Month: July 2025

Posted on

Open Write Day 3 of 3 July 2025

Our host today at http://www.ethicalela.com for the third day of the July Open Write is Jennifer Jowett, with guest Ann E. Burg. They invite us to write poems about moments in nature. You can read the full prompt here and check out the poems throughout the day.

Bat Crap Crazy

it’s okay ~

go ahead, think it ~

we all know 

the better title

for this poem

and how that expression

originated out of bats

in the belfry and rabies

from the droppings and I

still Googled to see if

anything had changed but

it’s all still the same

kind of crazy it always was

where here on the

Johnson Funny Farm at

33°8’42″N / 84°25’33″W

in Williamson, Georgia

at 6:10 a.m. with clear

skies at 77° with the 

moon cradling its

own light and winking at

Venus to its 5:00 position

due East of my front door

I stand on the

porch listening to the calls

of the Eastern Wood Pewees

from all the dead trees

that used to be their homes

now lying like corpses across 

the acres and see our

one single solitary bat that

flies in endless circles 

overhead 

as it always does 

from dusk to dawn

and I’m not sure

which of us

is the

bat shit crazier

…..oops

Our actual bat
Posted on

Open Write Day 2 of 3 July 2025

Today for the second day of the July Open Write, Jennifer Jowett of Michigan and Deborah Wiles of Georgia are our hosts. They inspire us to write I Once Knew poems, using a process they describe at this link. Hop over and read some of the poems that will be eclectic and unexpected. This is one such random poem process that is, what I believe, makes poetry shine and sparkle.

To Be Continued

I once knew Miss Sue

who taught me

how to swim in

her backyard pool

now filled in

with earth and flowers

I once stayed at

The Blue Swallow Motel

with the Swiss dot bedspread

and Moon Pies on the pillows

and t-shirts advertising

refrigerated air conditioning

as I drove Route 66

I swam in the Illinois

cornfield sunset

I swooned over the

coconut cream pie

at the Midpoint Cafe

in Adrian, Texas

I sweltered in the

Palo Duro Canyon

Texas heat

where even the road runners

know to sit in the shade

of the picnic tables

I sweethearted a

photo finish kiss

with my husband at

Cadillac Ranch

I swapped my beaded

quartz bracelet for one

made of turquoise and

mother of pearl

in Albuquerque

at the store with

the red war paint door

because it reminded me of

my mother

I swore to return to

finish the route

to be continued…..

Posted on

July Open Write Day 1 of 3 with Jennifer Jowett

Today’s host for the first day of the July Open Write at http://www.ethicalela.com is Jennifer Jowett of Michigan. You can read her full prompt here, inspiring writers to compose a poem of Memory Threads – – a way to breathe in healing through fabric of story and connection.

This month, I’ve been capturing Dad’s final words and stories in audio clips and poems as he inched closer and closer to Heaven, one foot in this world and one in the next. It’s as if Jennifer’s prompt was written just for me. That’s the thing about poetry ~ it meets you exactly where you are and invites you into the vast realm of each moment, scattering the light and blanketing the dark and swimming fully immersed in the shadows. For me, there is no greater healing than what is found in prayer and verse. I’m convinced it’s why the Bible itself – the Holy Scripture – is written in verse. Because it casts light on all truth and heals souls right where they are, and it invites personal response.

I hope you will visit the link above today and read some of the poems and, perhaps, write your own. Even if you don’t share it with anyone, my wish for you is the peace of writing and the healing of expression. Forget perfection. Forget whether it’s good or not, whether it’s right or wrong. There are no rules.

Just dive in.

Still Life with Dying Father

my brother and I

sat by our father

in his final hours

each labored breath

casting ethereal ripples

on the gossamer veil

hanging sheer and thin

between man and Maker

each weakening whisper

each story

each prayer

each memory

becoming weightless

dancing gracefully

toward the shimmering glow

Posted on

Dad and Wendell Berry

I don’t have an audio clip for today, but one of the stories I like best that Dad told was about his days in Port Royal, Kentucky when he was the pastor of Port Royal Baptist Church. We moved there a few weeks after I was born in Waycross, Georgia so that Dad could attend Southern Baptist Theological Seminary in Louisville, and we lived in the tiny pastorium right next door to the church, where in the wintertime the icicles hanging from the roof were as tall as a full-grown adult.

I have some vivid memories from about the time I was 3 or 4 and distinctly remember the floor plan of the house. I remember a Sunday School class at the top of the stairs in the church, and it had a pegboard outside the door where I’d hang my tiny pocketbook. It snowed practically to the roof, and we only had a wood burning stove for heat in those days. I would love to go back to visit sometime.

Dad kept urging me to take a road trip with him to see Wendell Berry – THE Wendell Berry – and I never could seem to take the time off from work to go. I regret that now. Dad shared the stories of the simplicity of the life there in Port Royal where Berry lives and writes.

I like to think that somewhere along the way as an infant or toddler, I breathed a little of Wendell Berry’s poetic breath – that maybe somewhere along the way, I picked up a poetic skin cell somewhere and it multiplied straight to my heart and nurtured my lifelong love of poetry. Just one tiny cell could have done a thing like that, in my mind – inspired a love of words that remains with me today.

