Posted in Poetry

Merry, happy and bright wishes to all

Our Violet Marguerite and Doris, best of friends,

decided to plan a retreat – why not? – they’re on-the-mends.

After such a ghastly year as they have both survived,

they are joyful to see each is happily alived.

Waiting so so long to see each other smile-to-smile

left them thinking that they couldn’t wait another while.

The friends will get together with their full suitcases –

writing pens, computers, food, drink, and big embraces.

So, for everyone around whose visits need to wait,

wishes for us all to meet on this or that spring date.

With love to the blogging world


Posted in Fiction, Poetry, Writing

Comeuppance #2


180426_011 (4)

Untraditional Medicinals

Violet Marguerite


Have you in stillness brought

to mind a scheming thought

or when your hand is at work on a task

and you have a quiet moment at last?


A plan out of the blue

came while I hooked loops through

my latest artful inspired creation

a hand-made colorful meditation.


Fit, slip, slot, pull, and tug

my yarn becomes a rug

so that a random thought came late at night

and without effort left me an insight.


To my own self it was

as if I had just cause

to dream or think or scheme of comeuppance

to deal with hooligan Ben wrote-up once.


I didn’t choose outright

nor with myself infight.

I didn’t spend hours working out plans

deciding which crook did rightly demand


to be first in the line

getting payback sublime.

Fit, slip, slot, pull and tug. Who else could weave

sweet retribution so my friends won’t grieve?


Fresh ragweed tangled up

add a sweet buttercup.

Putting fumes toxic in flowered surprise

would nicely the poisoned allergen hide.


Fit, slip, slot, pull and tug

leaves only to which thug

my first fine rugged, inspired herb braid

should artfully, fragrantly be repaid.





Could it be? Did I see

my neighbor quietly

clipping and saving fall’s last allergen?

Why should I right away suspect poison?


Violet Marguerite –

calm, serene and so sweet.

But I’ve seen my neighbor cause some alarm

reacting to near-by brutes with due harm.


Now she sits hooking rug,

wearing a smile so smug.

Perhaps she’s recently stolen a peek

onto my private well-studied critique.


I may have deserv’d guilt

placing research I’ve built

regarding local dishonored scumbags

left out on my porch like old-time news rags.


How long can this go on?

When will they mow the lawn?

I see my neighbor add flower petals

to a growing rug while my mind meddles.


Or maybe I should thank

my neighbor for her prank.

Violet Marguerite with poison plant

lets artfully, scented comeuppance decant.


I – conflicted – stand by

while she lets payback fly.

So maybe I should my guiltiness curb

as, weaving, she plans attack with an herb.



Violet Marguerite


Some things you can’t abide.

Please believe me – I’ve tried.

I can’t sit stewing in these past bad acts.

It’s up to me to deliver impacts.


Con, liar, cheat, and fraud,

all so equally-flawed.

With so many choices my mind now flirts.

Which hoodlum gets rug made from just deserts?


Someone whose very breath

depends on cleaniness.

Mayhap I can add to fall’s filthy air

leaving a culprit more than their fair share


of pollen’s evil fume

left in my rug’s yarn plume.

A fiendish full-breath might lay out the scum;

perhaps I should add dash of capsicum.


Now is time to decide

who gets my payback pride.

I vote for Margo, who has issued bribes.

She’ll get attention for bad business vibes.


She has a history

of autumn’s breath worry.

Lucky for me it is ragweed’s season,

giving a truly excellent reason


to clip and save for fun

before gard’ner does come.

I’ll save enough weed to bring Margo down

 and give pulmonary hospital gown.  


Weaving fresh herbs with some

nice buttercup blossom

will nicely fit in a bedside gift rug

to be breathed nightly by this local thug.


Pleasantly I will wait

extended payback date,

for it may take a few over-night’s sleep

to bring due reward to this bully creep.





Margo I recall well.

Her flaws a friend did fell.

The online chat this morning informed:

 she is breathing-apparatus-adorned.


While medics helping her

tried to ease heart murmur,

she was prescribed a stay in hospital.

Her business transactions will likely stall.


You know what people say:

karma will soon repay.

When business sly people do let things slide,

payback will greet them on the other side.



Violet Marguerite


My only regrets lay

in giving rug away.

My good woven efforts now are in vain

but for delivering breath-taking pain.


People may still wonder

why I would weave plunder

with such seasonal sensitive bloom.

Even a dirt clod could fairly assume


no rag weed virtuous

can be found near us.

Except in my garden with plant-rich blend

where poison herbs I do carefully tend.


Gardeners will soon come

at this season’s end run

to tidy and clip and the lawn mow,

disguising my errands with rake and hoe.


Margo may question why

a gift from me came by.

Then she will look and see my frailty

deciding to believe my no guilt-plea.


