Quadrille – Mummer

Lest we forget
Plough Monday
is first
after Epiphany
and I’ll let that mean
whatever you want,
but now you come to me
a Mummer
Pace-egger, Souler,
Tipteerer, Wrenboy,
mumbling, murmuring, muttering
your lines, you play,
mouthing seeds
of revelation.



*Mummer’s plays were amateur skits in England, Scotland, Wales, Cornwall, Ireland etc. , and were sometimes staged on Plough Monday (also Christmas & Easter), often on the streets or in pubs.

For dVerse Quadrille #50

Haibun – Setting a Hook

In Colorado the license plates used to say “God’s Country”, back when that sort of thing didn’t raise eyebrows. Not because anybody was particularly religious, but because the mountains were so beautiful most days it almost hurt just to look outside. To be honest though, now when I get off the plane at DIA for maybe another funeral, I don’t feel a thing for the place. I could be anywhere. No rush of “Home!” in the chest.

After the most recent said funeral, my cousin and I decided for old time’s sake to go fly fishing. We went to the local sporting goods store to top up our gear, and I realized I’d need a fishing license. The kid behind the counter asked if that was for “Resident” or “Non-Resident”. Without thinking, I said “Resident”. He asked for my driver’s license.

I paused for a long moment. Then I replied carefully that a driver’s license wasn’t going to be necessary. I was born and raised here, that should cover it. The kid didn’t seem to catch on, and pressed me again. I am not a small man at 6’4″, and my cousin goes by “Stork”, at 6’6″. To my surprise as much as the clerk’s, I leaned over him and asked how long he’d been living in the state. 2-3 years, like most of the other ski bum, rock climbing, hippie arrivistes I’d dealt with growing up. Then in a slow drawl, my eyes locked on his, “Son, my family came here in covered wagons. Five generations are buried in the shadow of this mountain. I said, give me a resident license.”

Stork grabbed my arm. “Randy! Cut the shit! You don’t live here anymore. Give him the money.” I wouldn’t break my gaze with the clerk, and I said I wanted a resident license. Stork threw some money on the counter, got the license, put it in his pocket, and pulled me out of the store, still staring at the clerk.

Such are matters of blood and dust.

Grandfather trout waits
Mayflies hatch within the hour –
Time for catch and kill



Late Entry for dVerse’s  Hometown Haibun

Going Green

Green is the color that crawls
Green digs and scrapes
Green reeks of green and
Green isn’t for you or me
Green is knee high to a grasshopper
that is greener than green
Green is the color that stumbles from
leaves drunk on sunlight
Green is the color of night
during the day
Green is always grassier
on the other side of the fence
Green was the color of chartreuse
before chartreuse was even a thing
Green waits for no man
Green is the color of my true love’s lies
Green is the password the women knew
Green are the woeful hills
Green is the sound of your fingernails
rending the earth
Green is how you lost your way
in the woods, Green Giant
Green on the way in
Green on the way out
Everything coming up green.



For The Twiglits

Renga Challenge -Sarah/Qbit

Love and longing and technology by Sarah and me!

Fmme writes poems


Come and stand beside me at the window,
the world is out there waiting for us,
the way we used to wait for first and second post,
news of lovers stepping out from their rooms.
Now we just wait for them to post
selfies from their bedrooms or their bathrooms –
Seconds from you now in postscripted time,
never farther from what we first needed:

Though now I’m not sure what it is you need,
your window on the world has shrunk so much,
Careful not to lose your sight
on the cutting points of pixel light.
While your fingers dance their tango
Over that smooth, slick touchscreen
I breathe in, arms outstretched, the stars
my orchestra, the garden my ballroom.
I am dancing in the moonlit air,
My skin alive with the scent of night
and you, and you, and you, and you!

How we move together in…

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