Walking your dog in the snow does not require as much vigilance as walking him in the rain.

Snow apparently has no summoning effect whatever on flying insects intent on dive-bombing your eyes and your nostrils. Nor does it require a careful exhaling (think ‘blowing your nose’) to ensure none of said creatures managed to do a Will Smith/Jeff Goldblum flight into the heart of the alien ship…that is, the aforementioned nostrils. Because if they do, aside from its being wholly GROSS (allow me my girly shuddering, please and thank you!), you need to eject them post haste, for fear of inhaling them, and subjecting the back of your tongue and your throat to their uninvited and nasty invasion, on their way to your esophagus and intestines.

Then too, the little critters intent on doing kamikaze flights onto your eyeballs have no other purpose that to blind you…and if the alien pilot can’t see, she can’t steer the bloody ship, can she? Falling on the muddy road or driveway is NOT my idea of a fun way to spend time in the great outdoors. And the female bloodsuckers come out in force as well, intent on doing their Dracula impressions with those six little needles they jab you with, accompanied by as much fanfare as their little wings can provide. UGH!!

Finally. walking your dog in the snow does not require more than a need to dry his feet and coat. It does not entail the deployment of Dawn dishwashing liquid, warm water, and lots and lots of paper towels like a Special Ops team to clean mud off a dog that doesn’t quite manage to stay still, or that sits when you need him to stand, and whose still too-damp belly makes you worry he’ll get the chills because you haven’t managed to dry him off properly. Not to mention the mud, which has stained the clean coat he just had shampooed at Petco on Saturday.

And let’s not talk about the possibility of picking up other passengers on the soles of your Crocs that might give you a dreaded disease, because now they’re waking up from their Winter dreams.

Why Winter is my love…any questions?


KDB, April 2017

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived an old woman.  Well, nowadays she would be considered a mid-lifer, but in those times she was old.  Her name was Wanda.  

Wanda lived alone in a large old castle, except for the butler who butled, the cook, who cooked, and the chambermaid who maided.  They made her life easy.  All she had to do was eat, sleep, wash herself – and since the law had been passed making bathing a requirement for citizenship, she had been free to wash as often as her little heart desired, without fear of being reported to the authorities as a “luxuriant”, and locked away for her crimes, sans washing facilities – and write the occasional spell.

You see, Wanda was a witch.  Not that she cared too much for her station in life, but there it was.  The goddess of gifts had gifted her with witchery, and the gift of the scop.  In her youth, Wanda had sung the tales of old at court and even been wooed by the Prince of the Realm.  But she knew she was not meant to be a princess.  Why, she was tall, and fat, and shy, and hated most all men.  And so she had refused his suit, and he had been made to marry another by his father, the King.  Her Prince was the one who had given her the castle and all the lands around it.  All he asked was that she write a spell every public holiday to make him love his wife.

Wanda had been happy to oblige.  After all, if he loved his wife, he would not pursue her, and she could live as she pleased.  She thought back to the last time she had needed to write a spell.  The next public holiday had been Christmas, which was fast approaching, and Wanda knew she had to make an extra special spell.  Prince William, for that was his name, although he was called by other names, loved Christmas, and if he loved his wife, would shower her with wonderful gifts to make her happy.  Wanda knew from Cook that the Princess, whose name was Hannah, was sad these days because she could not seem to get in the family way. Although she could not be sure, Wanda suspected that the problem would be solved if only William would spend even one night in his wife’s chambers.  The chamber maid had it on good authority that they slept in separate rooms.

But that was not her problem.  She had been charged with making him love his wife.  She sat, that morning, therefore, looking out the large bow window of her castle’s living room, waiting for the Muse to visit her.  Erato was late, as usual, so Wanda idly hummed her favorite tune and scribbled nonsense words on the tablet she held on her lap.  Soon a picture formed, and before long, Wanda had drawn the face of her Prince.  She looked up from her labors to find Basil, the butler, hovering at her elbow, his mouth open to speak.

“Well, spit it out, man!” she said, more impatiently than she should have.  She had been feeling unusually crabby that day, and poor Basil always bore the brunt of her ill-humor.  She promised herself to give him an extra evening off this week, to make up for her mood.  He would appreciate it, him being by way of courting his lady love and all.

