all, at all. I’m super emotion dominant. If you knew me
The first days of spring. Welcoming you with open arms.
Yesterday, on a typical rainy and windy Pacific day, I walked down the path to the ocean with a heavy heart, eyes cast down to the soggy path. At one point I looked up and saw fresh green moss. A
I remember we had a children’s book where the pages were cut into thirds and could be flipped to create absurd images. I’m not sure exactly where it is, and most likely at the cabin, but I remember the pictures;
If walls could talk What stories are inside these warm Cotswold stones? Did Chaucer use the front door? Did he use the side door? Did he use the garden gate? Or the service entry?
One of my most favourite old books is falling apart. It is a small, leather bound, 1907 book-of-the- heart written by Elbert Hubbard called White Hyacinths. Before it eventually disintegrates I mean to frame the first page; it read: If