Impressionism in art


Lack of communication 

  between people

Are two different ways 

  of interpreting the world 

Family Tricube


Family Tricube 










Spoonerism Pantoum

Spoonerism Pantoum 

taking a family Thanksgiving walk

on the Johnson Funny Farm

holes everywhere in the tufted ground 

“What are they? They’re everywhere!”

on the Johnson Funny Farm

pine straw sticking up like golf divots 

“What are they? They’re everywhere!”

Briar confessed: “We have aardvarks”

pine straw sticking up like golf divots 

like a foursome gone club-crazy

Briar confessed: “We have aardvarks”

he mixes up his words sometimes 

like a foursome gone club-crazy

holes everywhere in the tufted ground 

he confused aardvarks with armadillos 

taking a family Thanksgiving walk 

Thanksgiving Feast


Thanksgiving Feast 

Our resident fox squirrel

is savoring his Thanksgiving feast

one day late ~

exactly 48 miles due south of Atlanta,

114 miles southeast of Dahlonega,

159 miles southwest of Hiawassee.

222 miles northwest of Savannah, 

279 miles northeast of Seaside, and 

287 miles northwest of St. Simons

~ right around the corner from the critter’s Christmas-treat-laden tree in the front yard at the top of a railroad tie in the sunshine on the Johnson Funny Farm 

….and we are smiling from the kitchen window, where he has now abandoned his half-eaten apple at the top of the post and would have left us scratching our heads at that apple had we not seen the feast take place!




Christkindl Market

here I come! Said it for years

but mean it this time. 

German chocolate

Glockenspiel and angel chimes

Glutwein in a mug! 

Peaceful, Easy Groove


Peaceful, Easy Groove

No big production

Picked up pre-cooked pig and bird

Whipping up fixings 

Laid-back Thanksgiving

Foregoing the flusterings 

Keeping it simpler

Peaceful, easy groove 

More time spent with each other 

Less fussing with food 

Jigsaw puzzle out 

For quiet moment seekers

Introvert’s delight 

Front porch loveseats spiffed

Coffee tables ready for

folks to sit and chat

This is how Sundays 

Used to be in the old days

Families gathered 

Big-table dinner

Then they branched off to play cards

Gossip over tea 

No conversations

About hot-button issues

That dampen spirits 

So light up the tree 

“Hey, Google! Play some music.”

Pour a glass of wine 

Let the dogs outside

Play fetch and take a short walk 

Eat buttermilk pie 

Happy Thanksgiving 

From the Johnson Funny Farm

May your days be blessed! 

Come on Home Down Country Roads


Come On Home Down Country Roads  

Go past the historic red brick courthouse on the city square where men fight against development and complain there’s no internet 

Go left at the Hallmark Christmas tree, 

fragrant balsam standing tall,

winking love to all, a gift each year from a tree farmer in our rural Georgia country farmland

Go on through the hometown sidewalks bustling with fresh holly-filled evergreen wreaths on every door – the Mortons, the Sawyers, the Demarcos, and all the other names in the church directories for miles on end, people smiling and waving from restored front porches

Go straight down to the dirt road, and turn the window down a crack to hear the crunch of gravel under the pickup truck tires, as every outside farm dog comes running to the road’s edge to take a good hard look with a warning greeting 

Go past the cinnamon-roll haybales standing on their sides, scattered across the rolling hill pastures like manna fallen from heaven, acres and acres outlined in rustic wood-rail fences

Go past the old tobacco barn now home to tractors and balers and machinery that makes it all easier for the great great grandsons of the first generation farmers 

Go right at the fishing ponds where the cat-tails sway and the frogs trill songs of praise for the day and the steam rises like slow-mo ballet dancers on cold mornings 

Go real slow at the roadside stand, the honor system produce market where the farmer leaves a money bucket for the good folks of Pike County to pay for their collards and pumpkins – and tip your hat, if you’re wearin’ one and see somebody 

Go on up to the holy cows, the ones who run together in a big herd toward the cross on the hill every evening at five o’clock sharp when they’re called home 

Go past the old dilapidated cannery, where the women of this town in war-time all worked to preserve the food grown here to feed the nation 

Go over the railroad tracks – the ones that brought all the folks before us out to line the streets as President Franklin D. Roosevelt in his casket rode through the small towns from his home over in Warm Springs all the way back to D.C. 

