Sometimes everything has to be enscribed across the heavens so you can find the one line already written inside you. Sometimes it takes a great sky to find that small, bright, and indescribable wedge of freedom in your own heart. David Whyte

Poetry Dance – Alchemy

The old man sees the children play
Pungent smell of fallen leaves
Wafts from distant stretch of time
When green leaves masked crimson and gold.

His heart soars on vibrant wings
Life still surges in his veins
Savoring Springs of long ago
Joys of Autumn now twice-lived.

See previous lines at



Poetry Dance – Transitions

Gone riotous sounds of children playing
Classroom-bound their voices muted.
Thankful sighs of harried parents
Quiet moments now reclaimed.
Old man warmed by sun’s cooling rays
Watching squirrels prepare for winter.


The next part of the dance


Writing 101 – Open Letter to Ed

Dear Ed,

I’m sorry I missed celebrating your 100th birthday in June. Since I moved away I’ve thought of you often. I can picture the way you looked when I met you twenty years ago. You wore, as always, your white hair in a ponytail that matched your beard and your artistic spirit. You had a wonderful tweed jacket you often paired with a paisley turtleneck. I never told you that I had one just like it that I ordered from Lands’ End. I didn’t wear mine to church because we might have worn our matching t-necks on the same Sunday – not that it would have been a terrible faux pas. We always talked about the books we were currently reading. You introduced me to the ingenious spy novels of Alan Furst. Your annual Christmas creation of a calendar-photo gallery-arts review keep me up to date on the best new books, movies and plays. I marveled that you traveled to New York to see all of Wagner’s Ring Circle in one week. I remember that you stayed at the YMCA. By then you must have been in your 90’s and hadn’t slowed down much. Your first concession to aging was to get a Leki hiking staff which you never called a cane, but found helpful in walking. When I developed a knee problem I bought one just like yours. It lives in my coat closet for when I need it.

When you gave in a little to the encroachment of time I got to know you in a different way. For years you walked to church but the ten blocks was getting to be a bit too much for you. You could still drive but your old Toyota had engine problems which your son promised to fix but never got around to. I suspect this was easier for him than suggesting that you quit driving. My husband and I lived nearby so we began to give you a ride to church with us. You and I got to know each other as people gradually transitioning to “old age” though we certainly would not have confessed to it. You let me do little things for you, like carry your cup of coffee to a table when the congregation gathered for refreshments after worship. We became simply friends.

I miss you Ed. You taught me to enjoy the wonder of being alive. I always said I wanted to be like you when I became vintage-aged. I’m working on it.

Love and best wishes.

Your friend


Poetry Dance – Trumpeting Fall

V of flying geese
Honking loud for right-of-way
Lead Autumn parade.


Writing 101 – Short and Sweet

For me writing and receiving comments, along with their ever-spooling threads, are the connective tissue of the Word Press Community. It affirms me when someone lets me know they “get” what lies beneath my words. I’ve learned things about my writing that I couldn’t have otherwise known. When I comment on a post I look and listen for meaning and reflect it back to the blogger. Intuition and empathy guide me.

And there is more. I love comments where another blogger and I find mutual kinship and continue in threads to “know” each other. After a while we comment and reply with few words like old friends. Blogging has opened up a wondrous new world for me.


Haiku: On the Cusp of Autumn

Lone cricket chirping
Reveille to my waking
Plays taps for summer.


Writing 101-Wilde Wisdom

Be yourself; everyone else is taken. – Oscar Wilde

When I turned fifty a friend asked me what I wanted to do now that I was half a century old. I replied, “I want to be an original.” I felt it was long overdue for me to stop paying attention to what other people expected of me and dis-cover the creature I am meant to be. It has been a fascinating journey. Twenty-eight years later I’m just entering my prime as an original.

