104. HAIKU  moon butterflies play in a garden of dark light dissolve into dreams *comments welcome.

103. DAY 103 - HAIKU The ones that explode into sunny yellow smiles bright dandelions... *comments welcome

I've been deeply affected by the passing of so many of my much loved family members over the years. It seems I have a very strong need to put those feelings on paper, almost as a way to honor them.   102. THE LEAVING I remember the February night my mother-in-law died; four of us in the cramped room at the nursing home, wanting to be with her when she passed as if our being there could somehow make it easier. She fought so hard, the consummate mother, in spite of the horrible toll Alzheimer's had taken on her mind and body. When she was gone, I saw a tiny tear trickle down her cheek. Look, I said, she's crying, but no they said, it happens sometimes. It's called the tear of death. Just six months later my father-in-law left us, too. Same nursing home but different this time. There was no bedside vigil; he slipped away on a quiet Sunday morning. It's August now, the day after his funeral; they're together again, side by side on a grassy slope overlooking Rogers L...

89. HAIKU warmish rainy days leaves sprout in front of my eyes green fills the spring sky *comments welcome warmish rainy days leaves pop in front of my eyes green fills the spring sky

Cinquain: A short, usually unrhymed poem  consisting of twenty-two syllables distributed as 2, 4, 6, 8, 2, in five lines. 101. SPRINGTIME Breezy cloud tumbling day, scent of honeysuckle, mock orange at the kitchen window, April.

SEPTOLET:  a poem consisting of seven lines of fourteen words, with a break between the two parts. Both parts deal with the same thought and create a picture. 100. CONSIDER I am safe in the middle of today, tucked inside a smooth white shell. *comments welcome.

99. MY BROTHER RAY I was twenty-six when my brother died, driving the car he loved, a small topaz orange Triumph Spitfire, on a perfect May evening, my third wedding anniversary. A station wagon  crashed into his tiny sports car. Closest to me in age, just 13 months younger, named after our father, the one Mother loved best. Small and wiry, while the rest of us were tall,  his eyes blue like mine. When my brothers came to tell me, it was almost morning and he'd only been dead a few hours. Dead, my brother, impossible. I don't know what words they used. I just remember standing all smashed together  in the hallway of my tiny apartment, the three of us wrapped in a single embrace, clutching and sobbing. I'll never forget the gut-wrenching pain. Until that moment, I had not  understood  what loss was  about. *comments welcome

  98. APRIL FOOL'S DAY Drops of icy rain drip off newly green leaves of Lady's Mantle, prisms on a crystal chandelier. A rain-coat yellow dandelion stands alone in the side yard. It's cold again after an uncommonly mild March. Unwanted snowflakes drift down like torn bits of old love letters. More arrive, faster and thicker, a snowy confetti blizzard, ends as abruptly as it begins. *comments welcome

97. DREADFUL SORRY An early dandelion  blooms by the walk, purple blossoms  festoon the lilac hedge. Robins have been  gathering nesting material all week:  twigs, moss, mud. A little girl in pigtails  dances across the grass, magical moments abound.  Swinging, her  skirt sweeps  the ground,  toes touch the sky. Everything's unpredictable  these days,  rules don't apply  anymore,  nothing's the same.  She sings about  darling Clementine, poor Clemmie, lost  and gone forever, while trump mania  takes over the world. *comments welcome

96. FINDING JOY I've learned that joy resides   in the little things. Every morning, I look out my window at the immense  sky, framed in blue, backdrop for velvety  budding oak and fuzzy honey locust. I crank open my window to bird song and the intense burnt sugar smell of coffee beans roasting at Dunn Bros, 3 blocks away. I hear the buzz of my husband's razor in the next room, then the sound  of the shower and finally his voice from the chair behind me as he puts on socks. This daily ritual is one I secretly look forward to with  gratitude, for  the contentment  and pure joy it brings . *comments welcome

 95. FAMILY RESEMBLANCE  He burns with fever, cheeks scarlet, eyes glazed. She bundles him in his snowsuit, striped hat snug around tiny face. Her mother drives, thick woolen scarf tied warmly around her neck, face pale, eyes enormous with worry. It is at that moment she sees it, her small son is the image of her beautiful mother. *comments welcome

  94. 7:45 PM.  The setting sun hangs low  in the western sky, sends a single golden beam to shine on my oak tree. Peaceful, serene, fleeting. Just that one spot of honeyed light against furrowed black bark,  tapestry of time. Profound stillness reigns. The sun slides down toward morning  in another part of the world, my night  is just beginning. *comments welcome Tender budding green oak leaves rest together tonight with tiny acorn nubs. They'll spend the summer growing. By fall, their season over, they'll tumble to earth  settle around the trunk, form a protecting blanket against winter's cruelty.

