If Only She Had Stayed



Esther dreams of a period filled
with gauzy comings and goings,
she has a vision of two little girls,
 how many years ago?
pajama clad ,nestled on the floor
the tv tuned to jackie gleason,
some kind of tribute show.
one sister has to leave
going by subtle degrees,
creeping away like a hermit crab
crashing into another world
leaving behind an empty shell,
and her only sister.
 no one had the power
to persuade her to stay,
not Esther, not anyone,
 and before she leaves,
she carefully opens up
a hungry space in Esther’s heart.



For The Sunday Whirl ‘#122’

For Poets United ‘ Pantry’

Mid Summer



a certain silence

attends the yard



the birds, knowing

what they know,



have ceased

their morning song,



even the trees

are still.




©2013 Wabi Sabi

For Poets United ‘verse first -edit to elevate’

Writing compellingly using only a few words, is always a challenge. Turning it into poetry is a miracle.  William Carlos Williams did it with The Red Wheelbarrow, a poem I attempted to emulate.  Comments/Critique??




an ocean breeze

woven through the years

carries her

 to one last poem

before august brain


already cerebral cells

dwelling on an atlantic beach

begin to doze, dreaming

 (of) soft white clouds –

drenching the summer sky

with daydreams

 and the barrier beach –

scarce plovers revisiting

a summer home

eroded shoreline

her resolve

slipping away

only vegetation 

rooted in the dunes –

hangs on

 the entertainment –

a gang of crows chasing

 a kestrel

and still the ocean breeze

woven through the years

carries her


©2013 Wabi Sabi

For The Sunday Whirl ” wordle # 119

NaHaiWriMo ‘drench”

For Poets United ‘pantry # 160’






 dark night
closes in, stifling
the longing, hidden
in a forgotten room,
thoughts becoming
in silent unknowing,
while all sense of time
is driven
away, not thinking
what can possibly repair
this tear, this empty
for the slate sky
to announce
the moonrise.
©2013 Wabi Sabi

For The Sunday Whirl ‘ Wordle # 118’

Wherein The Muse’s ‘Vehicle’ Goes in the Shop For Repairs

The muse won’t tell a LIE….
the truth is, she must lie STILL,
teetering on the edge
of tomorrow’s forest
I made that up,
there is no forest,
(a jungle maybe)
the truth is, she must lie still
on the edge of a surgeon’s table.
All right,
I made that up too,
 she won’t be on the edge
of the table –
more like stage center,
at the head of the class,
letting all the young doctors
watch the surgeon
making tracks on her belly,
another fabrication…
not tracks – incisions,
the surgeon will cut her
while her muse, pale and mute
wallows in drug dreams
leaving her body, her vehicle
in a complex heap,
a mess,
while they peer into whatever
openings the surgeon makes,
 getting all the answers for their files.
Once it is over,
she won’t LIE AROUND
she’ll be up and about,
revving the motor,
cruising the hallways,
LYING in wait
 for her belly to rumble back to life…
that rumble is the ‘get out of jail free‘ card
 the ticket out of the repair shop
 with a full tank of gas,
and that’s NO LIE !
©2013 Wabi Sabi
For The Sunday Whirl where the words for this week are -tracks, edge, files, lie, mess, complex, gas, forest, still, pale, answers, class.
For Poets United ‘poetry pantry’
I know this is a crazy, silly poem but it kept me busy as I prepare for surgery on Monday.  I do apologize for forcing the words to suit my agenda and especially for the ending. (Really!? Gas!?)
I will be off the poetry circuit for a few days but plan to return as soon as the drugs wear off and the muse sobers up!
If you would like to read another poem I wrote about my  ‘vehicle,’  here’s a link  to ‘Joy Ride.’
Until we meet again, peace!


Charleston Skyline ©WabiSabi 2013
Charleston Skyline ©WabiSabi 2013


 clouds,  like prairie schooners

hurry across the sky and with a swirl

they carry daydreams on the wind’ s  sweet breath,

each glimpse of the crystal  sky sending thoughts packing

on a whole  new train down alleys unexplored


the tale  still untold,  the vault still under lock

with  mirrored halls of memory reflecting a nimble fiction

an unwritten story that might crave another, happier ending-

but then the ending writes itself,

always the same.


now the time arrives to climb above the schooners,

 staring down with rapture, surveying as a raptor would

forgetting limbs that protest loudly, words catch in the throat –

she remembers the wing of the osprey and how the wind catches it, 

  and she hitches a ride on the same strong breeze,

 following the osprey all the way home.


©Wabi Sabi 2013


For  Sunday Whirl  ‘prairie, halls, swirl, wind, train, vault, nimble, crave, rapture, limbs, throat, each.’



twirling along in the rain
and voluptuously dressed
in a riot of greens,
takes prisoners who can’t help
swooning at its everywhere-ness,
the smell of it
loamy as wine made
with half dead leaves and new shoots,
the taste of it
a sharp radish peppered with chopped chives,
the sound of it,
birds obscenely, gloriously
celebrating mid-air sex
with music, no less.
The inmates marvel
at raindrops on skin
 so recently released
from winter,
and they gulp and gulp.

©Wabi Sabi 2013

For Poets United ‘Pantry’





It was  just like him to send a note,
‘meet me at the stone slab,’
the place up in the woods where they first met
as teenagers hiding from life, smoking and acting cool,
but that was before they hatched their dream,
to save for an old car then take to the road
 to look for the real world, whatever that was,
‘I came to say good-bye,’ he said,
his timing left Esther without breath,
how could he drop the torch now,
after months of planning,
their vision still blazing in her head,
too hot to touch,
how could he decide on a different path
out of this God-forsaken town,
one that left her behind, to hover in a holding pattern
stuck at the five and dime?
He cut her down with one bleak word,
however opaque.

Turns out she had the bus fare
so she jumped the Greyhound early the next day,
and in the crush of  passengers, in the smell of humanity,
among folks with brown bags filled with egg sandwiches
and leftover meatloaf,
and snacks for the long ride,
she was on her way to somewhere.


©Wabi Sabi 2013

For Sunday Whirl ‘ slab, timing, breath, torch, vision, blazing, touch, cut, opaque, bleak, crush, nebulous, hover