The Grainery

Back off the road,
behind my grandparents’ house
It stood…
The Grainery

Half stable,
Half barn
Housing feed and grain,
hay and salt lick,
and a truly handsome blond horse

A place for discovering abandoned kittens,
Hiding in the hay loft,
Brushing a horse,
A sanctuary for a young child
who knew way more than she should…

A place to laugh,
A place to cry,
A place to scream 
or just be still
A country castle for a little girl

My childhood secrets
were left on bales of hay
My teenage dreams,
spoken to the leaning walls
It understood me, this place

Surrounded by trees
and meadows of green,
Gardens exploding with
vegetables and fruits
It stood, proud and useful

In time
The horse was sold,
The children grew up,
and the adults moved on…
one way or another

As years went by
boards rotted, nails rusted,
stray animals feasted
on the remaining feed and grain,
and it sighed a knowing sigh

The day came when
it was reduced to rubble
Men with machines
first toppled it over,
then set fire to its remains

The grainery was no more
Only ash and occasional nails
filled the space
and I wondered
what became of my secrets, my dreams

Did they rise to the heavens
in the smoke?
Or did they sink into the ground
with the ash?
Or did they possibly… just disappear?

Oh, how I pray they didn’t disappear…
many years of my life were spent creating them…

May 13, 2023

A Poet’s Surprise

and there it was
buried in the midst of hundreds, 
or thousands,
of others

after searching
for what seemed like hours or days,
maybe weeks,
it screamed

Hey! Here I am!
I have been waiting for some time,
some long time,
to be found


onto the page
it jumped, landing where it belonged;
just the next
perfect word

April 30th
Prompt: Write a Surprise Poem

(And with that… it’s the end of the April Poem a Day Challenge!)

To See for Myself

The call came early
one January morning,
leaving me speechless,
broken, unable to find my next step,
not believing.

The flight back was long,
loud and quiet,
made, still in a fog of disbelief,
sooner than I was prepared for,
but not soon enough to prevent it.

The hugs and tears and refusal to believe
filled the day, and night.
Seemed that was all that was left,
as sleep wouldn’t come,
and joy had long fled.

Heard the story once, twice,
more times than I wanted.
Strangers hugged and cried.
I walked, in dress and heels,
mascara running, to see for myself.
It’s the only way I could believe
he was gone.

April 29th
Prompt: Write a Sight Poem

You are All of These

Controlling and Rude
Sometimes a prude

Lovable and Light
Possibly bright

Aunt and Mother
Friend and
Mimsy to
Granddaughter and her brother

Up and down
Good and bad
Happy, angry,
funny, sad

Quick to laugh
Easy to please
Believe it or not
You’re all of these.

April 28th
Prompt: Write a You Are (Blank) Poem


The bee, landing gently on her head,
touching every strand of golden hair
as he walked about.
Not once did she feel his presence.
Too light and sure-footed was he.

The wheelchair, rammed into the kitchen door,
scraping the metal footrests
and denting the wall.
Only through sight did he witness the impact.
Feeling, lost long ago in a blur.

The babe, lifted from her womb,
covered and wrinkled and 
wriggling about.
She, not conscious of the scalpel’s intrusive work.
Drugs, strong enough to dull most pain.

The call, late at night from continents away,
soft and real and honest, lasting for 
hours and hours into daylight.
The love, he feels always and near.
For his heart she touched long ago.

April 27th
Prompt: Write a Touch Poem

Time Passed

Lives intertwined
Two bodies

What was once new is now aged,
fine like wine and cheese.

Ev’ry day, two artists who
go on painting.

~Tori Inkley

April 26th
Prompt: Write a Response Poem

(In response to Maya Angelou’s “Passing Time” below.)

Passing Time

Your skin like dawn
Mine like musk

One paints the beginning
of a certain end.

The other, the end of a
sure beginning.

~Maya Angelou


she fancied herself a dreamer
from a very young age
taught to view the world 
with open eyes and grand imagination

she wove stories of
all that was to come
and the joy and adventure
her life would hold

dreaming became an art form,
a motivation, a way to escape sadness
she studied, she grew,
she did what was expected

only what was expected
wasn’t always in her dreams
what was expected
often belonged to others

she’s had a good life
possibly, a great life
filled with love and joy,
family and friends

funny though…
she’s recently started dreaming again

April 25th
Prompt: Write a Dream Poem and/or a Reality Poem

Touch of Time

The fingers of time
brush across my face
and I half-heartedly wish them away.
I’ve noticed their presence
almost daily recently.
They’re usually gentle,
so light I can barely feel them.
Some days though,
they have such a tight hold on me
that I barely recognize myself in the mirror.
They really dug in last year,
knotting themselves in a handful of hair
with such force it went nearly white overnight.
Other days, I feel them tickle their way
over my hands, painting on new
age spots here and there,
or twisting my neck so masterfully
that I don’t feel their presence until the next morning.
I have no delusions of aging in reverse,
of waking to find my 20-year-old
self has returned.
And the touch of time does not scare me,
so much as wake me to the present and
push me to carry on.
The lines and wrinkles and grey
that are brought to me are
welcomed on some level…
and I embrace my lifetime’s caress.

April 24th
Prompt: Write a Touch Poem

uncertain most days
head, heart, soul always searching
finding only fear

April 23rd
Prompt: Write a Fear Poem

What Now?

They’ve all left
and the house is so quiet
it makes me physically ill

Sun rises bright
while birds sing their morning hymns
but all I can see is black

Day is done
and the room is empty, yet
I can still hear the voices

My head hurts
I make no move to stop it
At least I can feel something

Seven days
have passed and I have just one
last question to ask… what now?

April 22nd
Prompt: Write a What (Blank) Poem

Ephemeral Elegies

The Poetry of Emotion

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Smoke words every day.

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Daydreaming as a profession

Daydreaming and then, maybe, writing a poem about it. And that's my life.