Read a Little Poetry Everyday


How does she do it?
I ask myself.

I ask myself a thousand
She is so talented.
Her poetry makes me Happy.
Then again,
do her lovely
drawings. Together tHEY make a LOV
ely work of art.

Even during wartime.
I can read her blog and be happy.

to be
sad. I can be happy
MORe happiness after reading her poetry.

ARE people
on theInternet


I wonder
that not our mission?

it should be the mission
of each of us
to exude

For then

and petty

We would

Inspired by Claudia – a truly inspirational poet and artist here upon the Internet. Her work shows us how we can “get together” and “be together” in this world.

Posted at dVerse.

Seeing Red …

We are challenged today to really incorporate color into our poem. Whatever you see, whatever you write – really SEE it in color. This was fun. I just chose a few poet friends here on the Net and wrote bits about them, seeing them in the colors that they portray to me. This is at dVerse Poets Pub where the greatest poets in the world meet up for a drink and a few good words and “The Color Festival.”

A stitch here and
there, red thread
pulled. Red coat – rushing
to get her kids off to
school, Claudia – she stops
in the rain
looking down into the
puddle, a reflection
of her home
in red brick
rippling through
the water.
Little eddies
of swirling silver and
with hints of
the sun coming out,
become a froth of
many whites
almost a silver
in their

Sherry with her
Jasmine the color of
ginger putty
on a sunny day
the light is a deep
with the sparkle
of it’s sunshine
bouncing off
the glitter
in the bluest bay.
She sits
upon a log,
a paled wheat
bleached by the sun
with gray and black
She sits
white puff clouds
so high they fly
racing by.
She drinks her
dark rich brown coffee
from a warm olive-green
mug, as Jasmine plays
on the
pale bleed of pink sand.

Brian a hand
out to each child
bringing them
along, everyone in a
variant shade
of blue tee-shirt,
calmest ocean blue.
They head for the
park-bench on
a silvery
sunny day
where they will
sit down
for a picnic
beautiful wife and
tagging along
green like the
earth bringing
PB & J
of love
the color of nuts
tannish, brownish with
grape jam oozing
from the bread
made of
family love.

just that.
Grace comes in
many hues
I should think of her
painting by the
sea – palette filled
with every color.
Hair reddish
dress white
with a yellow
silver dangling from her
ears. A purple
ribbon in
her hair.

off quickly
down the street
pencil thin
a dark shirt
perhaps a gray
white cuffs
with red buttons.
The three
little ones behind
gray, white,
brown and black
a walk by the
brown leather
each little
one with
a red collar
one blue
and one green.

Bjorn stands
against a dark
scowl filled sky
gray-black clouds
across its dark
He stops briefly
in his burnt orange
blue jeans frayed
just long
to paint
with words the
angry waves
of green and purple.
While its
bubbly lemon froth
hisses spit
over the pier.
iPad in hand washed
over grabbed
by the angry water
a poem washed

More American Sentences

That the words of this sentence are capitalized is a formatting issue with Word Press.

I really enjoyed last years challenge from dVerse of writing one line poems. It is a bit like writing haiku without most of the rules. You wish to say more with less. You wish to catch the eye of the reader. You ask: “If it has meaning for me will it for the reader?” Then again does it really matter? After all for whom do we write ourselves or others? So on to American Sentences!

1) Doing a double take last evening while sitting in this very chair I realized that President Kennedy was sitting across from me as real as night or day.

2) As annoying as it might be to eat American persimmons, to do so with any degree of ease one must use a grapefruit spoon.

3) I prefer Japanese persimmons that are always juicy and succulent as opposed to the American variety that are flat, hard and dry.

4) While downstairs cooking, many sentences came to me only to be lost once back in the library (below) in front of my computer.

Library 2

5) I was making ratatouille when I poured in a whole lot of sweet vermouth (a whole lot) is it still ratatouille?