Oh, how I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall as these two shared in the joy of conversation and their love of writing and life. One thing is for sure: I will pick up the Port William series of books that Dad had always urged me to read, where the place was as strong a character as the eclectic people. The inspiration for the town was, of course, Port Royal. And somewhere in that series, maybe there is a little tiny glimpse of someone I might recognize.

Posted on

We Weren’t Orchid Guys

In Dad’s final days, he told us all the stories of his life – – so many stories! He and his friends weren’t orchid guys – – they were white sport coat with pink carnation guys.

Money mattered, and they didn’t have much.

He and his cousin Porky sold crawfish – and a few snakes – to support their love life. back in the days when corsages cost $2.50 to $2.95. That’s what swamp folks did, and Dad grew up in Waycross, Georgia – home of the Okefenokee Swamp.

Back in the Day on Creswell Street in Waycross

we weren’t orchid guys

I wore a white sport coat with

a pink carnation

Posted on

12 Bucks for a Cottonmouth

The words of a dying man are treasures.

Dad shared stories in his final days – time he spent with Henry Aaron, his father’s time with Shoeless Joe Jackson and the baseballs we must keep….our weird family, and what to do with the Roseville china, sponsoring love life through crawfish, and selling Cottonmouths for twelve bucks…….all these things that express the flavor and quirkiness of our family. I’m glad we captured these stories on audio so that we can revisit them as we go through the process of grieving our loss of Dad. These moments of the most random conversations filled with memories are priceless to me, no matter how scattered they may seem to others. I’ve used the chain Haiku form here in the poem I’m sharing today, using Dad’s exact words in these lines.

Twelve Bucks for a Cottonmouth

my brother is a

freebie baby, a clearance

kid of great value

our weird family

snake blood in our DNA

swamp genes in our veins

serendipitous

steering currents bring surprise

unexpected guests

prayer conversations

important time together

letting kids climb trees

these things that happen

hodgepodge of mismatchery

eclectic, unique

Okefenokee

twelve bucks for a cottonmouth

Wings Service Station

I sponsored my love

life selling crawfish, Dad said

(priceless audio)

Posted on

Life Lessons: Waiting for the Rapture

In Dad’s final days of life, he shares some life lessons that we all must anticipate. Some we need to rethink. Dad’s bottom line: we are not going to get out of this world alive. I’m glad my brother and I were able to spend those days by Dad’s bedside engaging in conversations with him as the final curtain closed on his life this side of Heaven. We took away some stark realities and a few laughs each day, and we preserved them so that we can relive them long into the future ~ especially as we go through the process of grieving this immense loss. I share Dad’s simple thought for today in a haiku.

We’re Not Getting Out Alive

we’re not going to

get out of this world alive

not any of us

Posted on

Felix Stories: Peace that Passes All Understanding

Dad shares words of wisdom in his final days of life, and my brother and I captured many of his stories by audio recording so that we could return to the nuggets of wisdom again and again as we work through the grief process. Today’s poem is an acrostic, where each beginning letter of each line spells the word PEACE vertically – – the pursuit of peace is where he was in these final days, and he shares more about this in today’s clip, which you can hear below:

PEACE

Peace that passes all understanding

Ever Dad’s pursuit in his final days

All in all, I am totally fine

Carefully sorting the complete picture….

Eventually, he explains, you must release it

Posted on

July Gift Basket for the Bad Ass Book Club

This month, I’m sharing some of Dad’s conversations in his final days, and in one of them that you can hear at the bottom of this post, he revealed a surprising thought about how we feel about folks from time to time. His revelation reminded me of a poem that I wrote recently for a small group of women in one of my writing circles.

My Stafford Challenge group meets the first Monday of each month by Zoom to chat and write together, and we’re a group of women who enjoy reading as much as writing. I’ve been writing a form each month called Gift Basket writing, where I choose three things I’d give a person in a gift basket for that month. This one is dedicated especially to my Stafford Writing Group sisters – Barb Edler of Iowa, Glenda Funk of Idaho, and Denise Krebs of California. At the time I wrote this, I’d recently stumbled across a book club I’d love to join, even for the name alone, and there is actually a summer camp in Maine for its readers – this is a real thing. My dream summer is going to this book club’s summer camp, and I’ve added it to the bucket list.

Bad Bitch Book Club

if I were giving you

a gift basket

I’d make it a

Bad Bitch gift basket

to welcome the storms

of the world~

you’d receive

a t-shirt that says

BAD BITCH BOOK CLUB

complete with

a membership to

the Bad Bitch Book Club

(yes ~ it’s a real thing

with its own dot com)

and a mirror

so you’ll always

see the

baddest of the kick-ass bad

right in the palm of your hand~

knowing your Bad Bitch sisters

have your back!

It’s okay to have a BB attitude sometimes……even my preacher Dad in his final days confessed that there are times we are all a little bit badass. You can listen here: