Spurned As Dirt


Brick and terracotta

Formed from earthy clay

Work of artisans and artists

Their ingenuity to display


From such a substance – simple

Spurned by most as dirt

It becomes things of beauty

As a master’s hands convert


Brick and terracotta

And Earth-born pottery

Ancient expressions

Of utility and artistry




While this poem is meant to sing the praises of the simple forms associated with mere clay, it is also an allegory on human worth.  If we can have such accomplishments with something “spurned as dirt,” how much more can we look forward to seeing in human potential – even the from those seen as other or less?










The Dragon Hunter Part 1

Dragon, Animal, Creature, Drake, Beast


Though thought to be extinct for hundreds of years, reports of a great dragon had begun to circulate.  Far beyond the Wuhi Range, in the secretive Kingdom of Hanon, a call was made.  It seems that the pariah state had finally met a challenge its despotic ruler could not handle internally.

King Han III, whose grandfather had usurped control of what was then a minor Duchy, and once in power proclaimed it an independent realm, was in need of foreign aid.  The weakness of the mythology that the royal line was the embodiment of divinity was being tested to the full   Even though the fact that the people were largely starved, and that the kingdom lacked both natural resources and skills in metallurgy was an open secret.

Soon mercenaries arrived at the borders, each prepared to rid the realm of the great serpent.  But for all of their bravery, skill, and superior arms and armour, none returned from the dragon’s lair to collect their rewards.  At least until the day young Wilfred arrived.




Outwards Onwards


Italy, Mountains, Sky, Clouds, Harbor


Outwards, onwards to the adventures ahead

New things to explore and see

Horizons fresh, experiences yet unknown

Await discovery


Outwards, onwards to adventures ahead

They’re just waiting for you and me

Join me down by the slip

And together we’ll see what will be




dVerse Quadrille -Slip


January Road

snowy road

Postmans December Pexels 2019

It was if I were coming out of some sort of trance or daze.  I found myself on an icy road with about thirty hoses on it, punctuated by trees.  Snow slowly fell, and the road showed some sign of travel but had yet to be cleared or salted.

I as I tried to get my bearings a middle-aged woman stepped out onto the porch of Number 11, and made her way to the mailbox.

“Excuse me,” I called.  “I know this is an odd question, but where am I?”

“How do you mean?” she asked puzzled.

“Okay, I don’t recognise this street, and I’m not quite sure how I came to be on it.”

“Oh,” she said.  “This is Rhagfyr Way.”

“I have never heard of it,” I replied.  “I guess I am lost.”

“You are in Dixneufton,” she said.

“Wow, I am lost,” I concluded.  “I don’t know where that is either.”

“Just continue up the street,” she said, “and you will come to January Road.  Keep going strait and it will take you right to Hogmanay.”






Rhagfyr is Welsh for December

Dixneuf – French for Nineteen

Hogmanay – Scottish celebration of New Years.



Autumn’s Promise

Bench, Fall, Park, Rest, Sit, Autumn, Park Bench, Wood

Image by Pepper Mint from Pixabay 

Autumn’s Promise

Skies Clouded
A Cool Dampness
Bringing Autumn Chill
Leaves Their Green Abating
Golds, Yellows, Reds, They Now Sport
The Winged Flocks Now Journey Southwards
Daily The Light Grows Shorter, Dimmer
Summer Over, Equinox Having Come
But Hope, Nature Still Proffers To Us
This Fading Season Shall Not Last
There Is Promise Of Newness
The Cycle Runs Its Path
Spring Shall Returning
Bring New Greenness,
Warmth, Delight
Fresh Starts


The Etheree poem consists of ten lines of 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 syllables. Etheree can also be reversed and written 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.   A Reversed Etheree Syllable Count: 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.  A Double Etheree Syllable Count: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 10, 9, 8, 7, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

COLLEEN’S 2019 WEEKLY #TANKA TUESDAY #POETRY CHALLENGE NO. 146 #SYNONYMSONLY. This weeks words are: FALL (Here in American usage) & GIVE

I have written this as a seasonal piece with Autumn (Fall) in its annual context, but I intend it also as an allegory of the gloom and despair that can descend (fall) upon us in life.  The “giving” of hope may not always be immediately obvious in the face of such “drizzly” circumstances, but like the coming of Spring, there is hope to come.


