The Grass is Greener

If you are looking for Imaginary Garden prompt “stairs” go  here


mindlovemisery  Photo Challenge #200

– Justin Peters

I have everything I need
right here on earth
and every good thing
that I’ve been graced with
and love, and family.
Yet, still I look to the sky
and dream of all those unseen
things and places and maybe faces
I will never know.
And I wonder if my dreams
are greater than reality
or if reality is grander
than I can imagine.

And They Say it was A Better World


imaginarygarden Rhubarb Imagined By Paul John Dear

You set me up for a fall
I thought you knew
what you said was true
propaganda was in foreign
places, faces here I could trust
“And that’s the way it is”
wasn’t always so
and the good guys didn’t
always win.
Woman’s place wasn’t after all
in the kitchen and bed,
seen but not heard.
The cold war, Vietnam,
Kennedy, King, Nixon…
No wonder I began to doubt


Grew up on Gunsmoke, Bonanza, and other westerns because we lived with our grandfather. Leave it to Beaver, Father Knows Best, and other family shows that gave a skewed version of marriage and equality… etc, etc, and so forth. Sorry this turned depressing.

Mountain Dreams

pinkgirlink  STACY MAR


Nestled in the Appalachia under
the gaze of East River Mountain
on this dark, frosty midnight
I watch from my window the
moonlit landscape as the wind,
blistery, wintery, skirts the corner
scatters dried leaves like mice
scampering from the calico cat.
My breath wreathes the pane
in delicate snowflake patterns
and I shiver at the beauty…
a fairyland tabloid of silvered
delight. Turning, I stand over
the furnace let the warm air billow
my gown. I invite the shadowy
images painted by the moon
across the floor and walls
join me as I run to the warmth
of my bed to sleep the sweet sleep.

I Got to Leave

Music Prompt #17: “100x” by Tegan and Sara #musichallenge #music #amwriting
Mindlovemisery prompt by mandibelle16


isn’t it funny how we got lost in love
isn’t it funny that two became one
cause it isn’t meant to be that way
isn’t meant to give yourself away
isn’t meant to stray so far
I mean it’s just not par
for the course of true love…
So here I am about to leave
as you gently tug my sleeve
let me be, let me be,
can’t you see I grieve
for the loss of me.
I don’t know who I am
what I want or where to go
I only know I’ve lost my way
too tired to play
this game of make believe.
I got to leave. I got to leave.





Maybe the fire of youth singed
nerve endings or scarred my heart
or maybe the intense conflagration
left only cold ashes, no fuel left
to kindle even one thin smoky line
of flare. I guess I should care.
I read love poems that aver
without passion life is empty
but I’ve not found it so.
I don’t desire, don’t need
that fever pitched agony
an explosion of emotion.
In this winter season
your love is persistent,
hearth warmth, steady heat,
comfortable, easy, peaceful,
a tingle of familiar.
The consolation of duration.


A Serendipitous Serenity


Tree tops swaying in the breeze
to music the stars hum
Grasses nodding their heads in unison
as the wind nudges from behind
White capped waves undulating endlessly
Flock of starlings weaving like marching bands
Schools of fishes dancing to choreography
those delicate movements move me
(woolgathering, wasting time, laziness,
some think, some say, some sneer)
though I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the grace,
the beauty, the spontaneity. Maybe it’s just
that it tickles the jejune, surprises the jaded,
astonishes the negativity that grows in me
year by weary year of man kindled nastiness.
All I know is that my heart slows down,
the heaviness lifts, the years roll away
and I am a big-eyed child of wonder again.



Käthe Kollwitz
The Parents (Die Eltern) (plate 3) from War (Krieg)
(1921-22, published 1923)

August Sander: Lumpenball Em dekke Tommes, 1929. Private Collection, Gerd Sander. The Tate

They prayed and wept together
over their prodigal daughter
grief like a burn that never heals
she laughed at their silly mores
and lived her every pleasure.
Get up off your knees old people
I’ll get respectable soon enough
then what will keep you together?

The Eyes Have It

imaginary garden Fireblossom Friday : “The Distorted Lens”
So, your task is to write from the point of view of someone who is seeing reality through a distorted lens.


Pink Girl and Blue Boy
(Mom’s ceramic phase)
sat on the dresser
ignored for the most part
I didn’t like them
but … well, Mom made them.

I picked them up, dusting beneath
then placed them back carelessly,
started to walk away. I felt eyes on
my back, chills on my flesh,
evil in the room and looked behind.

They were glaring at me. I felt their
hate, their spite. I told them it wasn’t
me who had imprisoned them there.
They just glared, nostrils flared,
I was scared to death. Death was in

their minds. I walked back and with
a swipe of my hand swept them to
the tiled floor. Swept up the mess
as my husband ran up the stairs.
You okay, he asked. I told him what

had happened. I didn’t understand
the strange look in his eyes. It began
to be perfectly clear though. Disembodied
spirits like to choose their own hosts.
I’m going to watch him really close.




Twenty Five or Six to Four

written for Poems of Garden Gnomes PROJECT: POEM #1 – CONNECTION


Waiting for the break of day
bleary eyed, deadened brain,
my thoughts too jumbled to be read
I’m striving, struggling, stressing,
Searching for something to say

Dancing lights against the sky
I try to follow the red, green, white
stars or airplane I can’t focus
Giving up I close my eyes
Sitting cross-legged on the floor.
I’m guessing the time is
Twenty five or six to four

Wondering how much I can take
out, delete, refine, compress
afraid that later I’ll find I
Should have tried to do some more
but it’s late or early, probably
Twenty five or six to four

Feeling like I ought to sleep
knowing if I do the words won’t keep
Spinning room is sinking deep
just like my whirlpool thoughts

Searching for something to say
is this the way Dylan, Bukowski
wrote Waiting for the break of day?

Twenty five or six to four
Twenty five or six to four
magic hours of the morn
still it pricks like a thorn
Sitting cross-legged on the floor


ROBERT LAMM wrote this song I love best performed by Chicago.