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

The Pride Of Mount Vernon

"Let me tell you what I wish I knew, when I was young and dreamed of glory…"

-                                                                                            Washington to Hamilton from the play Hamilton

The Pride of Mount Vernon handed me his quill.

Pride. I know too much about pride –
or maybe not enough. Would I chase glory
if I was as sure of myself as I appear?

He tells me it’s history
watching to see how I will prove myself.
All I can feel are the eyes
of those who expect me to fail.
I imagine their faces
when I prove them wrong.

I don’t have to tell him that.
He knows. Says he was the same way once.
This seasoned veteran -  
it’s hard to imagine him
as unskilled at his craft,
impatient to be better.

He is all patience now.
Analyzing maps and correspondence,
pointing out the strength of our resources,
and how to shore up what I have missed.

The Pride of Mount Vernon hands me his quill.
I follow his example,
and hammer out the rough edges,
seasoning the ink 
with everything that flows in me.

Song Choice: History Has It's Eyes On You from Hamilton

This poem is linked up to Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads, Tuesday Platform. Following the prompt I was inspired by the phrase, "The Pride of Mount Vernon" from the play Hamilton (the phrase actually appears in a different song, Right Hand Man). I always loved the strong bond of friendship and mentorship between George Washington and Alexander Hamilton depicted in the play. It would have been all too easy for the elder Washington to be dismissive of young Hamilton, but he helped Hamilton hone the best part of himself, to the benefit of the country.


You’ll remember if you’ve met me. My eyes are big enough to swallow the world whole. It’ll take a lifetime to digest it all, but that doesn’t bother me. Going so slowly that a stranger can glimpse my face through a rainstorm does.

There is too much world
to walk through. Instead I dance.
I move fast only
to oppose gravity
'til I can face it my way.

Song Choice: Don't Rain On My Parade, Glee Version

This poem was created by a prompt given over at Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads: Transformations. It is also linked to Poets United, Poetry Pantry 398. I was super intrigued by the idea behind it and toyed with a bunch of different directions to go, before I gave into my nerd side and played with a popular TV trope, the Genki Girl (follow the link for a good explanation). Although I really love the energy of my song choice (and the perfection of matching that particular performance to this piece) I feel like I need to give props to the Genki Girl I had in mind while writing this, Sailor Moon.