6) Well, I put that sentence to sleep – one cannot introduce and carry on an entire conversation in one sentence.

7) What the hell does “convo me” mean?

8) Yeah, I am going do bears I am definitely doing bears!


Remi & Sancho

9) Sure I know what you are thinking, teddy bears, a 67 year old woman?


Abernathy & Piquot

10) I discovered that teddy bears serve a very real purpose in this world something about which I shall write later.


Totu and no those are not his WWII medals.

And the rest of the folks:




Jurry (a Steiff)

Thank you Tony Maude at dVerse for your wonderful prompt.

Your Life Path Number is 7

I have been alone much of my life. I am a natural loner. Perhaps that is why I never dated. I always blamed my “not dating” on my parent’s behavior. But maybe it was just me, and their behavior assisted me in becoming who I was meant to be. Surely my first marriage one of extraordinary abuse left me terribly alone. Then after my divorce I chose to be celibate for 5 years, a spiritual decision. At 28 as a woman of the 60s that was not only unusual it was damned near insane. I was very lucky throughout this period for guys actually took no for an answer and befriended me. Then I met a man to whom I was NOT attracted! And I might add he was definitely NOT attracted to me at all. We became the very best of friends over a period of two years, eventually seeing each other every day and every night just as friends. He too was a bit of a loner. We have now been married nearly 31 years after a two year friendship and a 3 month dating period and living together for 2 years.

neath the waterfall
a lone wet moth surviving
one’s lifes path fulfilled

Loving placed at dVerse

The Inn

I loved the Inn At Weston where I grew up. This small country inn was the center of our small Vermont town. There was a pool, no land, just a colonial white clapboard building. As Weston’s history began in the late 1700s I believe that this building was quite old. Today it is gone. Another place has been named The Inn At Weston. I learned that it had burned to the ground sometime in the 70s or 80s. For me it was devastating. It felt as if a part of my life had been destroyed, eliminated. I had worked there from the time that I was 13 until I was nearly 19 during the summer months. One summer when I was 16 and it was about 10 AM, I ran up to Jack’s bedroom that doubled as the office very excited about my flight with Bruce. I burst into the bedroom so excited, for I had just flown a plane in between the Green Mountains and over the Inn. Jack and Hugh were in bed together. I knew Jack was gay, although I am not sure that this was a term of parlance in 1962. I was not embarrassed – I just shared my story and excitement then I left. We were family. Jack was like a dad to me. I truly loved him. Because of that love my reaction was simply one of happiness for him.

fireworks danger and excitement – festival time

Shared with gratitude with the wonderful poets at dVerse OpenLinkNight

Are We One Yet?

Today’s dVerse prompt came from Kelvin. He shared a nasty experience of racial discrimination that told him that he was ugly and that all Asians are ugly. I only know Kelvin through his poetry and as a result I am very fond of him. I find him to have a very beautiful face. I look forward to his words. Kelvin is from the Philippines. I have always enjoyed his poems and “running into him upon the Internet.” He has challenged us to write about “our” Asian experiences.

The first thing that I will draw your attention to is my blog title: “noh where.” The word “noh” refers to two things. Noh derived from the Japanese word Nogaku means “skill.” It refers to the classical drama of Japan practiced since the 14th Century where in males often wearing masks play the roles of both men and women. Noh is also the name of a town in Burkina Faso, Africa. Information from Wikapedia can be found here. Therefore my blog title “noh where” is a play on words meaning “everywhere” or “all people.” Or, the title is meant to express inclusivity of all.

