74 . WELCOME BACK, LITTLE SONGBIRD Newly back from his trip south, a rookie bluebird salutes spring from a branch high  on the oak,  soft, low-pitched  chir-wi, chir-wi. sung  with simple joy,  cheerily, cheer up, cheer up... *comments welcome

  73. WITH A SURCINGLE BELT Summer after senior year, no more babysitting! First real job, part-time at The Villager, Har Mar Mall. Classic 1960s boutique shop, sold preppy A-line skirts, Oxford button-down blouses, blazers, bermuda shorts. Madras plaid mania, guaranteed to bleed. First paycheck bought me an avocado green shirtwaist dress with a woven surcingle belt: heavy cotton webbing, leather tabs, brassy gold buckle. Shining moment, red-letter day!

PROMPT:  Write a lucky poem. Or a poem about bad luck. Or luck in general. I've never been good at rhyming poems. Gotta start sometime. 72. OUT OF LUCK As luck would have it, missed the bus what to do, quite a fuss. As luck would have it, rain poured down umbrella left way uptown. As luck would have it, lost her purse, things had gone bad to worse. As luck would have it, ran into Harry so instead they took the ferry. As luck would have it, got there late, worked through lunch, luckless fate. As luck would have it, there went Carrie taking lunch break with new friend Harry. As luck would have it, throbbing head, hurried home and straight to bed.

This is my first attempt at a FOUND POEM. I wrote this 2 weeks ago. We got about a foot of snow. Last weekend, we had temps in the 70s, which melted the snow FAST. 71. WINTER STORM WATCH for Minnesota this weekend, March 14-15, 2026: a major blizzard expected directly impacting Twin Cities, potentially historic snow, [80-100% chance of 20+ inches], intense snowfall, wet and heavy, tree limb damage and possible power outages, hazardous winds, little to no visibility, blizzard-like whiteouts, eventually reaching a low in single digits Monday morning. Department of Transportation urges caution as many roads may be impassable. Expect road closures and flight cancellations. Make sure your gas tank is full. *comments welcome  

Write a cleave poem: A cleave poem is three poems in one. According to the creator of the form, Dr. Phuoc-Tan Diep: “In its most basic form it is three poems: two parallel ‘vertical’ poems (left and right)…[with] a third ‘horizontal’ poem being the fusion of the vertical poems read together.” 70. IN A TEMPER All day it brews at a slow simmer  burning in the pit of her stomach Bubbles of anger rise to the surface  gnawing at her; ready to burst Rage claims her mind  sapping her energy, growing stronger Her bad mood blazes  furious words explode like pieces of an asteroid  fragmenting in a perfect March sky. *comments welcome

69. HER CLOSET She remembers a scarf bright as summer, clatter of wire hangers, her mother standing in front of the closet wearing a white slip, deep grooves cut into her shoulders from her bra straps. On a shelf her black leather jewelry box with rows of clip-on earrings resting on fancy red velvet, the scent of Evyan's  White Shoulders, infusing the air. Her mother reaches  for a dress, dark blue green  crepe sprinkled with  tiny bursts of coral. Sixty years have passed since that day; this time she reaches into her mother’s closet  alone.

68. INTO THE SILENCE Darkness crept in,  heavy and suffocating. She listened to the crickets and katydids, nighttime soundtrack, listened to the silence, listened to her heart. The noises got fainter and fainter until she no longer heard them at all. And even if one broke into the silence, she no longer cared. *comments welcome

  NOTE: I used a "wordle" prompt when I wrote this: either, harrowing, marrow, grubs, thin, oath, saw, guess, rare, march, borrow, transparent 67. MANY YEARS AGO When I was a girl, willow thin and achingly transparent,   my innocence was an oath whispered to the wind. I dream of those borrowed sunlit days, rare and golden, the marrow of wild blackberries sweet on my tongue. At night, I see white flower petals fluttering like moths in the dark. In the morning, they're gone. *comments welcome

71. APHRODITE IN ST. PAUL Warm July night, air thick with high-pitched buzz  of cicadas Ancient moonlight puddles the porch floor; she stretches bare legs from inky shadows  into the alabaster spill; he thinks of marble Aphrodite, kneeling in her bath at the Louvre in distant Paris; the immortal River Seine,  flowing timelessly beneath the Pont Mirabeau. His reality is the humble song of crickets , heavy purple scent  of lilac, spanning the bridge to  Wonderland. Journey from here to there, into a world of wild imagination. PROMPT: Combine a sense and place, “include a place you’ve never been, a place you know well, and a place fictional or imaginary. For each place, appeal to a different a sense." I loosely followed this prompt.