Have I now completed

my last payback meted?

I’ll just patiently let all other crooks

sit and brew in their self-unrighteous looks.


Maybe they will receive

comeuppance reprieve.

Or perhaps they are just marking bad time

until my herbs grow a new payback vine.

Posted in Fiction, Poetry, Writing

Doris Gladiola Presents #8

Good Advice on the Road to Life




Each and every day, it seemed, our Doris and friend Mabel

kept each other in good humor, even at the table.

They did dig in, chow down, tuck in, with heartfelt gusty zeal,

chocolate brownies topped with nuts garnishing their meal.


Their love of crunchy chocolate items helped to make their days.

Relief from feeling glum would follow each choc’late au’lait.

For many of life’s ups and downs, the smallest little treat

would help these friends give a smile when life’s ills could them defeat.


Their choc’late treats, while small in size, were vast in yummy pleasure.

For when the two would partake, t’was friendship that they’d measure.

So chew they could and chew they would – no one could deny them.

Crunchy chocolate, freely chosen ‘ere would satisfy them.


But as years passed, they each would have visits to the dentist,

at times returning home with less teeth than what they went with.

These were such small frustrations, they would remind each other.

Tiny little odd concerns, so hardly any bother.


Compared to all the other things that might in life go wrong,

a cap or three, a tooth or two seemed to them a like song.

They thought to bring some comfort in a way a bit uncouth,

by saying that there’s little wrong, in fact, it’s just a tooth.


Compared to chronic illness, or to being comatose,

simply loosing most your teeth was only one more small dose

of life’s mini-misadventures that everyone lives through.

Being still alive, we so gladly pay that little due.


To prove their hearty outlook, the friends like to laugh out loud.

Their dinner time companions agree humor is allowed.

So one night Mabel and Ms. D with care walked down the hall

arriving at the correct time with fun good cheer for all.


They had a very pleasant meal, grilled salmon and some rice.

Fine food requiring little chewing, everything was nice.

Then a superb dessert was set before them at their place,

a challenge to their chewing teeth, a moment to embrace


the aroma and the sight of the loveliest reward:

before them lay in glory one more choc’late brownie scored.

They’d decided many times to throw caution to the wind.

Now in life, in dinner, in friendship, they would just dig-in.


It’s hard to know the cost paid by their bite and then their pride.

It truly doesn’t matter; they would simply re-decide

to remember the advice of friendship long and able.

So Doris could say to her friend, ‘It’s just a tooth, Mabel.’

Posted in Fiction, Poetry, Writing

Doris Gladiola Presents #7

Good Advice on the Road to Life



A very long time ago, Doris’ friend named Mabel

had a somewhat tragic life; you couldn’t call it stable.

But Mabel had survived it all. She came through heartbreak hell.

And though she had emotion’s scars, she lived to tell the tale.


Now, Doris Gladiola’s life had been so much more calm,

Mabel said her ups and downs could fit right into her palm.

Doris glanced down at her hand, saw its wrinkled creases, then

looked at her friend Mabel and said ‘it never pleases when


one friend makes another’s woes seem quite less than they have felt.

For, after all, it’s not like we can change what we’ve been dealt.’

The friends agreed that just one thing could solve this reverie:

To share a plate of crunchy chocolate chip nut-topped brownie.


So their friendship went along with entertaining chatter.

Belly laughs and silent smiles, sly wit enough to flatter

each other’s verbal back-and-forth, their sense of fun fair-play.

The banter took them through their lives, friends they would ever-stay.


Little ups and downs in life they shared with knowing smiles,

all along the aging path they walked the living miles,

‘til survival brought them to that decade we won’t mention,

a great long time past the age when one receives a pension.


Then simple things, like walking down a straight and narrow hall,

made them so very grateful ev’ry time they didn’t fall.

For each amazing tiny favor that fate gave to them,

they gave great thanks, for they knew it could be much worse, and then


they listed ev’ry circumstance that might could give them pause,

knowing that at any moment life can reveal its flaws.

They could have cancer, could develop shingles on the skin,

catch a dengue fever, pneumonia season could kick in.


There are so many unwanted lifetime calamities

that make each one of us feel just as if we’re in a squeeze.

Our Doris and her sage friend Mabel chose an altered course.

Instead of seeing only bad, they face the better force.


For Nature’s force is good and bad – we all see the result.

But these friends know that life does not give personal insult.

Instead, they practice tolerance and a dose of laughter,

with hope the goodness stays nearby ever and hereafter.

Posted in Fiction, Poetry, Writing

Doris Gladiola Presents #6

Good Advice on the Road to Life

doris 6



Seems it was not long ago, not that she gives a whit,

Doris Gladiola could be noticed just a bit.

So it does continue even to this very day

that our self-styled Doris lets her colors out to play.


