Honestly Me

Staying true,

And being blue.


Standing here,

Showing no fear.


On the threshold

Of something new,


Something honest,

Some don’t do.


Showing one’s faults,

Showing one’s doubts,


Not hesitating

To leave the big house.


No cover, no shame,

No hiding one’s name.


Just being me.

Do you dare to do


The same?



Writer’s Island

Week #25



Solid feelings about a

Contingent future

Adds up to what?


And what about a

Future in the extreme,

At the end, perhaps


After the end?

Doesn’t our life really

Show itself to be


Nothing beyond

One chance after



Does it matter how

We feel about it,

Or what we think


About it?

Does that change



Can we predict

The unpredictable?

Sure, there are



There is science.

But science cannot


Predict human

Action or interaction.

Humans are unpredictable.


And the number of

Possibilities of human

Emotion, psyche, not


To mention crazy

Forces of nature—

No, don’t listen to


The damn weatherman!

There are too many



And the possibility

Of spirituality,

The force of life


Itself, where it

Comes from and

Where it goes,


That, my friend,

Nobody knows.


Life is full of change.

Some people are really good

At hiding changes in their life,


At least for a while,

Until life wears them down.

Some people you can tell


Right away that something

Has changed in their life,

But you still have to wait


To see how everything pans out.

Most of us don’t handle change

Very well.  Even good change.


As they say all around,

“We are creatures of habit.”

But life has a way,


Even for those who are lucky,

Of bending your will.

Call it God, call it fate,


Or just luck.  Sooner

Or later, there is going

To be a change.


When things are going well,

We fear it.

When life is hitting us hard,


We hope and pray for it.

And either way,

Most of us,


Do a funny thing—

We try to control it!

But those of us


Who have tried with

Everything we’ve got

And lost—


We know that life

Is like the weather.

There are seasons.


And within those

Seasons of life,

Anything can happen.


One thing is for sure,

And that’s nothing.

You just take


What life gives you,

And don’t worry

About the rest.



(Writer’s Island

Week #19 prompt: Season)


Straight Out of the Sea

Straight Out of the Sea

(Straight out of the sea,
Surfing on fresh, white foam,
An impossible cello,
Glowing reddish brown, with
A butterfly-shaped bow,
Begins to play a concerto
In the presence of a female
Who has sprouted butterfly
Wings from her back,
And antennae from her head.)

As the cello begins his song,
The young woman yearns
For a faraway land,
A land where cellos playing
By themselves,
And young women with wings
And antennae are simplicity.

In this lost land,
She was once a princess,
And held before her
A king’s palace and a
Father’s love.

But this princess gave up
All that she held dear,
For the love of one man,
A hard, ambitious sailor,
Who dreamed that one day,
He would be captain
Of the royal fleet!

So she boarded his ship
One night, under cover
Of darkness and stealth,
Outwitting her father’s guards,
And the security around
Her lover’s craft.

The journey was difficult,
Especially for a princess.
She held tight, though.
She hid among the cargo,

Hoping that upon reaching
The final destination,
They would be free
For just a while,
Out of the sight
Of her father’s eyes.

But there was an
Accident before they
Reached their destination.
One of the crew
Was searching for something,
Who knows what,
And found her crouching,
Deep between the boxes.
Immediately fear erupted
In that man’s heart,

Even though he was innocent.
Soon the crew knew of her,
And the game was up.
Rather than risk the death

Of her lover, she swiftly
Allowed the crew to lead
Her to the nearest island
Where they could dump

Her with her reddish brown cello
That played itself with a butterfly
Topped bow. She was never
Recognized or even questioned.

Most ordinary men and women
Of the kingdom had no knowledge
Of the royal family, so there was
No way sailors would know her.

So she stood on the shore
And listened to her cello play,
As the fresh sea foam drifted
In and out on the beach.

(Writer’s Island
Week #22 prompt: (visual))