  NOTE:  I wrote this six years ago. I always wanted to rework it. 93. DYSTOPIAN NIGHTMARE (After George Floyd's Murder) She feels it, a faintly hollow, whirring vibration, knows what's coming, tries to concentrate, to close her mind, but the sound gets louder. One pass around, then another. It goes on like this for hours. Loud at times, directly over her house, then seeping vaguely into the distance, always the same oppressive drone. A buzzing bee, rumbling at the hive. This mesmerizing sound haunts  her dreams, her  reality, her future. She wonders what it's about this time; people are starving, desperate,  no jobs  or rent money, more erratic destruction of her city . Windows smashed, stores looted. Looking for drugs, t he destruction  at her doctor's office shocking, staff huddled together in locked room during random looting. The COVID nightmare drags on all around while helicopters patrol the night sky. *comments welcome

 92. HAIKU gentle spring rain falls musical windshield wipers concerto of drops *comments welcome

90. JUST NOW Great whorls of pink cotton candy clouds swirl against palest blue fill the morning sky, backdrop for newly sprouting tree buds, blackest branches silhouetted against the dawn. Glory! *comments welcome

89. In my old age there comes a reckoning. I have lived to see the loss of too many things; my health, dear friends, loved ones. All gone, sadly forever. I am left empty and alone, just biding my time. *comments welcome

88. SELLING MEMORIES Facebook Marketplace, set of 4 Pyrex mixing bowls from 1950s, robin's egg blue, no fading or scratches, VGUC, you pick-up my front porch. Bowls belonged to my mother, tape on bottom of second largest,  labeled with last name for when she sent the bowl to church funeral lunches, heaped with 3 Bean Salad. Largest bowl for mixing dozens of cookies: chocolate chip, peanut butter, ginger, sugar and my favorite, spritz cookies at Christmas. There were always cookies in the cupboard and in the freezer. Those bowls sold faster than you can say 'just listed.' Hope they work as well for the new owner.  *comments welcome SOLD Facebook Marketplace,  set of 4 Pyrex mixing bowls from 1950s, robins egg blue, no fading or scratches, VGUC,  well-cared for, belonged to my mother,  you pick-up my front porch. Sold faster than you can say 'just listed.' 

 88. BENEDICTION The sweet smell of lilacs drifts over the city like a blessing. Yesterday was winter, today blooms radiant spring. Cafe tables unfurl up and down Selby Avenue, an old man shares a croissant with his dog, joggers and tubs of pansies claim the sidewalk. Sunshine glints off the cross on the cathedral, fracturing golden light into tiny pieces of glory. *comments welcome

  PROMPT: Combine 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 different senses . . ."  87. 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. Heavy crimson scent of stargazer lilies spans  the bridge to Wonderland. Journey from here to there, into a world of wild imagination. His reality the streetlight on the corner, moths drawn to the light, looking for love. *comments welcome

  86. I'M LOST Messaging with my granddaughter, I say TGIF, and she replies, Gram, it’s Saturday. Some time later, in the kitchen to make soup, I say to my husband, I can’t find The View on TV, and he says, Honey, it’s Saturday.  And I wonder where I am, the me  who always knows what day it is,  what time it is, where the children are, the good wife who knows  she knows everything.  I think I must be lost. *comments welcome

85. COUSIN HELEN My first memory of Mama's unwed cousin Helen was of trim ankles crossed primly beneath a proper gray tweed skirt, sturdy leather handbag beside her chair, a tissue tucked up her sleeve. Helen was a decade and a half older than Mother, a rather large difference on some occasions. Is it politically correct to refer to her as unwed? I think it sounds better than spinster, which sounds better than old maid. Or does it? I probably don't need to mention her marital status at all. If I was writing about my unwed brother, Joe, I'd call him a bachelor, which sounds dashing. It pains me to call her a spinster, with its regrettable connotations. That's how it was back then, in the 1950s, when I was a bachelor girl of nine, and Helen was a bachelor girl of fifty-three. *comments welcome

From  Poetic Asides  with Robert Lee Brewer comes the following prompt: Write a poem about--or, at least, with--a sound. It could be an annoying sound, a scary sound, a happy sound, etc. In fact, the poem could even include several sounds. 84. SUNDAY MORNING SYMPHONY She wakes to a carillon of cathedral bells; short, sharp tick of the dresser clock defining each second of time that passes; steady drip, drip, drip of rain falling in small silvery drops; clatter of cup on saucer. The familiar sounds soothe her and she is content. *comments welcome.

