owl calls in night wind
hidden meaning repeated
my mind drawn to it

for I Write Her



I consider myself something of an outdoorsman. When my wife kicked me out of the house and I no longer had someone handy to cook my dinner, I began taking my meals at outdoor cafes.

This is not an efficient way to meet a new mate who will provide your meals in a home setting. Not an efficient way, at least, on days of tolerable weather. However, I discovered that on marginal days, days with rain flurries or coldish winds, days when the dogged cafes kept serving its outdoor customers, few though they may be, on those days solitary hardy souls like myself are easy to spot and some of them are female,

I met one and then another and another and men too. We dined with umbrellas handy. We caught colds together. Kept warm using alcohol. Commiserated. Outcasts. Outliers. The obnoxious.

We pooled our resources and moved into a renovated loft with roof access. We installed a rustic farmer’s table on the roof, six stories up. Hired a woman to come in every evening and cook our dinner for us. Her daughter served it on the roof rain or shine. (Mother and daughter lived across the street.)

for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner


will all the honey
be gone with the virus done
moths don’t make honey

for Poets United

Cyber Invitations

I received an email invitation via a neighborhood social group to join a local cemetary. Excuse me, memorial park.

To join, I only needed to purchase plots in advance for myself and my partner and our two adopted children, plus unlimited additional plots in the family pet section.

A map of the memorial park was included, with the graves of deceased neighborhood residents marked and those of neighborhood residents as yet undead labeled. I was invited to choose which neighbors I would like us to be buried next to. (The neighbors, if living, must agree.)

There were options for cremation, burial at sea, or burial at the foot of a tree in a biodegradable coffin.

Headstones that went beyond the normal would be subject to neighborhood vote.

There was also an option to be buried in your own back yard, although later owners of the property have the option of exhuming you and sending you to the city’s itinerant burying grounds.

the thing is, i got not just the offer from the memorial park, but constant and repeated cyber urgings from my neighbors to sign up. they have coffee klatches.

for Weekly Prompts

my neighborhood

Image by Cyranny

saw these cool shapes in a depressed industrial part of town. sought out the artist and bought them for peanuts. installed poles in my front yard in Beverly Hills and strung the shapes up. police showed up shortly thereafter. neighbors were complaining. I refused to remove the shapes or the poles. they’re art. part of my first-amendment rights according to the constitution. the artist came and told me he was being threatened. i paid for his move to Paris. I installed noisy parrot homes in the shapes. Stand up for your rights!

for a similar (true) story: https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2019/may/06/flintstone-house-dinosaur-owner-hillsborough

for 100 Word Wednesday


Image by Mabel Amber, still incognito… from Pixabay

In 1941
Mr. and Mrs. Mallard ate a lot of peanuts in Boston Garden
while folks made way for their ducklings.
However, ducks don’t digest peanuts very well.
These days, around these parts, we don’t feed the ducks.

As for birds and peanut butter in the back yard, we watch out for those additives.

for In Other Words…