“‘Tis one week ’til Christmas,” resounds through the house.
“And nothing’s been hung on the tree,” groans my spouse.
Up go his arms in a frenzy, a near panic.
“‘Twas weeks ago I dragged the box down from the attic!
“No Santas, no manger, no cookies, no lights?
What’cha been doin’ all those days and most nights?
“No halls have been decked, no doors wreathed, or bespangled,
There’s mistletoe in heaps, and the garland’s all tangled. Continue reading
I woke up this morning,
with my back to a tree
wond’ring how on earth my chin hairs
had grown past my dimpled knees.
The last thing I remember,
someone cried out, “trick-or-treat!”
Now it’s suddenly December?
Are those gnomes nudging my feet?
Was I sucked into a whirlwind?
Abducted by imps? Continue reading
Oh, y’ve done me well,
me bonnie blue plaid wellies,
always keepin’ me from sinkin’ deep
in bogs squishy, black, an’ smelly.
I’ve enjoyed our strolls across lush fairy glens,
twistin’ up trails o’ sweet smellin’ heather, Continue reading
Alice Wetherby-Pimms had a peculiar penchant for pickles. Be they sweet, sour, or dill, the child was mad about brined cucumbers. Chips, chunks, cubes, finely chopped relishes, halves, slices, spears, sticks and whole, no matter their shape, Alice craved them all.
So given the mysterious disappearance of the Pimms’s famed horticulturist Horace Hornby, one would expect her new governess to have jumped at the chance to avoid a similar end with regard to the child’s transports of delight, instead of ignoring what Alice deemed the grand theft of a not so grand cuke. Indeed, the ruckus which ensued over a petit cornichon – an ordinary gherkin, at that – was hardly worth giving it the time of day. Or so it seemed. Continue reading
Once upon a dreary Sunday many Mays ago, it was unclear whether Alice Wetherby-Pimms had quaffed the dregs of a liter of PLYMOUTH and nodded off under the Steinway or if the ten-year-old had passed out cold in the wake of sampling the near empty snifters, flutes, and tumblers strewn about the lounge after the guests had been summoned to the dinner table for her Grandpapa’s 100th birthday celebration.
As to what might have provoked the child to imbibe in the first place, well, many proposed it was the tyke’s passion for tall sailing ships that took her curiosity prisoner, hence Continue reading
webs of spun silk billow
in morning’s mild breeze
sparkling orbs
handiwork of moonlight’s toil
twinkle
plucked from
the cosmos of recollection
a cache of memories
cling
to spider’s haphazard roadmap
many muddled
fuzzy
out of reach
others beckon for
a closer look
Step up
peruse
the glimmering galaxy Continue reading
They say the day Aunt Frankie married Uncle Sally was a day that would live in infamy. I’d learned Franklin D. Roosevelt said that when Pearl Harbor was bombed, but no, most of the family, actually, only the uncles, would whistle, smack their wine stained lips, and speculate over the reasons as to why a raven-haired bombshell like Francine Odessa would be interested in a stunad* like Uncle Sally. As for the women in the house? They’d wink at one another.
Uncle Sally might not have been the brightest bulb in the Murano Glass chandelier my Nana had sent specially from Italy as a wedding gift for her caro Salvatore and his gabbagool bride (Nana’s words, not mine), but to Aunt Frankie, Continue reading
Because our minds are not confined to the constraints of our craniums, a ride down the rabbit hole can be endless with its twists and turns, zigs and zags, steep climbs, and plummeting tumbles into a time-sucking abyss. You’re familiar with it, I’m sure.
All you want to do is Continue reading
With a stinky stogie clamped between my teeth, I threw a crumpled trench coat over my shoulder, slapped my grandfather’s worn fedora on my head, stood on tip-toes and peeked through the window of the classroom door. Waiting for my cue, my heart raced, overtaking the steady beat of the hallway clock as it ticked the minutes to my entrance. Before I was able to swipe a sweaty palm across my rumpled shirt, it came…
“Oscar. Oscar. Oscar,” my friend Barbara lamented, nodding in my direction.
With one deep breath, I grabbed the door handle, pushed it down, and burst into the room. No longer the quiet, shy, mild-mannered Donna Lambo, Continue reading
An abundance of wisteria
if found flourishing
in Bulgaria
might migrate to Bavaria
causing Continue reading
The art of looking closer.
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