Go on down past the fire tower and Gregg’s peach orchard, past the old cemetery with its moss-covered headstones, over the creek and through the piney woods to the Johnson Funny Farm and

Come on in, greet the dogs in their full-body wags and sit down and have a glass of sweet tea with a mint sprig in a mason jar with me! 

River Tricube


Linda Mitchell challenged me to a Tricube today! A Tricube is a 9 syllable poem of 3 lines, each comprised of 3 syllables, and commonly written in 3 stanzas for a total of 27 syllables. 

River Tricube

when writing,
ride river
word rapids!

droughts will come
so will rains ~
levels change

when words flow
grab your pen: 
listen in! 

I Might Be


I Might Be

I might be the hero
in another dimension’s
Christmas horror movie

I might be
because I have just 
torched a baby girl demon
wrapped in Christmas lights 
and flung her to the 
depths of Hell over a cliff 
by the sea and prayed 
to the Holy Ghost for forgiveness
in case I did the wrong thing 
but I burned every shred of  
evil and cast down the devil’s
Christmas elf in my nightmare

then woke up completely 
peaceful and relaxed,
not out of breath 
or heart all pumping 
behind a tight-skinned face 
or screaming in terror 
despite all the threats 
from the little fiend that 
she would return 
for more tricks tonight 

I might be 
the movie star celebrity 
of a Stephen King realm 
that exists in the dark universe
somewhere in a movie theater city
where the sun never rises 
and no one ever sleeps or laughs,
they all just eat popcorn 
and watch flicks 24/7 
like that’s all there is to do 

Yeah. Me. 
I just killed an evil baby princess 
in a vivid little coastal town 
probably somewhere 
near Bangor, Maine 
scaled a second floor 
sun balcony patio 
with a single jump 
to trap her in a stairwell,
wrestled this female 
pint-sized Chucky
lit her on fire
with an Aim-‘n-Flame
then hurled her over the edge
~ fully engulfed ~
I, the victor in avenging 
this little demon 
on a power trip 
to destroy the world 

only there’ll be no limo 
no red carpet runway 
In a glittery gown
straight past swooning fans 
to a Golden Globe for me  
~ just a Little Debbie 
Christmas Tree Cake 
shared with 3 
adorable schnoodles 
in the privacy 
of my own living room 
where I am only their hero 
in our rural Georgia 
Funny Farm dimension 

and all of this 
left me wondering 
if this little bitch I killed 
is the one 
who brings hot flashes 
and plagues my nights and  
whether I just saved 
all of womankind 
from the depths of despair 
with my dream-powered 
cunning stunts 
clever moves
fearless determination 
to overcome the enemy 

so if the hot flashes 
of the world 
suddenly cease and 
women across
the world are healed and 
have kept the cool side 
of the pillow 
for nights on end 
without sweat or explanation 
and start appearing on 
The Today Show and 
Good Morning America and 
places like that 
giving testimonials 
attributing it to some new 
mineral they’ve discovered 
or find that they’re dog mamas 
of all the same breed?
there’s no need to buy 
the infomercial miracle sprinkles 
or the puppy 
because that’s not why 
they’re hot flashless –
no, indeed
it was my nightmare prowess 
and bravery that cured us, 

that was me – the one
wearing the invisible 
blue snowflake cape – 
a hot flash hell hero
from another dimension 

I did that! 

Today’s poem has me wondering whether the Covid booster has additional side effects like murderous nightmares