  Everyday Poems for City Sidewalks Contest Saint Paul’s Department of Public Works and Public Art Saint Paul sponsored the 2nd annual sidewalk poetry program and contest again this year. St. Paul residents were invited to enter the contest to have their poems permanently installed in city sidewalks. Poems had to be no longer than 300 characters including spaces. Poems could be inspiring, funny, meaningful, cynical, mundane... anything appropriate for the general public. Over 400 poems were submitted. Sidewalk poetry’s genesis began with Marcus Young, Saint Paul’s artist in residence. Young conceived the idea in 2008 after learning about the public works department’s annual sidewalk replacement program. Because of age and deterioration, the city replaces about 10 miles of sidewalk each year. “I like the unlikely pairing of poetry and sidewalk replacement,” Young said. “Sidewalks are clearly a necessity, yet creating beauty and mystery with public art is equally important. We must b...

65.  COSMIC MYSTERIES Wrapped in silvery shadows, her secrets sigh, drift among the stars, ethereal against the moonlight. Kaleidoscope of chance, the silent darkness shifts and shifts again. The stars keep her secrets hidden. *comments welcome                       

66.  SATURDAY AFTERNOON Like clockwork, they have another argument, regret spirals,  sorrow follows, despair immeasurable. Are bridges burned? Tell me, she begs. What should I do now . . . *comments welcome

64. SPRING QUARTER 1967 - #MeToo Trapped behind grimy window glass, the bee’s translucent wings flap a feeble Morse code,   Let me out. Let me out. She's gone to her math professor's   cramped office for help. Knee to knee, they sit on scarred gray metal chairs. Captive, the bee crashes against the window. Her teacher is a short, mumbly man whose words she can barely understand. Without warning, he leans forward, puts thick fingers on her thigh, crosses the invisible line between them. She smells his sour breath, her leg burns where he squeezes. Captive, the bee crashes against the window again. Uncertain about what's happened,   she looks up, sees his flushed, sweat-filmed face and greedy, pornographic eyes, hears ragged, uneven breathing. She grabs up the D grade   and makes her escape. Captive, the bee crashes against the window, flies free. She doesn't report him because, really, who would believe her? He is, after all, a member of the faculty while she's just a...

63. Scribbled constellations, glittery with secrets,  spin  into  tomorrow,  write the future. Bruised shadows  stretch  to the edges  of the world, where echoes go  to die. Scribbled constellations, glittery with secrets, spinning  into  tomorrow,  writing the future. Bruised shadows stretch to the edges of the world, where echoes compose the ending. Glittery secrets spin  into tomorrow, while bruised shadows stretch  to the edges of the world and scribbled constellations write the future. Scribbled constellations write the future,  glittery secrets spin. Bruised shadows stretch to the edges of the world, as grief composes the ending. Scribbled constellations, glittery secrets spinning into tomorrow,  write the future. Bruised shadows stretch to the edges of the world, echoes compose the ending. .

[62/365] PETALS Soft murmur of fragile pink petals drifts in a pinnacle of light and beauty, glimpse of eternity.

[61/365] THE LITTLEST THINGS It was that kind of morning, when pint-sized things were grand things. The gentlest sky was unbearably blue,  birds trilled intricate symphonies  from the backyard, sunlight glinted off last night's snow. Fresh & clean, the air smelled  faintly   of coffee beans  roasting  at Dunn Bros  around the corner.  It was all  perfectly perfect, flawlessly flawless, superbly superb. *comments welcome

HOT NIGHT SMALL TOWN 1964 I remember a crazy wild summer night in my hometown, air heavy with the smell of June roses and burning rubber, speeding down a lonesome two-lane highway, cigarette smoke stinging his steel blue eyes, me blowing bubblegum-bubbles, white lines flying past faster than falling in love when you're seventeen. Notes: I confess that I tend to get stuck in the 60s. I love the music, and I love my memories. At the time, it was hard finding my way. But looking back, it all seems sweet and lovely. Pipeline by The Chantays, 1963 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w7c2ZKamzS4

 [60/365] MOONLIGHT ON WATER Scattered luminous reflection , anchored by slender, sparkling bands, shimmery bridge to the shore. Overextended and overexposed, infinity where sky meets land, the moon's lustrous glow fueled by the glossy tangle of stars crowding the heavens. The light dims and moody clouds come, bathing the night in dusky chiaroscuro, obliterating the gleaming moon-path. Darkness mingles with muted shadows, silent and mysterious. Light and dark fall unevenly linger raw and intense, beautiful enough to hurt.

