Monthly Archives: September 2011

Winds of Adventure

Wind Storm By KC

Winds of Adventure

creative journeys
mutate in the wind.
observe, notate, innovate.
entrap impressions.
oppressively tempt
powerful invisible patterns.
shape revealing events.
teach beyond obsolescence.
anxious illusions
confuse resources,
repressed disturbances.
reservoirs intact,
spurious brutality
dredges dual power plays.
in a nest of delicacy,
inner perjury takes
a chokehold on recklessness.


Written and Posted for

 D’verse Poets Pub

Challenge by: Emmett Wheatfall – write a poem about writing poetry.

I also posted this for Thursday Think Tank # 72 – Writer’s Block, because I think it does have something to do with being creative and chocked at the same time.

Photo credit:

There’s a funny little history to this. I wanted to send this poem for publication. I emailed it to my son @roniweiss who refused to read it on the grounds that it was masturbatory, that is, a writer stroking herself.  Then I brought it to writer’s group. We had a big discussion about it, and they commented on my poetry in general, saying I had too many big words in my poems, and I had to tone it down. That I would even scare away the literary magazines. Then, came this prompt on dverse, and I had this poem done, and was debating whether to send it for publication, and well, the fact that this was exactly the prompt, on the poem that I exactly was not sure what to do with, well, that solved the dilemma for me.

Grandpa Doesn’t Remember Me – Haiku

Grandpa Doesn’t Remember Me – Haiku

i don’t understand

Grandad called me by Mom’s name

to him, i am not


Written for Monday Morning Writing Prompt – Description

Then posted on:

Dversepoets – FormForAll – Haiku and Senryu

picture credit by vintagedept via Flickr

Also posted on:
Poetry Jam

Past and Future – Tuesday December 6, 2011





kaleidoscopic pearls
transparent ball-bearings
freewheeling marbles


splash of blubber
rainbow tears
squeaky clean rain


carried on a whisper
scaling the breeze
purging the atmosphere


joyfully overflowing
hissy, fizzy drinks
calming soothing sounds


This was written for Blue Bell Books Short Story Slam Week 11:

picture credit:

Fire-Fighter Limerick

Body Heat Poster

Fire-Fighter Limerick

Some fire-fighters who loved to watch porn
Rallied  on an idea that’s now still-born.
They set up their truck
So porn stars could f__k.
Now they suffer the department’s full scorn.


This was posted for The Purple Treehouse Poetic Forms, Week #3 – Limerick

The photo credit goes to

I got the idea from a story: L.A. firefighters in hot water over fire trucks in porn movies

Plan B

Everland Flume Ride 2007

Plan B

I was yawning in an uninspired epoch
wanting to die of boredom
until Mr. Fun and exciting
turned me into his Plan B.

How easy to submit
to leave all strength behind
to have the status of tablemate
as he blogs away at Starbucks.

Sickened by his lack of calling,
his excuses, his classified plans,
his attitude stained his collar like
ultra blacklight reactive red lipstick.

We were in a teenage romance
playing mind games
Ignoring each other
to see who cracks first.

He’s an ass-hole with ADD ―
Flippant, unperturbed
In all he does.

It’s a flume ride in the winter.
An emotional drama, viewed
from different sections in the theater.
It’s ice cream on a sore tooth.

He’s married to his car
He prefers his buddies
I’m plan B, an idiot
Who cannot move on.


I wrote this for the  challenge called Plan B.

Also posted on:

OpenLinkNight ~ Week 32

The picture is from:

It was taken at a place called Everland Theme Park in Korea.

Ms. Ellie Shrillcock

Woman Yelling

Ms. Ellie Shrillcock

A woman of the highest squeakery
has a big problem:
Although she’d thoroughly
Invest every cent
In hard-core sentimentality.

Ms. Ellie Shrillcock, single mom and sentimental
piece of ass had her squeaky
butt wiped off her centripetal
self. Now, she probably
rides like a thoroughbred
race horse on the mend.

Flesh-like jerks, with mighty menhoods,
steer her with phemerones as they sniff scentless
silk tulips. Her house is a thoroughfare –
her boys try to keep it squeakily-clean.
Where is she sleeping tonight? Probably
not in her own bed. This past century

who was your first centaur,
Ms. Shrillcock? Was he a menace
with a torturing proboscis?
Or was he a sentinel
with the squeakiest
fiddle, thoroughly

quivering beneath your tight skirt? With thoroughness
you lazily transcribe central
bureaucratic formats. Squeaker,
with the lurid voice, that mental
patient whose final sentences
are compounded by problems,

is the only one you comprehend. How probable
for you to fall thoroughly
from elegance to sleaze. You were sent
to a celebration of centennial
proportions, for rugged men
who spent several years getting the squeak

out of their problematic voices. A cent
will buy you a thorough morality mentor
to exhume your inessential nasal squeakiness.


Written and Posted for:

 D’verse Poets Pub

Hosted by Gay Cannon. Her sestina variation being  Art in 5.7.5 – Sestina Variation

Picture Credit blindgossip

I wrote thins in 1994 about…well, someone with a squeeky annoying voice, who had some issues. Let’s just leave it at that.

Please feel free to comment, and help me be a better poet.

Also posted on Poetry Picnic Week 8: Friends, Relationships and Everyone around

Memory Stick

Memory Stick

flash drive doesn’t drive
it just likes the same commands
as DVD and CD drives
that everyone demands

flash drive doesn’t flash
it just stores all your data
when you’re tryin’ to run programs
versions alpha and/or beta

flash drive doesn’t move
in fact it’s rather dull
but memories stick to it
better than to your skull

flash drive doesn’t break
if you drop it on the floor
i hear it’s rather robust
it might last a nuclear war

flash drives just interface
with your CPU and apps
you’ll never need a wire
or expensive safety straps


I wrote this for Theme Thursday

since it has so much repetition, I posted it on

dverse, Poetic Say It Again Sam

 Hedgewitch (Joy Ann Jones) was hosting.