Beyond the Sacred Sea



The waters were surprisingly calm as our ship entered the Sacred Sea–the place where many of us were eventually destined to go. It wasn’t my time just yet, but my friend was on the ship ahead of us and I was there to see her off. Though I would miss her terribly, I could not grudge her good fortune when I saw the pure joy in her eyes.

As her ship approached the center of the Sea, ripples of cloud formed in a circle above it. From the center of the circle, a bright light broke through the darkening sky, out-shining the stars and what was left of the setting sun. It was a portal to another world…another time, perhaps. There were plenty of tales of what lie on the other side–of shining cities, and lush fields and forests. Wealth and beauty beyond imagining. But no one really knew for sure. What was on the other side would always be cloaked in mystery, for no one who went through it ever came back. Yet it had always been this way, since the beginning, that on the last day of each year, a ship would be sent with the lucky chosen. New lives awaited them on the other side.

The ship began to rise, creaking and groaning as it lifted just above the water, then higher and higher into the air. Those of us watching looked on with awe. What was awaiting our loved ones on their journey into the sky? And what would we find on our appointed day to follow? 

The reality then gripped me that she was gone, and tears began to run down my cheeks.

“None of that now, Laddie,” the old helmsman said.

“It’s just – it’s just the not knowing for sure,” I choked.  “None return.”

“That’s not strictly so,” the old mariner said, wisdom and compassion in his eyes.

“What do you mean?” I said grasping at a sudden hope.

“There was one from the other side that came to live here for a spell, and he told us that his father had rooms aspare awaiting.  Then he went from here dying in a horrendous way.  His ship journey, one of storm and pain, but three days later he returned to tell folk that he had made sure the gates, so those who sail the way will find their course true through waters calm.”

“But how do we know?” I challenged, again feeling despair rising in my heart.

“Because I am one of the ones who saw him.  Both before his voyage, and on his second when he returned for good.  He set me on this course as helmsman, one to steer others to the way.”

“What do they call you, helmsman?” I asked.

“My name is John, and I was a fisherman along with my brother, James.  We and our friends Peter and Andy knew the journeyer well.  I have ever since his rising into the clouds shown others the way.  Trust me, Lad, stay true to your course and you and your lady friend will be together again in the wonders beyond the Sacred Sea.”



Written on this fourth full day since my lady made her journey beyond the sea.  I miss you Dianne, but know you have found paradise.  I will join you when my sailing date comes.

The Guardian

Lakshmi Bhat

Photo Credit Lakshmi Bhat

The Guardian Tree stood his post on the edge of the wood.  Oh, how he had envied so many of the other saplings when he was in his youth.  They, with their green foliage and spreading branches.

Ugly, I’m just ugly, he had thought.  He had often repeated those words to himself, as he pondered his dull grey bark and stubby pointed branches.

When he was in his twenties these short branches began to thicken.  While still short, they had begun to harden as well, and the points upon their ends became more pronounced.

He still didn’t see himself as beautiful.  Oak and Maple, they still caught the eye of most passers-by, but Guardian knew he was appreciated by many in the forest.  His unassuming looks, and power of character often drew comments of quiet praise from those who knew him and his purpose.

When he was forty-five, he was proud to take the Guardian’s Oath.  He would stand firm, laying down his own life if necessary, for the “Good of the Wood.”  How many Birches and Willows depended on him?  How many saplings of every kind of bark and leaf stood behind his grey-spined trunk?

So for twenty more years he stood, silent protector on the edge of his community.  Many of the young still marveled at him and his brethren standing in their quiet vigils.  It seemed that the society as a whole, secretly even questioned why they were needed.

Then, un-expectantly the day came.  “Beavers!” the panicked cries rang out.  But there, when others cowered, the Guardians stood firm.


In tribute to law enforcement, the military, and others that quietly serve.

Sunday Photo Fiction


The Rest


photo: Dale Rogerson

The Rest

The wagons had crossed the wide dusty prairie; and it had been a hard crossing as they made the pass, flanked by forlorn craggy peaks. There now below them was the valley filled with promise.

The descent into the canyon was far more gentle than they had expected. The party soon rested, dry and parched, next to the gurgling steam which flowed with a fluid more precious than gold. The cold crystal water relieved their thirst, and restored their spirits. Soon they would be in the promised land of Oregon.

(90 words)



Dual Prompt Challenge:

Fandango – “Fluid”

Friday Fictioneer’s – Photo prompt above