“Beg pardon, ma’am, but you have a visitor!”  Basil seemed very uncomfortable.

Wanda eyed him with interest.  Normally, Erato just walked in unannounced.  Since he was announcing the visitor, she could only assume it was not her Muse.  She sighed.

“Well, who is it, then, Basil?” she asked, trying to keep the snap out of her voice.

“ Princess Hannah, ma’am!”  His discomfort made sense now.

“Show her in, Basil, and have Candy make tea!”  As he walked away, she called after him, “And Basil!”  When he turned back to look at her, she added, “Thank you!”

She watched his left eyebrow rise a fraction in acknowledgment before he turned away and walked out.  Less than a minute later, Her Royal Highness Princess Hannah was announced.

Wanda stood but did not curtsy.  She watched the Princess look around her, and wondered if she should offer her a seat.  After all, she was royalty – they didn’t wait to be invited to do anything.  But the woman hesitated.  So Wanda indicated the big leather chair to her right.

“Please sit down, Your Highness!”

Still, the Princess hesitated.  ”I did not come to stay,” she said at last, still standing. She looked suspiciously at Hannah as though she had been crying.  Something was very wrong.

“Please, my lady, sit down!  Candy will bring us tea, and then you can tell me what distresses you.”

Wanda gently nudged the clearly agitated young woman into the chair, and sat herself in her usual place, trying not to grind her teeth.  Just when Candy needed to be quick, she was dragging her feet.  By the time Basil appeared in the doorway with a loaded tray, Wanda had counted to two hundred.  She let out an audible breath, and let Basil serve the Princess.  She blew on her own tea, when he handed her the cup, sipped, and waited.  Something told her she would not have to wait long before the distraught woman beside her bared her soul.

Princess Hannah put down her teacup and turned earnest eyes to Wanda’s face.

“I want you to stop making spells for William!” she burst out.

Wanda hid her considerable surprise in another sip.  She had thought that only she and Prince William knew about her spells.  Apparently, she was wrong.

“I  know about the spells you write for him each holiday!” she cried.  ”He never loved me, and I knew it when we wed.”  She clasped her hands tightly together in her lap. “I needed to get away from my father.”

Suddenly, she looked up at Wanda.  ”Now I need to get away from my husband.  I need you to write a spell for me, instead.”

Wanda could not stop her jaw from dropping at that request.  She snapped her mouth shut with some alacrity, not wishing to offend the Princess with her surprise.

“You must know a spell to get me out of this marriage,” she said hopefully.  ”After all, you’re a witch!”

“Have you told the Prince how you feel?” Wanda asked, hedging.  What does one do in a case like this?  To whom does one owe loyalty?

Princess Hannah withered her with a look.  Well, at any rate, she tried.  Wanda ignored her irritation.

“I cannot promise that anything I do will work, Your Highness, but I will try.  Just promise me one thing.  You will do everything the spell says to do without questioning it.”

“I promise!”  the Princess said eagerly.  She stood up.  ”I must go now,” she announced superfluously.  ”When shall I call round for it?”

“I’ll arrange to have it hand delivered to you!” Wanda had replied.

Basil appeared as though from the mist to usher the Princess out, and Erato chose that moment to appear.

“Before you get all het up, I was caught in a traffic jam!”  Erato raised her hand, and sank into the recently vacated chair, and added, “It’s really quite simple.  Let him go to the one he really loves and that will release her to find her own joy.”

“And can we do that?” Wanda asked, taking a fortifying sip of tea,.

“Oh, absolutely.  Here, let me show you…”

Erato had guided her through the writing of the spell, and she remembered thinking the poem was inspired.

That had been thirty years ago.  The Princess had left to marry the man she had secretly loved for a long time.  The Prince was once again without a wife…

Wanda sighed.  He was due in today.  These days her spells were not written down, unless you call the heat and press of passion working on two bodies writing.  If that were so, she had taught her Prince very well, with Erato’s help.  He was a Master scribe…

She waited till Basil brought the tea tray.  She knew he would go home till morning. No one came to her castle except her Prince.  And he would be here soon.  She wondered when Erato would arrive…

Copyright © 2008

(This is an exercise in building character and establishing plot in a story without any narration.  When my friend George — ink-slinger12 — asked to be given a writing challenge, I sent him this exercise, so I thought I’d give him an example to help him along.  I think characters are the heart of great stories.  I hope you can see these characters, even a little bit

“He’s watching you, you know.”