I will share a couple of my experiences in China that took place in 2007 when we visited. And let me add that these experiences could have taken place anywhere. Now they are taking place here at noh where. The idea of writing a poem about my “Asian” experiences is exceptionally challenging. I am thinking haibun. Yes, I will go with the haibun style, a paragraph of prose followed by a haiku. Having written at NaHoWriMo on Facebook for a time encouraged me to learn much about Japanese poetry – resulting in my “falling in love with it.” It was in China that I had my first experience of “being one with all.”

one night in xian

After many hours of travel, we arrived in the middle of the night in Beijing exhausted. After customs we lined up for a taxi. I have discovered that many young Chinese having grown up with little, know today that they must fight for what they wish, quiet literally. This was first demonstrated to me in the taxi line as I was nearing the front of the line. I am a short woman. I turned around to observe an exceptionally tall, young Chinese man using his height and weight to navigate to the front of the line. That sort of nonsense doesn’t fly with me, at all. I stuck my arm up, not able to reach his head and said “Oh no you don’t!” Surprisingly, he stopped.

bamboo shoots will soon wave in the wind – as new growth

On the sidewalk on a Saturday evening in Xian I observed a long banner showing the body of a man bloody and bludgeoned. This banner fronted a group of about 200 workers protesting the sadistic behavior of their employer. They looked sad and dejected, without energy. I found a woman who spoke English to ask her about this. What was happening? She shared about the protest. I became absolutely incensed. I left my husband and went up to this group of seated employees and started marching up and down in front of them, clapping my hands and yelling yes, yes, yes. Shortly thereafter they stood up, smiles came upon their faces and they started clapping no longer drained of energy. They felt supported, reenergized, then they really got into their protest. I gave them a thumbs up and left with my husband. I have never felt such a spontaneous moment with humanity.

rank weeds in the pond being cleared for new – fragrant growth

Syria, Syria

We did not know the young doctor and his wife.

We were sailing down the Nile and having dinner together on the upper deck twenty-two years ago. There was a warm breeze and an atmosphere of relaxed pleasure. Falucas in the distance glowed from the sun setting over their bows.

We had spent the day at Edfu with the God Horus in his temple.

Today as Syria is disintegrating, ordinary people are being bombed, raped and murdered. I think about the young doctor and his wife with whom we had dinner low those many years ago. Are they alive? Are they all right? Where are their children? She had been pregnant on that trip down the Nile.

We enjoyed one another’s company, dining together, socializing, just being. He was a good man.

In the Tomb of the Kings he was responsible for saving the life of an old man in near cardiac arrest, an old Jew.

We all played together, enriching one another’s lives taking pleasure in each other’s company for days. These were European Jews, Israelis originally from Yugoslavia, France, Italia and other countries, Jewish children, refugees of WWII and the Holocaust.

Two young Americans, two Syrians and about 6-8 old Israelis hanging out on a boat going down the Nile visiting the ancients.

Not long after awaking the next morning our boat sank. We were hung up in a series of locks while navigating a dam. When we finally pushed through, there was a gaping hole in the hull, the boat filling up with water very quickly. We were rescued by the Egyptian Navy and never saw each other again.

But I think of them today. I know that most if not all of the Israelis are gone. Then I think of the doctor as his country is in ruins. I wonder if he is alive – does he practice medicine today?

Is he an enemy of the state or a part of Bashar al Assad’s inner circle? I am sad when I think of him and his family. He gives to Syria a very real face of war in a way that the nightly news cannot do.

Two years now and 70,000 dead. Stirring and poignant headlines daily:

The Guardian: Syria: Bashar al Assad interview to be broadcast – live updates.
Milwaukee (AP): Parents talk about journalist kidnapped in Syria.
India Today: Armed and Courageous: Meet Syria’s women rebels.
Philadelphia Enquirer: The hopes and fears of secular Syrians.
USA Today: Obama warns of extremist threat in Syria.

Two years into the war and 70,000 dead. War again taking its toll on a people on its children. One man destroying an entire country, greed and power at the core of his soul.

Many have become refugees on the borders of neighboring countries, living in squalid conditions with some but little water and food.

Some have left bombed out homes and towns taking refuge in ancient forsaken cities that look bombed out themselves. They live underground in caves with dank air and little food.

