Wordle Prompts

(spoiler alert: answer to 225 at bottom of post)


Caught between needing to stifle his sobs, and consumed by terror of being found he shuddered, tears sliding silently down his face. The door creaked open. He heard the rattle of a heavy chain. Should he stay?! Should he try to run?! What if h- WHACK! The End.

Wordle Philosophic

Desperate with an incessant and senseless fear of death
each of these mortals toils and quests
to find the storied fount of youth
and loses count of the days spent pushing fantasy
up that hill they cannot mount.

In Celebration of Midwives

They awoke in early morning; she to the pains of early labour and he to the realization that the wet flurries of the night’s storm had froze over and the driveway was a skating rink.

“I ought to have shoveled last night!” he cursed aloud. “I ought to have put down salt!”

“What if the midwife and the doula can’t make it? What if we’re alone?” his wife panted between contractions which were growing in frequency and strength.

However, the midwife and the doula had seen the forecast. They had prepared ahead. They came in plenty of time, because they were needed, and because they could.

Seeking Truth in Shadow of Error

How am I to make sense of the world? How shall I guess the path to the one true answer? I step forward in faith and find only darkness. Dabbling in the arts is likewise unilluminating. I only know that which is wrong! In those shadows I must seek the way to truth. I stab blindly at the dark hoping I will be lucky. A glimpse of the right way is revealed, shaping my pondering. Praying and playing came to naught; it is only through reason that the truth from error is finally wrung.

the River

Every Singer’s River

Every singer has a song called The River
I should write a River Song of my own
I should write a post about all my favourite blogs
And compile a report of all your relevant research
I’ll collate a video collection of your artistic creations

I should build my “to be read” list of all your best thoughts
And dream, and dream, and dream
I should be dreaming all your dreams.

Mariposa Journal Scrawls

You say you don’t dance

You say you gotta learn

Ah baby come take my hands

Won’t you give me a turn

Spin me out, skirt a’swirling

Then bring me in real close

I like everyone when I’m dancing

But I’d like you the most.

I wrote so many pages in my regular journal while I was at Mariposa. I hardly used my phone and I talked to more people than I can recall. We talked and shared stories and almost never connected on social media. We just moved along with our weekends. I like it.

I also saw friends and acquaintances and hugged some favourite people. I kind of miss Mariposa.

I only just got home Monday evening and since then I went to Merry Wives of Windsor in Stratford one night and I’m working a concert at my home theatre tonight. Tomorrow is movie night with friends and then it’s Kultun festival and then swing dancing in Hamilton on Sunday. How even if this my life.

Not complaining.

at the market

At the market the bike lane advocates have
       set up a booth to encourage urban cycling and
       they're giving away silver bells (I got one).
The marketplace din is punctuated 
       by the bright ding ding of bike bells.
Strawberries are in season!
       And the egg lady is smiling and 
       the fair trade coffee in my travel mug
       is finally the perfect temperature.
Sipping the coffee I absorb the colours and sounds
       in small doses. Or try to.
       I never got the hang of microdosing.
Fuck it! Suck it all in, breathe every scent, sweet and foul
       trip on the greens of kale, berries red, golden honey!
Every human here is shining and beautiful
       and I love them all it almost hurts but
       I keep loving them even that one stealing 
       a ripe strawberry and yes even that one
       scowling at the child with the bike bell.

Things scrawled on the edges

That one month (it was September)

our hearts looked squarely at each other

Mine cried out Yes! and clapped its hands

And yours tried to think of a kind way

to excuse itself.


This little rabbit

Has a terrible habit

Of picking his nose and flinging it.

This little heron

Was never preparing

Preferring instead on winging it.


Yesterday I compared you to the Sea and you protested

but the Sea is moody with turbulent depths fed by drowned sorrows.

I sit staring at the Sea, trying and trying to love it enough.


Today I sat by the Sea and wrote a poem about your smile –

how it leaps unexpectedly to your face, radiating an innocent joy

and how, when it appears through something I’ve said or done,

I’m humbled, and feel weak.


I never want to settle. I want to live a tidal life, giving in to the push and pull, slowly waxing and waning, always transitioning from one state of beauty to the next.