For once, poetry won

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Photo by Trust "Tru" Katsande on Unsplash

This year of street fighting,
of death under knees and in bloodied beds,
and black skins fading to pale in
velvet-lined coffins —
of being woke and whacked
and weighed down
with boulders too heavy to carry
when the landlord is knocking,
the mortgage is overdue,
when meager is all
we have in the pantry. …

Interview with a Poet (Me!)

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Photo by Mark de Jong on Unsplash

I don’t write to be famous or to be remembered.

Writing, especially poetry, is how I access memories and the emotions tangled in those memories. They need to be sorted, unknotted, filed in an appropriate box of yesterday, or discarded like useless garbage. I feel lighter after writing a poem.

Poetry came to me at the age of nine. I wrote my first ten poems in one afternoon and read them to my older sister, who claimed I stole them from a published poet. …

Simply trying to survive.

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Me — photo taken by my granddaughter two years ago

Nearly four years later, I own two publications: Weeds & Wildflowers and R.E.A.D.I.N.G. WAR. Weeds & Wildflowers has been the recipient of my attention while R.E.A.D.I.N.G. WAR has languished, but I plan to change that soon. I’m also an editor for SnapShots and House of Haiku.

By trade, I am a contract bookkeeper, a career that serves me well but is losing its luster. …

Being a woman: prompt

A story of female sexuality interrupted

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Photo by Benjamin Zanatta on Unsplash

My girlfriend in another state learned about the deed from an older, experienced foster sister. We were nine when my friend told me in whispers about what boys do to girls. I didn’t believe her at first. Who could believe such a thing? But, knowing that the disturbing information originated with Dreama, a teenager we revered as knowing everything, I believed what my friend said. But, I never spoke about it to anyone. …

A poem of remembrance

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© Dennett 2018 — Sophie

Your collar hangs on
the bag I carry —
I touch it often
remembering you
leading the way
when you were healthy,
lagging behind when
you weren’t.

Your sister’s in front now
that you aren’t.
Does she still miss you?
I don’t know.

For a week, she did,
crying at night,
walking through rooms
looking for you in corners and
under furniture.

At the door,
she looked behind
hoping you were there,
that you’d run ahead
as you always did
to be first to pee
in the garden.

I let her smell your collar,
a simple gesture of desperation —
anything to stop her sorrow —
and it worked. …

A poem about Kenny

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Photo by Nathana Rebouças on Unsplash

I think you saw me and disappeared,
as you did two years before,
in college, after your military brother died,
after you couldn’t handle the guilt
of who you were,
the you that your hero brother never knew —
the you that he would never want to know.

We knew though — all your college friends —
we knew you — really, knew you and loved you.

He never had the chance to.
One of the last Vietnam casualties.
He didn’t die alone.
You went with him. …

A poem for Jack Herlocker & Deb & Captain Argentina

Why were you there?
Alone on a pine stump?
In all sorts of weather?

My love loved you,
felt sorrow for you,
worried about you,
two ceramic ducks on a stump —
’cause that’s who he is,
a man who worries about
two ceramic ducks on a stump.

Your mom (?) — the owner
of the house and stump —
was Baker-Acted,
deemed incompetent and
sent away —
we don’t know where.

For Sale sign
on the lawn. …

Prompt / Birthing a New World

I’ll use what I have

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© Dennett

Still, limitations,
always boundaries
but, there is room,
a little room,
for what I can do,
who I can be.

I can’t birth,
never birthed,
but I can be here
and do here
what I can do.

Maybe, not enough —
hell, what is?

We look for big and bold,
when small and simple
are enough, just enough,
for me.

’Cause that is what I can do
and what I can do is all. …

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© Dennett ~ 11/16/2020 ~ Habits

Photo Challenge / One-Photo-A-Day

A photographic journey

I’ve been thinking about what defines us. In my case, Captain Argentina and me. What makes us different than you?

For one, we live in Florida. We are older. Some of you are much younger; maybe a few are older than we are. We live in a townhome, not a house or an apartment. We live in a small city, not a metropolis or a small town or the country.

Our lives are also greatly defined by what we do on a daily basis — our routines and habits. For us, much of what we do revolves around nonhumans. …

Poetry Prompt / Gain with Green

An acrostic vegetable poem

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Photo by Caroline Attwood on Unsplash

© Dennett 2020

My acrostic poem is in response to this tag by Sajina Ignatius:

Which was in response to this original prompt by Geetika Sethi:

I encourage all Weeds & Wildflowers to participate. We often write about flowers and trees but not as often about vegetables. Let’s correct that with some acrostic poems about our favorite vegetables! Be sure to mention the health benefits of your veggie.



I was always a writer but lived in a bookkeeper’s body before I found Medium and broke free — well, almost. Working to work less and write more.

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