They took with them remnants of their possessions; a torn blanket, a doll without her left foot, one large bent aluminum pot, a fork and spoon, glass jars and two pillows.
What will become of these people? Will the massive and significant government armed forces intent upon their destruction destroy them?

I think of the doctor, is he still alive? What side is he on? Sadness fills me yet again. Tears fall yet again for another war.

Syria, Syria another war, another loss.

This poem is posted at dVerse

The Afghan Middle-Class

I have not written a poem in some time. I have not been inspired – and I cannot tell you why. Perhaps with age comes an inability to multitask. Perhaps I have been gathering inspiration and now it is time to write a bit.

The New York Times is my computers Home Page. Some of you know that war has long given me inspiration. Today one of the headlines is: “34,000 U.S. Troops to Exit Afghanistan Within a Year.” This headline has five photos next to it, yet they are a part of another article titled: “New Afghan Middle Class Fears for the Future.” Each photo is current. I find the first photo riveting. It is modern but looks like a painting done in the fashion of realism, but set in the latter 19th century. Poem linked to dVerse Poets Pub OpenLinkNight Week 83.

The Afghan Middle-Class
Your country in ruins, toppled, rubble all around you.
Yet oblivious you stand at the bar ready to drink the blood of your brothers.

Yes, you are the middle class, the class that capitalism and war have built.
In your dark Brooks Brothers suit you stand at the bar Martini in hand.

Confidence gives you a slight aura of a halo. But it is the wrong color betraying your motives.
You don’t see those behind, pressing about you, men and women in tribal dress.

For you it is about the money, the power.
For them it is about little pieces of freedom.

How long will her face be uncovered, her dark glasses go un-cracked?
What peace has come to them through ten years of war?

War torn, this a country of fragmented pieces without peace yearns
To be put together and made whole. Will you rebuild with these shards, this detritus of war?

Or will the broken buildings simply become bunkers for the next battle?
As I look beyond the holes in the earth, the dusty playground, I see new tombs of the rich, ugly monolithic apartments built with acts of corruption.

They create a backdrop for war-youth playing kickball in the dust.
Afghanistan has a new and fragile middle class.

A middleclass made all the more fragile by a thin partition,
the wall pushing back against poverty, ever present.

The headline reads: “Fears of the Future Haunt a Budding Generation of Afghan Strivers.”
The strivers are in their tall semi-safely constructed compound.

They are separated from the youth playing in the dust of the street.
The strivers are mere feet from poverty. How long before they fall to the next war predator?

Always the illusion of safety, created by the money of corruption separates one from poverty, until poverty comes knocking on your door again.
Better, so much better to dismantle the wall yourself and meld with a piece of that poverty, lifting up rather than separating.

Yes, what will become of the middle-class?
The middle-class is in their wasteland.

Change and Reminiscences

Photo Credit: MorgueFiles
Sydney Opera House

I find that I am often late to the bar.
Too late for Mr. Linky, to late to join in the fray.

Last week I read the most wonderful of sentences,
it was a quote, by Jacqueline Kennedy.

She spoke of being odd man out wherever she went.
She was the oddball, never really accepted.

Her words thrilled me. I read them over and pondered.
She was just like me; I knew exactly how she felt.

So will you think it odd of me to share a life lived long ago?
And remember … this is Claudia’s doing.

Not to beleaguer the point but Claudia has written a marvelous poem of Paris
within which I reminisced.

I love Paris. In this lifetime I have been there twice.
But that first visit, its poignancy was just too much.

For so long I had longed to go back.
That longing coming from another lifetime lived so long ago.

I am particularly partial to the early twentieth century.
I can recall so many friends from that time. It is so real that it is like yesterday.

I have so many feelings that come to me when I think about my life during that time.
It is so real.

I wanted to sit next to Hemingway at the bar in the Ritz as we had done so long ago.
I couldn’t wait to meet up again with so many old friends. I would visit Sylvia Beach at Shakespeare and Company.