Maybe fashion took a U-turn somewhere in her teens.

Then, she got a taste of wearing paisley on her jeans.

Maybe Doris found it hard to express in talking

her own thoughts, so she wore them on her clothes while walking.


Her style does suit just herself– happily outrageous,

repertoire never seen in fashion-conscious pages.

Magenta with tones of orange is something she might choose;

bright lime green with apple red does quite light her fuse.


Rainbow psychedelic chakra, purple and chartreuse.

In her home and in her yard, wild colors are in use.

But when Doris walks to town folks see the clothes she wears.

They may talk about her look, but nearly no one dares


to try out her lively-wear, that bewitching style.

They seek calmness in their clothes, Doris G., meanwhile,

wears iridescent lily pads right on her nightgown,

swearing that the wildest print helps her to lay-me-down.


She picks her colors with such care, never shades of gray.

Warm, enticing, vibrant sights, so happy she will stay.

People near and some from far need to wear sunglasses,

eye-defying, blazing bright, blinding as she passes.


They may call out praises, shout out words of odd delight.

Some nearby may even say their eyeballs took a fright.

None have ever ere before encountered such hoopla.

And so goes the tale of Doris Gladi-ooo-la-la.

Posted in Fiction, Poetry, Writing

Doris Gladiola Presents #5

Good Advice on the Road to Life

doris 5


Once upon an early time, too far back to matter,

Doris Gladiola was taught by a great tatter.

This tatter was her great aunt or cousin twice removed.

Mayhap she wasn’t even kin, but tatting skill she proved


showing thousands of lace cloths one after the other

and telling younger Doris that the same skills had her mother.

Now, Doris Gladiola did love her mother dear

but intricate tatting skills were not hers, she did fear.


Her mother had such small hands; her eyesight never dimmed.

And Doris G’s apparent skills left fingernails dirt-rimmed.

She’d rather be out wandering, looking for wildflowers,

finding weeds and tallest vines and colors in the bowers.


The tatter/great-aunt/cousin, with also tiny hands,

tactfully told Mother Doris never would command

the necessary tatting skills – better let her stroll,

gather all her flowers, sitting still would take its toll.


Gratefully, this one time, her family abided

with the clear-eyed wise advice helpfully confided.

Lucky Doris Gladiola roamed the countryside

and then in her younger days developed awesome pride


in naming all the flowers, all the grasses, all the trees.

Ev’ry single lively one had color, if you please.

So, now in her aging years, Doris has perfected

artful outdoor colored life, cheerfully-elected.


Say whatever you may want – Doris bends the rules.

She lives exactly her own life, thinks she’s super-cool.

As long as she remembers this, her happiness gets fatter,

even if her fate is not small-hand keen-eyed tatter.

Posted in Fiction, Poetry, Writing

Doris Gladiola Presents #4

Good Advice on the Road to Life

doris 3


Not so very long ago, in an uncertain time

Doris Gladiola could not quite ring her chime.

She had to be so, so polite, watch everything she did.

But really what that meant to her was that she always hid


the real true thoughts that came to mind whenever did she wonder

about her own reaction to the world and all its blunder.

Brave Doris Gladiola decided she might try

to just speak out her own thoughts, to risk the evil eye


of people sitting close to her who might overhear

her reactions, spoken thoughts, ideas on things to cheer.

Would they tell her to keep quiet? Would they feel disgrace?

Maybe they would disinvite her presence from their space.


She promised to herself to say rightly what she thought

not paying any mind to the answers her words brought.

As she struggled to keep calm and then to find her voice,

Doris could not see a single reason to rejoice.


Speak she did and then some more ‘til she was out of breath.

Then she paused and felt a quiet that scared her to death.

She started saying sorry for all the things she said

She longed for her vapors; she should put herself to bed.


Then Doris Gladiola did realize something odd.

The only answer people gave was to hum and nod.

Perhaps they did approve her, perhaps they were asleep.

But it made her grateful she’d had promises to keep.


She’d think her thoughts, and then say just what was on her mind,

hoping her companions would do the same in kind.

If she ever spoke offense, a favor she would plead

of turning down their hearing aids when ere they disagreed.


Now all around the table, good conversation flows

Hands go up and down from ear to ear and no one knows

which companion spoke up with the most offensive word

because between the up and down, it was never heard.

Posted in Fiction, Poetry, Writing

Doris Gladiola Presents ~ #3

Good Advice on the Road to Life




Not so very long ago, it seems like yesterday,

good Doris Gladiola had feelings of dismay.

With thighs too big, hips so wide, she’d not go out and play.

She’d sprouted out too early; her shape had come to stay.


Jiggling and jaggling were not admired traits.

It seemed young teenaged boys esteemed narrow figures, straight.

Young Doris Gladiola would often wonder how

she could trim her figure, which grew more than she’d allow.