PROMPT: Recipe poems are a distinct form of poetry that blend the structure of a cooking recipe with creative language. They outline steps and ingredients. Write a recipe poem however you want to interpret that. This was inspired by son Tommy, when he was in grade school, 1998. 83. TOMMY & THE ORANGE JULIUS RECIPE 1998 INGREDIENTS: 1-6-oz. can frozen orange juice 1 cup water 1 cup milk 1/4 tsp. vanilla 1/3 cup sugar 10-12 ice cubes DIRECTIONS: Mix in Mom's blender on high speed until ice is crushed.  Serve immediately. Leave blender on the counter  in a puddle of spilled juice. Pour sugar on the floor. Use all the ice in the freezer  and don't refill ice cube trays.  Make sure everything  in the kitchen is sticky, including the ceiling.  Go immediately to the driveway to shoot hoops . . .

 82. HEALING TOUCH An old memory, me with a fever, Mother at my bedside stroking my head, reading  Girl of the Limberlost  to me. Seventy years ago, but I still feel her hand, cool and comforting, rough and dry, too (she deserved softer days). She knew instinctively if I had a fever, relied on her mother's intuition, kiss on my forehead. I must have been very sick, she read several chapters. *comments welcome

PROMPT: Pick a favorite image or memory. Ask: When I look at it, what am I remembering? How does this image make me feel? Write your poem as free verse. This is a summertime image I've always wanted to write about! 81.  FOR THE GIRL IN THE BLUE SUNDRESS  IN THE PARKING LOT AT WAL-MART I think the color was indigo with tiny embroidered flowers, a mane of endless yellow hair and a cowboy hat she pulled off with a confident flourish. She linked arms with the skinny boy in the tight black tee-shirt, cigarette dangling from his full red lips. Hot sun pounded down, blushed the tender skin on her milky shoulders. She kissed him hard on the mouth, then disappeared inside the store in a flash of gold-plated sunlight, leaving him far behind.

  80. SHE WAS ME When I was a girl, thick chestnut braids trailing down my back, smooth tan legs flying I rode moonbeams in fields of fireflies, summer was forever and magic happened. Then one summer, sweet marrow of blackberries, so joyfully savored, shifted to the end of innocence. Disillusioned, disenchanted I abandoned childhood for grownup responsibility. Unspoiled wonder was no more. Joy remained but it was different. Not worse, perhaps better but all the same, different, no longer carefree . . .

  79. HAIKU moon butterflies float in a garden of dark light dissolve into dreams *comments welcome

79. ~HAIKU~ rainy saturday desire burns out of control heat becomes affair *comments welcome

79.  ~ HAIKU ~ fledgling light blossoms inside the night dark garden of my mind - Ah-ha!  *comments welcome

  78. HAIKU Her dream remembered  the past comes alive tonight memories twist ed.

  DAY 77 -  SPRING REVERIE (77/365) SPRING REVERIE She'd forgotten the sound the wind made in the tree tops after winter, a murmurous, whispery music  rustling through new leaves, sublime in verdant glory. She remembered spring nights, darkness softly comforting, how it smelled when it rained, heavens unfailingly wiped clean, the sound of raindrops when  they bounced off new leaves. In this moment that is hers alone, she waits to forget to remember. The truth is that life is fleeting,  with solitary moments to be savored. In the end, that is the real prize. *comments welcome

  76. HAIKU Slate skies, bare branches snow in the April forecast, when will spring arrive? *comments welcome

  75. THE ALMANAC Paging through her yearbook of days, she comes across the first purple violets of spring, catches sight of the gaudy lilies of summer, and there are fall's flaming sugar maples, finally spies the long-needled pines of winter. Constellations, sunrises and sunsets, a profusion of celestial events, intricately tangled in time, day after day. Past. Present. Future. Time is the nebulous dimension through which everything passes. It is her intention to find more time, time for them, the hopelessly ordinary, unremarkable them, in this last season of their life together, while the moon spins around corners in the starry night sky, the sun sends golden shafts of light; and the wind, that wild, unpredictable wind, sets it all free. *comments welcome