You do know don’t you that she sold nothing but books printed in English. However her great love,
Adrienne Monnier sold books printed only in French.

They were such a team. I loved visiting them.
Sylvia always invited me in for tea, this meant meeting new and exciting authors. I met Joyce. What a strange duck.

My library is currently filled with the biographies and autobiographies of those friends. I have always kept them around me.
Nathalie Clifford Barney threw the wildest of parties. Romaine in the background quiet, Gertrude and Alice the center of attention.

It bothered me, the rift between Hemingway and Gertrude for they had been such very good friends.
But here I go reminiscing again. Thinking about lives past, missing old friends.

On our first trip to Paris in ninety-four David said to me: “I expect you to remember places that you visited in the 20’s.
You know, I did not remember a thing. There was not even a sense of familiarity. It was really disappointing.

Now Claudia has reared her head again with a wonderful prompt for the New Year.
What better a prompt than change?

My change for the New Year will be to commit myself to a project.
I need to do something with my mother’s WWII scrapbooks.

I will place each photo and each piece of paper into an archival sleeve
and I will catalogue all that is contained there in.

I will not however give up poetry. It is too close to my soul.
And yes, I will write more memoire. I will write.

Though this is not a change, I will express much gratitude for the life that I live.
So saying; Happy New Year to all, Happy Changes. You will do it, I know. It will be splendid.

You will find us over at dVerse Poetry Pub in Changes and Turns

dVerse – Mary’s challenge of Shakespeare’s Seven Life Stages (reinterpreted).

I wish to thank Mary for a challenging and very interesting prompt. An exercise to approach and view, create and review the seven stages of man/woman – according to Shakespeare. Though, to be made uniquely your own, to be done here through haibun. Shared at dVerse Poets Pub “It’s About Time.”

The Seven Stages

Middle Aged

I have long believed that we started out as soul. We enter the womb and begin changing from all soul to souled flesh and bone. As the balance changes from soul to flesh and blood we are ready to enter the world.

soul like autumn wind
worlds away another galaxy
milkweed pods open

A babe is born with cries so self centered and coos so sweet. There is much difference between selfish and self-centered. The new born knows nothing but its own center. Selfish is something that is done from another stage of life. Exploring everything within and without is now the focus. The best thing that one can do is put it in ones mouth.

pod bursts exploding
seeds travel many places
food for chickadees

Youthfulness meant playing in the sun, looking for frogs, going to school, building a fort. There was a time when this was innocence before we made it a competition. Today youth is a competition whether in football, as a cheerleader, skiing or just for better grades. Youth was now. Today it is tomorrow.

bananas hanging
from a tree green yellow brown
picked eaten gone

They say: “Ah to be young again.” I don’t know why, I surely do not wish to raise children again. I know the young have no time, with kids going here and there in an endless stream of activities. Work while not at home, an arduous balancing act of multi tasking. No time for oneself, a hot bath once a small thing now such a luxury.

caterpillar crawling
tomorrow a butterfly

Middle age still a squall, a proving ground for some. Onward and upwards, will you ever get there, is enough ever enough? So little time to become, become what or whom?

basho traveled far
issa laughed much with life
buson painted life

On being old; the body falters. At first an embarrassment, then an annoyance, then who cares? You roll with the punches. Everything surrounding you becomes at once more beautiful and at once more deadly. Many are glad for life. Many are glad for age.

son helping his father
taking his arm walking uphill
who is the father who the son

Now elderly, we are getting closer to soul again, closer again to God as our flesh dries and our bones crack. It can be painful but welcome. Have we yet acquired the wisdom of a lifetime? For wisdom is all that we have to pass on to those who come after; wisdom the teachings on how to live with more ease.

like the drying grape
dropping to the ground juicy
sweet new wine to drink

DISCLAIMER – no use of a kigo in any of these seven haiku.