Train At Night

Train At Night

The slow surf beats
until the rocks
are pillows.
High tide
is a sigh.

Potent stars
defiantly battle
city lights.
The sandy beach
is exhibited
as a satin spread.

Vertigo is
the offspring
of the Island’s beacon
until a circle
of light
snaps in the horizon.

From miles beyond
the vain beam gropes for
reflective metals
embedded in the cliffs.
When the angle
is just right
the spherical ray
the lonely shores.

Like a clap
of thunder
a whistle warns.
The chug captures
biological pulse.

The cars’ silhouettes
grow and diminish
in the wake
of the winds.

At the tail
along the parallel avenue
Defies gravity
settles into place.
The sounds slip
behind another hill.


Written for:

D’verse Poets
Challenge posted by Claudia Schoenfeld

Photo from   Moonlight at Albermarle Sound, Edenton, NC

I wrote this in 1992, when I was living in Edwards, WA. It was inspired by the way the train coming down the tracks, by Puget Sound.

Not all Heroes Cried

Rescue team hunts through the steel wreckage for survivors.

Not all Heroes Cried

Flying across fields of rebar
as if they were fields of grass,
no concern for the deep black holes
of torn metal, wood and glass.

Where rescuers could not attempt,
our heroes mounted without trouble,
exceeding expectations
in deposits of baking rubble.

When they came upon a scent,
they scurried in significant rush.
Steadfastly they worked for reward ―
toys or water bottles to crush.

Comforting and making people laugh,
they were loving and most giving.
Their biggest reward, was to locate souls:
so they could play with the living.

Not all heroes cried,
they just didn’t wag their tails,
their noses and their hearts
soothing the pain of those not lost.

They came to find the living,
but living were not there.

Three dead bodies in half an hour
“Get the body bag.”

Twenty pieces of DNA
“Get the ice cooler.”

In their search, each one was grey ―
the Big Mutts and the Small.
Jumping on heaps of melted steel
toward endlessness they did crawl.

Their bloody paws were bandaged up,
eyes and noses filled with grunge,
exposed to toxic materials which
were washed with hose and sponge.

They were there for all the rescuers,
more loving than partners and peers.
Some played fetch to help others relax.
They soothed those with heavy tears.

Thunder, and Storm were just as dry
As Porkchop, Jax and Servus.
The rescuers gave away their drinks,
before quenching their own thirsts.

Not all heroes cried,
they just didn’t wag their tails,
their noses and their hearts
soothing the pain of those not lost.

They came to find the living,
but living were not there.

Three dead bodies in half an hour
“Get the body bag.”

Twenty pieces of DNA
“Get the ice cooler.”

Tascha ceaselessly gave her all
‘til overcome by heat and smoke.
Bretagne managed to take a snooze
so she wouldn’t have a stroke.

Billy calmed himself right down,
traversing treacherous terrains.
Wolf, Bear, Eagle, and Trackr
lived up to their doggie names.

Dorado, Roselle, Salty, Max, Wuss
all made it out alive.
Kaiser choked on hazardous soot
when, into debris, he took a dive.

Sunny Boy stayed on task
although it was so dreary.
Woody, Jake, and Hoke,
found no one, then got leary.

Not all heroes cried,
they just didn’t wag their tails,
their noses and their hearts
soothing the pain of those not lost.

They came to find the living,
but living were not there.

Three dead bodies in half an hour
“Get the body bag.”

Twenty pieces of DNA
“Get the ice cooler.”

There are stories about Cowboy and Red,
Or about Thunder, if you prefer.
Dusty arrived there clean in heart,
but left with contaminated fur.

They came in many sizes.
They came from any breed.
Abbey, Thea, Jena, Sue, Ivey, Mika
were all good girls indeed.

Riley, Willow, Cody, Hawk ―
each one was some kind of hero.
Moxie, Tara, Guinness, Merlyn
or Gus, Cowboy, Sirus, or Apollo.

Two sets of list must exist,
a short one for those who came out,
a longer one for those who searched,
although doing it with doubt.

Not all heroes cried,
they just didn’t wag their tails,
their noses and their hearts
soothing the pain of those not lost.

They came to find the living,
but living were not there.

Three dead bodies in half an hour
“Get the body bag.”

Twenty pieces of DNA
“Get the ice cooler.”


The other day  @NannersMom asked me to write a 9-11 poem about the dogs who were involved in the the 9-11 tragedy. It took research, and also a lot of tears. It was not easy to get away from the emotions, and get to writing it. But I did it. Yay.

Then  @RaneeDillon was kind enough to edit it for me, so I could get it posted. Once she put her hands on it, it just started flowing so nicely. Wow.

Pciture credit:  (it’s a FEMA picture)

Also on:

 D’verse Poets

Challenge by Mark Kerstetter


Rihanna - Her Beat Up Words


It’s nothing but a thankless job,
giving you my tears.
I mope the evening away
wondrin’ where you are.
Then I hear your ring
your voice,
your needs.

I’m the artist who could
showcase you:
a framed work of joy.
To  break from your reins
sweats out  my mind.
It’s like  my own work,
my will
my time.

Encased in a holo cave
echo of your drumming heart.
So then, one day,
No more.
I won’t be there.
Don’t count
on me calling back.


Written for:


Write2Day–Labor Day Prompt

Also posted on:

The Gooseberry Garden

Poetry Picnic Week 30: Doubts, Fears, Inhibitions and Hesitations

Picture credit: mammakaze