In search of story


October 31.20: Coping

All Hallows’ Eve,

and my muse has gone astray.

When last seen, a bluebird,

most likely bat today.

I’ve written and deleted

a tome or two of late;

nothing’s any good —

I’ve just an addled pate.

Where are those perfect words

that say just what I mean?

Have they been scared away

by this looming Halloween?

I think it’s much more likely

my muse is somewhere stuck

among the fangs and broomsticks

of politics run amuck.


Thanks to photographer D.J. Berg,

and a salute to her complimentary Halloween bar.



July 12.20: Coping

My muse! Impertinent,

wayward thing!

Taunting me

on mighty wing!

Graceful she,

in bluest height,


as I try to write.

I watch her float,

from earth unbound,

while I, like stone,

am stuck to ground.

In those clouds




She could bring it

to cloddish me,

but prefers to soar



January 10.20

This, dear reader, is a photo of my muse, morphed once again into something elusive. The size of a turkey, in a tree full of air, she either stupidly thinks she is hiding or sadistically revels in my awareness of her.

That is, therefore, where I am: in a tree full of air. No words. Nothing to say. I’ve been stuck, wordless, for over a week. I’ve tried many times, here, there, and everywhere, to summon a thought, a word. My muse is out there peering at me through barren twigs, with a look that says “What are you going to do about it?” She knows I can’t fly so I can’t get to her to turn her upside-down and shake some words out of her.

Behind those bright black eyes swirl endless sparkling metaphors, marching feet of iambic pentameter, sentences woven of wordsilk like brilliant tapestry. And my rotten muse is keeping all that to herself.


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Connections: March 19


used to be

the first

forever imbedded

eared, eyed, and headed

for better or for worst.

The alpha note


awaking addiction

family friction

in eventual Czernian bloat.

Oh, the hours misspent

a perpetual Lent

da capo ad nauseam

no break or pauseam

my youth distorted and bent.

Why wasn’t I Rubenstein?

Why only me?

What sadistic muse

designed this ruse

this siren-song’d middle C?




Two years ago I wrote “Clock” as my tribute to August, the month which turns the garden. August turns me too, and with contented anticipation of the cocoon ahead.

This year I decided to join a community of bloggers on a project called “August Break,” created by Susannah Conway. They agree to post a picture a day as a break from writing. Ha, say I. We’re writers: show us a picture and stand back because we WILL write. A picture is a green light every time. Maybe we are just writing in our heads, but we’re writing. We can’t help it; we’re weak that way.

Anyway, I tried to sign up, but the page froze. I took that as a sign from my muse. Not for me, this community of August Breakers.

So I decided to become a Community of One. I will tell the story of my August, one picture at a time, and try to let the pictures speak for themselves.

My pictures will be my countdown, this year’s clock, gently tick-tocking August away into its inevitable September.

Hummingbird with attitude

Hummingbird with attitude