DAY 59 IT'S HAPPENING NOW   Mercy streaks across the sky, inky echoes confess. Shadows burn at the altar of legacy. Holy stars, relics of his words, drift from sacred memory.

[DAY 57] 57/365 WHEN THE WORDS DON'T COME Eyes closed, she leans back in her chair, sighs. Nothing inspires, her muse in hiding. Slate pales to gray beneath curdled skies, the silence loud inside her head. She ponders . . . nothing. Perhaps her emptiness  will produce something. And then, sunlight breaks through, deposits rectangles of gold across her writing desk. Little by little, she feels life starting up again. She begins to write.

[DAY 56] KITCHEN STILL LIFE I decide to write about onions, artfully arranged in a woven reed basket  on the kitchen counter behind me,  grass  fibers beautiful, lovely frame   for papery orbs the size of softballs. Without turning to look I know there's a mild-flavored red onion,  more purple than rosy-hued , two sweetly pungent white onions, fleshy opaque petals wrapped tightly in layers of humble honesty. I need to peel those layers away  to discover their hidden depths. I sigh.  No poet can do them justice.

PLUM TREE IN AN ICE STORM Top heavy with ice, frozen limbs bend, snap, break. Defeated, stalwart old tree surrenders and falls. Funereal winds howl in anguish. Symbol of hope, continuity of life, we'll plant a sapling plum in the spring.

[54/365] DIAGNOSIS March, first week of daylight savings time. Almost 7am, sky still sunless, darkest black hides everything. I tiptoe out of our bedroom so as not to wake him, down the hall to my study, my haven. We've been living with his diagnosis for almost two years. Parkinson's Disease (shocking words) Neurodegenerative (scary word) movement disorder (alarming words) caused by the loss of dopamine-producing brain cells. (technical words). All day, his hand shakes, resting tremors, right foot now, too. Lessens somewhat at night, when he's asleep. His voice weakened, he speaks in a whisper. This strong, proud man My husband for 55 years. No cure. No cure. No cure. *comments welcome

Come up with a message and assign it to something unlikely. Remember inanimate objects can speak and signs and symbols may be nonverbal. Once you have a few sentences, select the one that is most intriguing to you and use it to start a poem. [53/365] PILLOW TALK His pillow beckons, a voluptuous woman in the early morning darkness, luxuriously surrounded by plush blankets. "Come back to me," she coaxes in a low throaty whisper, "last night was good but this morning will be even better." Her abundant softness tempts him, he looks longingly at her seductive curves, full-figured and welcoming, wistfully considers her message, then reluctantly heads to the shower. "Pillow Talk," sung by Sylvia, 1973 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NA2X1040_gY

[52/365] THE MOON AND THE MORNING SUN Lightly covered with her chiffon shawl (bits of cloud delicately stitched together), the newly sprung ahead 6am moon gracefully twirls into the sleepy southwest sky. Reluctant to end the night, she languidly hides behind a confusion of oak branches. Somewhere in the still dark east, the sun, handsome and righteous, prepares to make his daily appearance.

[51/365] I'M GOING TO INGRID'S she said, and rushed off, determined to live her life on her own terms, past   the nest of fledgling sparrows   at the back door, all wings and light. I ironed in the kitchen, trapped by the steamy smell of starched cotton. *comments welcome

DAY 50 -  HAIKU  To laughing out loud so popular it has it's own abbreviation! PS: You've got to love a 5 syllable word!

March 05, 2026 [48/365] EARLY DECEMBER 2005  Dad was in a nursing home, terminal cancer, me at his bedside, holding his hand. He’d doze, we’d talk, share a few treasured stories. His favorite big band music played softly, “We’ll Meet Again,” Vera Lynn’s voice comforting. I apologized for careless words spoken over the years. He did the same, observing how silly it had been. Sharing his last hours in that sacred space was a gift. I didn’t want to leave; I wanted to hold onto him for as long as I could. Always there for me, my hero, he died twenty long years ago. When I miss him now, I play that same song, feel that hushed moment. Life has gone on, but it lacks some of it’s sparkle… https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T6NMMEQSdbk