Doris tried to change herself. She tried to change her ways.

And worrying what others thought put her in daze.

Certainly, she had to find a place she could fit-in

Doris took that literal, deciding to get thin


But a thing or two has changed that old idea of late.

She’s survived four decades, maybe more but less than eight.

Doris, bit by bit, crumb by crumb, butter tab by tad,

 started eating more of many things that made her glad.


For Doris Gladiola, life contained some changes

gaining back some of her curves, she had rearranges

of the very way she walked, and of the way she laughed

she was quite delighted to learn some friends thought her daft


Life may change gradually, or sometimes all at once,

 but Doris had grown tired of squandering her months.

Maybe time had changed her mind, or just eating butter,

or maybe something else let her heart go a’flutter.


Wise Doris Gladiola now does perceive a trail

of traffic down the hallway as she retrieves her mail.

Ben from condo right next door’s been struggling along,

hanging from his walker as he watches her move on.


Ben’s a charmer, full of humor: everyone’s delight.

It is to her advantage to keep him well in sight.

It may seem quite outrageous to younger people, still

walking down this hallway does give Doris such a thrill.


To Doris Gladiola a great idea did dawn:

If she walks a slower pace then he’ll watch on and on.

Sway and stop, pause, sway and stop, she stays ahead of him.

Lucky Ben now takes his time admiring brim to brim.

Posted in Fiction, Poetry, Writing

Doris Gladiola Presents ~ #2

Doris’ Good Advice Poems




Not so very long ago and well into her prime

Gray Doris Gladiola changed color time to time.

Red, black, blonde, and even brown she changed from color true,

revitalizing hair ‘til she did not know her hue.


Cut it short, let it grow, give oiled fabulations.

Go to blonde and back again, rules and regulations.

With age-wise customizings neighbors clearly noted

her thought-out righteous actions, for youthfully she doted.


Not ever satisfied, forever color fiddl’in

‘til sprouted gray formed a line right there down the middl’in.

Hiding ev’ry bit of gray had been her obsession

‘til one day in a mirror she saw her own impression.


Shining, sparkling, silvering the middle split did glow,

‘cause Doris Gladiola had let it over-grow.

She chose then and there to stop all her colored tresses

let the gray out all the way; shine without dye messes.


Cut hair short, grow it long, it simply doesn’t matter.

Radiantly, happily, listen to their chatter.

Decades in, decades out, she’d gone along with style;

pleasure now abounds for her in unadorning guile.

Posted in Fiction, Poetry, Writing

Doris Gladiola Presents: #1

Good Advice on the Road to Life



Not so very long ago, a crumbled piece of toast

was after-meal reminder she’d eaten more than most.

The other girls had pushed away, leaving a full plate;

not Doris Gladiola ‘cause, gleefully, she ate


fullsome man-sized platefuls of hearty hot roast chicken

dipped in a sauce or two, ‘til she was finger lickin’.

With great gusto she would add biscuits, honey butter,

sweet corn and all the rest, ‘til she could barely utter


grateful thanks to all the cooks for everything she ate:

sautéed mushrooms, berry pie, wheat toast– it sealed her fate.

Avocado dip with chips, and then avo-mashin’

drew attention to herself in mind-numbing fashion.


Her family and her friends had stopped encouragement

when, at nearly teen-aged years the girl seemed quite hell-bent

to eat her way through ever-y recipe-type book,

relishing the tastes of all the items one could cook.


After hours, days and years of leaving not a crumb

she could not find a dinner seat to contain her bum.

Belly stout and arms so short, she just no more could reach

mealtime items placed on table, every and each.


Sitting there, she seemed to wear her own plump seat cushion

so began a diet kept until she was pushin’

more than forty, more than fifty, many more years old –

she’d not desired to recall when her food turned cold.


No lasagna, buttered beans, nor rich, warm sourdough,

nothing then upon her plate seemed worth the bother, though,

it seemed giving up excess was something she could boast

showing her good character: she gave-up more than most.


Living long without the taste of the food she wanted

failed to make her forget: in dreams, good tastes she flaunted.

Living long without the flavors that the best food brought

recalled to mind old mealtimes she could forget-me-not.


How long can we humanely keep things we want at bay?

For Doris Gladiola, mind you, these tastes did stay.

Decades passed, aromas last, and she answered the call –

warm delightful dreamy dishes, condiments and all.


But Doris Gladiola had learned a thing or ten.

She just placed upon her plate a smaller portion, then

watched with care as extra fun filled out her thin parched form.

She lost the many wrinkles that had become her norm.


Neighbors saw how she had grown so wondrously sublime,

luminescent evidence of healthier mealtime.

Bits of bite-sized fun-filled fatness made her feel at ease.

With glowing skin and eyes, she asks: ‘pass the butter, please.’