“Who is?”

“The guy who just walked in.  He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since he sat at the bar.”

“Bully for him.  I’m done with men.  You can’t trust them further than you can see them, and that’s only if you’re looking.”

“Joy, you’re gonna have to let it go.  It’s been nine months.  No guy is worth the anger and pain you’ve been walking around with.  You know you’re better off without him.  And you know you don’t miss him, you’re just mad.  Which should tell you something.  Look, I’m not saying you need to get into another intimate relationship with a guy, but I am saying you need to come back into the light, make new friends, stop blaming every guy who says hi to you for stuff Matt did.  Yes, he was an asshole and a jerk, and yes he did a number on you.  But he’s gone.  It’s over.  Let it go, Joy.”

“Sure.  Maybe tomorrow.  You’d better get home.”

“I know.  You coming?”

“Do you want me to?”

“No.  I’d rather you stay and let that guy buy you a drink.  He can be your designated driver tonight.”

“You act like you know this guy.”

“I do.  Say hi for me.”

“Annie!  ANNIE!”

“Annie had to go home, eh?”

“You should know, if you know her.”

“Yes, I do.  We go back a long way.  “I’m Zack.  And you’re Joy, right?”

“Is that what Anne told you?”

“Among other things, yes.”

“What other things?”

“Interesting things, like your job, your favorite candy bar, your dream road trip…”

“She has a big mouth!”

“She is a good friend!”

“How would you know?”

“We grew up together.”

“Oh…you’re the Zack who chased her with a lizard?”

“Yes.  And I’m the Zack she dumped a bucket of ice and cold water on while I was sound asleep that same night.”

“Good for her!”

“Yes.  She got her own back.  She’s strong like that. She never let me get away with shit!”

“I don’t need a lecture from a stranger.”

“Okay.  But for the record, I wasn’t lecturing you.  I was celebrating my friend.”

“Is that what you call it?”

“Yes.  Not everything is about you.”

“Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“The first guy to stand up to you since the last one broke your heart.”

“You have no damn right coming here and talking to me like that!  I don’t know you from a hole in the wall!”

“You frequent those places, do you?”

“Fuck off and leave me alone!”

“Sure.  Just make sure you take a cab home.  Or walk.  You’re in no condition to drive.  I’ll let the maitre d’ know you’ll be back for your car tomorrow.”

“You can’t stop me from doing whatever I want to do.”

“True, but I can stop you from driving home buzzed.”

“You don’t have my ticket.”

“I do, because Annie gave it to me.”

“How did she…?”

“Call and ask her when you get home.  In the meantime, when you’re ready to be civil, give me a call.  Annie knows my number.  Have a good night, in spite of yourself!”


I am
The beginning of Autumn.
My leaves
Are just starting to turn,
Their fall
Still some way distant,
The breath
Of change still faintly warm
Upon my tongue.

I am
The yellowing, golding leaves,
Bright still
With the light of the midday sun,
Warm yet
With its noonday fire.
My change
Is heat and primal passion,
Beautiful and bold.

Copyright 2015

A useless walk at 3:00 a.m.
opens up a place
I had thought closed; and suddenly
shared moments, apparently forgotten,
strain the fabric of calm appearances.

Sometimes, it takes nothing
to trigger
a deluge of feeling,
a flood of tears,
an ocean of desolation.

The past becomes present,
the wound as raw
as when it first gaped open,
like the maw of Hell
inside my heart.

Absence becomes presence,
tearing away
at the flesh of memory,
leaving me exposed
and floundering in grief.


