Cicada’s Farewell

Cicada’s Farewell
“I guess I felt attached to my weakness. My pain and suffering too. Summer light, the smell of a breeze, the sound of cicadas – if I like these things, why should I apologize?” ― Haruki Murakami, A Wild Sheep Chase

cicada’s voice – last
song of summer loud across
the brown pasture –
he sings to the clear blue sky
with newfound joy


For the Midweek Motif at Poets United – Televised  The Perseid Meteor Shower peaked last night. In spite of the bright moon, those suckers really flew.

“Television has been the single greatest shaper of emptiness.” – Ravi Zacharias

we sit in our cocoons nursing some kind of drink
and stuffing some kind of snack down our throats.
long distance the news comes to us 24/7 –
we absorb it like sponges
on the back of the sink as they absorb the water’s slow
leak from the faucet and the accumulating bacteria.
Sure we get the cultural stuff –
but we prefer the news.
We act horrified but we continue to watch.
I’m going outside to stare at the Perseid
meteor shower – be amazed at how the tiny grains of sand
light up the night sky.
I watch the stars in their orbit –
cicadas rattle and thrum in the close summer night.
Peace descends like soft falling rain.

Perseid Meteor Show 2019 Space Photos

At the Beach

For Carrie’s Sunday Muse Blogspot


At the Beach
“The three great elemental sounds in nature are the sound of rain, the sound of wind in a primeval wood, and the sound of outer ocean on a beach.” Henry Beston

We sat on beach towels on the sand
watching the waves and gulls,
cooled by the breeze.
I held the shell I had found on the beach
just an hour ago.
I held it up to my ear and said,
Mama, I can hear the ocean!
She grinned.
But of course you can!
She took a sip of her iced tea
from the thermos.
I sat in front of the ocean
and continued to listen to the ocean
through my shell.


For Carrie’s Sunday Muse BlogSpot.

Sunday Muse BlogSpot  #67


“Who sees the human face correctly: the photographer, the mirror, or the painter?” – Pablo Picasso

picking up pieces of myself
like Easter Eggs –
each one different,
each one with different paint.
oh my goodness this is tiring.
I think I’ll just sit a spell
and take a nap.


For the Prose Pantry at Poets United.  Magaly has chosen the word “stitches” for us to use.

“You can be a victim of cancer, or a survivor of cancer. It’s a mindset.” – Dave Pelzer

I should have died from the diagnosis but I did not. Most women do die from ovarian cancer. It mimics other symptoms of other diseases until it is too late. I had a canny doctor who ordered me for a biopsy and a CT scan. It was confirmed – I had ovarian cancer.

The treatments began until finally, surgery was the order for the day. The doctors gutted me like a fish and pulled out all the nasty bits, the parts infected with cancer. My surgeon was also canny and did not do stitches or staples. He used a special biodegradable and biocompatible superglue to seal the surgery closed. No stitches, no staples – I healed cleanly.

I was established in the guest room during my recovery from surgery.  My mother half sarcastically gave me an embroidery kit to work on while on bedrest. I looked at her like she was crazy. “You know my sewing kit consists of duct tape, staples, and safety pins.” She snorted and walked away. My two cats, Pugsley and SamCat the Ripper sniffed at the sewing kit and went down to the foot of the bed to guard me and keep me company. My husband looked at the kit and asked, “Is she serious?”

The embroidery kit was never opened. It was tossed to the side and discovered behind the bed a year later during a massive cleanup. I was determined – no stitches in me and no stitches in a kit.


embroidery kit for beginners

My Life

For the Midweek Motif at Poets United – Hobby. Magally is steering the boat this week while Susan is away.

My Life

“The only insult I’ve ever received in my adult life was when someone asked me, “Do you have a hobby?” A HOBBY?! DO I LOOK LIKE A FUCKING DABBLER?!” ― John Waters, Role Models

“Cooking is a craft, I like to think … a good cook is a craftsman—not an artist. There’s nothing wrong with that… Practicing your craft in expert fashion is noble, honorable and satisfying.”  – Anthony Bourdain

flipping the thick pat of butter
into the well seasoned omelet pan
I swirl it around until the pan is well coated.
slowly I pour the beaten eggs into the pan and wait
for the edges to bubble.
Using the silicone spatula I lift the edges of the eggs
and let more leak underneath.
I continue to do this until the eggs are almost done.
sprinkling the finely chopped herbs and a bit of cheese
over the eggs, I flip the circle in half
and slide the omelet out onto the plate.
I sprinkle a few more chopped herbs, finish with fine sea salt.
The omelet is pale golden and leaking melted cheese.
It is perfection.
A few slices of tomato, a slice of pale toast spread with butter and honey –
Cooking is my life, my “hobby”.
The herbs come from another “hobby” and
honey and tomatoes from two more.
This poem represents another “hobby”.
All of these “hobbies” represent my life,
what makes me – me.
My life is knit with these “hobbies”,
knit so tightly you cannot push a needle through.

Summer Heat

For Lillian’s prompt over at dVerse – temperature.

Summer Heat
“August, the summer’s last messenger of misery, is a hollow actor.” – Henry Rollins

heat rolls over the brain
like a waterless tsunami –
drowning all in its smothering wave.
heat snakes rise from the roads,
false water shimmers in the distance
and cars roll through without a splash.
the air is close –
like a too tight hat around the brain.
a crack of thunder
that shakes the house –
windows rattle –
rain pours down suddenly stopping.
steam rises from the hot road,
funky smelling, like piss.

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