You were among the first I played that particular game with. We threw out the rule book handed to us by stern faced women in black robes and sought to prove how much we knew about the world, even though the category of indoor sports and leisure was a complete mystery to us both. Arguing over claiming a crucial slice of pie became too much, and we went on to other games. Years later, we showed off cars filled with pegs, happier for having traveled on our own roads. All the rancor of the parting was left behind on the highway; afternoons spent with you made me a better driver in the end. It's for the best it was temporary, but it never was trivial.

Pressed flowers won't bloom 
again. Lovely in their time,
they are memories
sharing lessons to impart
wisdom with passage of time.

This poem was created for the prompt (created by me) at Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads: It's All Fun and Games The games I worked with were Trivial Pursuit and Life.


Dreadful headlines buffet the breath from my body. I recoil from their continued assault, only to be knocked over like bug on its back. The natural comfort of my carapace becomes a trap. I flail, finding no purchase in the air I flew freely through not so long ago. News marches on. I feel the whoosh as its passing feet come close to crushing me in this vulnerable position. A well timed gust of wind combined with the wriggle of my legs helps me rediscover my center. I go to my place of safety, and remember though I am small, I am also not alone. There are far more of me, buzzing, whirring and clicking in every city and town. And together we are a swarm that outnumbers them all.

Uncaring footfalls
promise my annihilation
unless I stand up.
Fear threatens to entomb me
but anger keeps me fighting.

This poem was created for the prompt given at Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads: 13 is Poetry. It is also linked to Poets United, Poetry Pantry 399. I used the following 13 words from the original quote: 


The quote given:

“People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continue to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humor, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in the ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic.” ~ Diane Setterfield