Copyright 2015

Autumn-themed Books

Searching through Goodreads to find ideas for this post, I noticed a trend.  There were horror stories, and then there was everything else.  Par for the course, I suppose, since this is the season of Halloween, with all its attendant ghouls, ghosts, and ghastly stories.  I was hard pressed to decide what to write about, or how, and finally, in an inspired moment, I decided that nine was a good, round, witchly (yes, I made that word up just this second!) number of books to share with you, in a mixture of horror and other, and in typical fashion, to make some kind of poem of them.  It’ll be silly, even stupid, at times…rhyming invariably brings out the wacko in me.  And my ideas of what constitutes “horror” are decidedly skewed, as you’ll see.  Wish me luck…and see if you can match the descriptions in the poem to the nine novels listed below.


September brings much more, you know,
than cooling Autumn breezes.
There’s Labor Day, and barbecues,
and final summer sneezes.

To keep your mind on other things
than the approaching Winter,
mayhap you should distract it with
light reading — get your printer!

A young boy learned to wield his wand,
two others saved their city;
an ancient vampire sought fresh blood;
a Creature’s not made pretty.

A woman loved a priest who left her
with a darling infant.
A vain young man did sell his soul
to keep old age well distant.

Ambition drove a warrior
to murder and deception.
A great physician “played with fire” —
it changed his whole reception.

There’s just one more — and different,
in quality and content –
A brighter color might have made
her stay, and give consent.


Copyright 2015

1.  Frankenstein by Mary Shelley
2.  The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde
3.  Fifty Shades of Grey by E. L. James
4.  The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne
5.  Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone by J. K. Rowling
6.  The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson
7.  Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury
8.  Macbeth by William Shakespeare
9.  Dracula by Bram Stoker


“To be running breathlessly, but not yet arrived…is itself delightful.”
~ Anne Carson

Running breathlessly,
chasing desire…

How to describe the edge
on which I often stand,
that sharp edge of fulfillment
just out of reach,
of early innocence
(just this instant passed),
of sultry need
just waiting to devour
the unwary passersby.

Running tirelessly,
Chasing bliss…

How to explain the drive
to move beyond mere thought,
way past the realm of words,
into the kingdom of deeds;
to break the bread of passion
with the ones who bring with them
the scent and taste
of their breathless hungers,
and of their unquenchable thirsts.

Running ceaselessly,
Chasing dreams…

How to explore the need
to push beyond the walls
that hold me back,
to follow on the trail
of self-discovery that opens wide
at every turn, and beckons me
to make haste to a destination
unexpected, unparalleled,
and as unattainable as air.


Copyright 2015

A September Sonnet

(Written in response to an ongoing September writing challenge…this is today’s prompt.)

I’m not much good at forms of poetry
That ask for or expect a certain style.
My forte is the careless artistry
Of free verse that breaks every rule on file.
Still, I must needs address the prompt herein
By writing verse of fourteen-line appeal;
The very least that I can do is pin
My poem to this star with sprightly zeal.
Which star, you ask? Why, one that lets me show
How very clever I can be when pressed.
The one that all us amateurs well know
Makes our work look less polished than the best.
September has begun, and so has school,
Where some will learn, and some will play the fool.


Copyright 2015

The Brand

(The following poem was written in response to the prompt below, a quotation by Pablo Neruda.)

As if you were on fire from within,
The moon lives in the lining of your skin.”

~ Pablo Neruda

This ache you hold inside,
Subsumed beneath the weight
Of good, of right, of just…
Suppressed under
The nobility of fidelity,
Of honor, of trust…
This ache is white hot,
Is unrelenting fire,
Is agony of heart,
Bright, searing,
Impossible to ignore.
This ache, passion’s brand,
Is tattooed in your flesh
And in your soul…
Moonlight in the sun,
Inevitable, invisible,


Copyright 2015


Thoughts skitter away from her,
Refusing to be gathered.
Inspiration has deserted her,
An empty well, and dark,
Dense with the heaviness
Of nothingness.
She drowns in abject terror
That the words have gone,
Deserted her,
Adopted a new host,
And moved beyond her reach.
She struggles to believe
That all that is lost
Is faith.
A cruel fate for one
Before so powerful,
To need that faith restored
In herself.
This exercise must show her
How it is to trust
In what one cannot hear,
Or see, or touch…
In what is absent.
And yet,
To have that boon restored —
The gift of words —
She must believe in things
That she cannot.


Copyright 2014


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