In March I went to Costa Rica with a tour group I’ve traveled with previously. The first evening I knew to expect the familiar ritual of telling each other something about ourselves and what we do. Before when I traveled with this group I introduced myself as a retired pastoral counselor. This led to people’s expectation that they could tell me their problems and seek advice. I’m glad to help people but realized they did not see beyond my profession to the whole person that I’m evolving into. As I was flying down to Costa Rica I decided to show my new face Vivachange and to do and say whatever I wanted to. In the “tell something about yourself” circle I said that I had recently started a blog and had made the joyous discovery that I have a gift for writing poetry. In the following days nobody came up to me to talk about poets and poetry! I learned something new about the world I’m entering and am excited to continue my journey here.


Writing 101- Composition Notes

Today the cool breeze of early autumn stirs the leaves on the big oak tree outside my window. It rained all day two days ago and I could see for the first time that leaves had fallen on the stones of the patio below. For now bright sun casts shadows on the desk beneath the window where a basket of bills to be paid and three house plants sit. The desk drawers serve to store file folders and personal business-related stuff.

The room I write in is the smaller bedroom of two in my apartment. Against one wall is a futon intended for guests whose main occupant is a little plush stuffed Eeyore who has been with me for a while. On the walls are a couple of framed diplomas, a wooden clock in the shape of Ohio that ticks away time, a picture in the shape of a turtle created from folded paper and a swing-arm lamp. On the wall opposite the futon, my desktop computer sits on a glass-topped table with my land-line telephone on one side and my printer on the other. A comfortable office chair completes the set. This is the stage setting for my writing. The minute I sit at my computer to write it dissolves and my writing process absorbs me.

Prompts and creative ideas come from Word Press, daily experiences and reflections, memories, out-of-the-blue lines for poems, what’s going on out my window, the newspaper. Inspiration reaches me at a feeling level. It is like a seed planted that I can trust will grow into writing when I sit down at my computer. Writing haiku I begin on paper to keep track of the allotted syllables. Everything else takes form as I type. This is where the magic happens. I have a general idea where I am going but that is often not where I end up. Words written remind me of other words and I follow the trail like breadcrumbs tossed out by my muse. I tinker and tweak until I like what is on the screen before me. It is a tiny aha! moment when I’m satisfied that I’ve translated my feelings and ideas into words. Besides my helpful muse, a mischievous genie lives in my computer. Sometimes when I’ve written something particularly long I strike a key I’m unaware of and all that I’ve written vanishes. I haven’t figured how to restore it. However, I don’t give up. Doggedly I begin again only this time I abbreviate my piece. The result usually turns out much better for the editing and I thank my genie for knowing when I’ve gone on too long.


Dungeon Prompt: GPS Directions For My Happy Place

Streak of pink in a leaden sky
Birdsong begins before I wake
Smell of coffee rouses me.
I desire to taste and touch
New-minted wonders of the day.

Written in response to Dungeon Prompt: Getting To Our Happy Place


Writing 101 – Home Furnishings

Duchess Goldblatt writes, “Home is a person. If you are lucky, home is yourself.”


A few years ago I moved from a three-story townhouse I shared with my former husband to a two bedroom apartment just big enough for me. I carefully selected furniture that had accompanied me in two previous moves to begin another incarnation of my life.

I brought two blue glass bottles and tiny figurines that were my mother’s before I was born. I brought amber glass hurricane lamps that were a wedding gift to my first husband and me. I brought a tall, narrow teak bookcase that was my second husband’s which I had used for my books in our townhouse. I brought a Victorian glass-topped table with intricately carved wood beneath the glass. This came from my grandmother’s house in Alabama and sat in her parlor. I brought a desk that was my son’s in high school. I brought a picture of a cowboy riding on a dusty road that reminded me of my father who was from Texas. The things I brought with me represented every place I have ever lived. They tell me stories. They encompass my history. When I return home from an hour of running errands or a two-week trip, I put my key in the lock, open the door and breathe in the essence of home.