Noodle Prompt / What If It Actually Goes Well

Just enough can be more than enough

Photo by Artem Beliaikin on Unsplash

I like routine and safety. I’m not a risk-taker or an adventurer. Prefer my feet to be solidly on the ground and my head out of the clouds.

I like going to a job with regular hours and getting paid a regular paycheck. Calendars and schedules are my friends. Knowing where I need to be and when I need to be there is comforting. No surprises. Everything planned and organized. Predictable.

So, when I considered starting my own bookkeeping service, my mind screamed NO!!!!

That was 24 years ago.

I was at a job that made me miserable — every…

Prompt / Naming Your Seasons

A blooming calendar

© Dennett

The succulent months are waning. Heat and humidity evaporating. The shadows are longer. When they are finally gone, I will miss the succulent months like an old friend gone on holiday.

I can feel the hibiscus hours arriving.

Tomorrow is the first day of the calendar fall, not a Florida fall. We lag behind in autumn and winter but race ahead in spring and summer. Hibiscus months wave goodbye to hurricanes — we breathe easier and turn off the Weather Channel. We take longer walks, sweat less, and marvel at leaf colors that come late and leave early.

The tropics…

Noodle Prompt / Balancing

A poem of wisdom gained

Photo by KT on Unsplash

I don’t plan like I used to —
no goals or trite affirmations to
make something happen that shouldn’t
or won’t because it’s not supposed to
no matter what I want.

I don’t pretend to know what’s best for me,
trusting that to the muses and goddesses
who see the before and after in ways I can’t,
a mere mortal with sight limited
and almost no knowledge.

Age has taught me to hold space,
a vacuum to be filled, keeping the peace
in any way I can, walking in nature,
appreciating what exists outside of me,
maintaining the balance of now…

A walk of healing

© Dennett — Syau, not feeling well on Tuesday

Syau leads the way, as she usually does on our walks. After being sick for a week, she’s slowly regaining her energy. I’ll let her decide where and how far we go.

It’s noon. Cloudy. Humid but not too hot. A slight breeze.

She chooses what we call the “woodsy” route between townhomes in the back of our circle and the next one. We navigate around trees and fallen branches that our “landscapers” never pick up. The ground is spongy from the almost daily rains we’ve had this summer. Fungi are everywhere.

© Dennett ~ Sunday, September 12, 2021 ~ Tender

Photo-a-Day Challenge

Seven days in September

Fall wildflowers are everywhere, enjoying the slightest cooling in temperatures. The flower above is a Maryland Meadowbeauty — one of my favorites.

Last week, I wrote about Syau being sick. She was doing much better on Sunday and Monday but took a sharp downward turn on Tuesday. She would spend Wednesday through Friday having IV treatments at the vet clinic. Captain Argentina and I missed her every moment of the day and were eager to pick her up each evening. At home, she was lethargic, refusing to eat, so unlike our little girl. We struggled to hold onto hope. After…

Scrittura Prompt / postmodern love signs

a prose poem of fate

Photo by Jerry Zechariah on Unsplash

Maybe it was winter or the earliest weeks of spring, ordinary — isn’t that when something extraordinary happens, when the world is unspectacular, when a trip to the bank leads to a dream?

You, standing on a dingy sidewalk, pounded too many times by flip-flops, boots, and high-heels. Smoking, back when you did that. Maybe leaning on a concrete post that keeps the world from collapsing. Looking Argentine cool. Looking disinterested even though you were.

It’s surreal and all too real. The remembering of a moment I didn’t experience, told to me like a fairytale. How you saw your future…

Scrittura Wednesday Prompt — weaving relationships

a poem of us

Photo by Susan Wilkinson on Unsplash

Not obvious in the dark, when our breaths are shallow, when the distance between us is the shortest, when day melts and night hold us gentle, when we dream of one another or others or nothing, when the innocence of childhood returns and I see the boy you were before I knew you, before this connection that tethers us during all the hours we breathe, that silky veiled thread that ties me to you, a light wrap, not binding nor constricting, one that is soft like ribbons in a girl’s hair, and I’m grateful for the knowing of you and…

Reviewing submission guidelines

Photo by Lucie Hošová on Unsplash

Hello, House of Haikuers,

This newsletter is a review of Submission Guidelines. Tracy Aston and I are receiving many submissions that don’t meet the criteria, and private messaging poets about issues is not a good use of our time. So, let’s review and get on the same path.

We publish traditional haikus and tankas. A haiku has a syllable count per line of 5/7/5 and a tanka’s count is 5/7/5/7/7. …


The power of the written word

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

I found you pressed in the pages of a book
like last summer’s rose, preserved for eternity.
I found you on the screen, colder than print,
but more available than a closeted sweater.
I found you in my earbuds, speaking in accents
that romanticized everything you read.

I found you in the power of the written word,
all of you and all your histories and dreams,
disappointments and achievements.
I found you being born, giving birth, and dying,
I laughed and wept and knew you.

My world is small but my life is grand because
you come to me in…

Scrittura Prompt/mourning transitions

A prose poem

Photo by Dave Hoefler on Unsplash

the sycamore trees stir depression, reminding me
summer is packing her bags, leaving me exposed to
a Florida winter’s cold — not to you, a Yankee wrapped
in New England gold waiting for silver — but to me,
sensitive to the cold in and out, the chill I battled since
birth, the crispiness others embrace, I lie on a heated mattress,
wrapped in blankets quilted by someone who tried to love me. …


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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