WHAT SPARKS! Best to You

I love the Sprinkles and Sparklers I find in my corner of the world.  These are the folks  who get on with life and share their glamour often from the mundane or hum-drum every-day-ness of “whatever” comes / their /way—maybe the Mail Delivery.

Now for a little bit larger Example:how about half-your-face-size Sugar Cookies and Lemonades taken on the Verandah whilst the Peace Roses blossom and showy Peonies serve their Sherbet-y colors with the Hostas.

With nary a word I can share the Sports Section of a Newspaper (remember those?) or do a one-on-one  Competitive Reading of Short Stories from O. Henry or Neil Gaiman vs the Poems of a New Yorker magazine from May 1999, 2001, 2010.

I read an opening sentence on a blog post today, “When you grow older you find that there are few things that really excite you any longer.”  

Pshaw! Said the Sparkler. 

Nonsense, exclaimed the Sprinkler.

I tell you, finding a ‘lost’ tube of Hooker’s Green thrilled my socks off and I’m exuberant to get to get older.

Best to You, and your Sprinkles and Sparklers

30 May, 2021

Haiku, 02-12-20

the cold cabin

winter drizzle —

small bitter grape


I keep notebooks for many of my interests. I like visiting notebooks and in this case I read some two year old poems. This one is new but I was in a similar spot back then. The wild grape is still producing but by this time of year the fruit is about the size of a peppercorn, 5 mm (0.20 in), or so. It is severely bitter, iron rations for critters.

In the Copse, Haibun

In the Copse, Haibun

Respite from blistering heat, that is how autumn is refreshing. Damp with cool pattering rain on leathery leaves gives way to frosty mornings, silver fields and fence wire frost. Snow accentuates shadows, makes the varied tones in the woods more vivid, even as spring’s pastels soften deep glades,  in the later year — softness of gray.

smooth silent hooves

white-tail epiphany —

the trailing rain


North 38th Parallel, Haibun

North 38th Parallel, Haibun

I make my circuit — a walk under wind-stripped oaks and maples. Then, over the little path, it twists through thickets of bare trees and hummocks once profuse with bloom. See, the dry creek is covered with a tarp. Leaves are ankle deep already.

After dinner I watch a waning sun light shadows that disappear into dark corners. I leave the porch for cheery fireside chair, my radio tuned to the “weekend”;   music,  hot tea,  and day old zucchini bread.


the evening fox —

of the hedgerow world

I Write Poetry, Somewhat

Poems. I don’t like them all.  I don’t follow trends. Some lauded poets are not on my reading list.

I have written for years, for instance, the haiku, and I think:  mine are as well made as published ones, why do I get so many rejections?

Simple answer is I keep sending in poems. I follow editorial guidelines and deadlines and the poetic form (somewhat).  Then, I receive a mixed bag of  no response, other times I read ‘rejected’, and then rarely I taste success.

I can say I want to write so others will experience my poems (somewhat). Poetry may not be as lucrative as winning the lottery and fame would be intrusive too, those don’t matter. 

The most credit I ever received from instructors’ poetry assignments were ‘check-marks’—completed the assignment, followed the guidelines, and met the deadlines. There was no ‘grade’ given.

What is the point of writing haiku? Not filling notebooks or burning up a mic somewhere with short-poetry. Fame is fleeting. I ran out of notebook space years ago.

So I’m at riches and treasures? Maybe, if they’re my next three lines.


Season Story, Haibun

In the tree line a fox trail begins, or it ends, next to a wide expanse of garden. Maple and oak blazed leaves, a pair of bare mimosa twist twigs and a bearing fig buds at-the-ready stands naked where someone held family games.

A family of fox grew through the seasons. One decided to remain, to beat the boundaries, it seems, the same vixen of the piebald coat had bogarted an unguarded sandwich on the Mid-summer.

She pads along the unmasked trail, amongst secluded wood, and hedgerow, she knows the cover-cropped fields — hunting up the enclave acres or perhaps snack-taking the adjoining property

long shadow —

  paw prints in free clay,

    dove on upper roost.

c. Lemuel 02-11-20

How to Write

I know people and more than anything they want to be a writer.  They’ve logged lots of hours in workshops that offer them so many routes to write their prose or poetry so they may create correctly.  Some have files chocked with certificates of attendance. Few of those folk write unless what they make is correct.  I can’t do that. I use several grammar guides  for reminders when I goof. 

A published author can’t tell anyone how to make money and enjoy the life of the “writer”.  Who could deliver on that sales tag?

They can say with some certainty  how they write and offers this:  they are not liable for anyone’s failures. Most coaching authors go to “this is what I do”  strategy when addressing the subject of how-to’s of writing. “Your efforts are your own, no warranty implied.”

Writing is like fishing. I have to show up and cast the first line.

Frankenskein Family Portraits, a Series

This series is bound together with the ‘practice’ of Art which is up my gallows, I mean easels. Part of keeping Art projects going well is, it seems, I have been [advised] directed to get to doing serial drawings on a theme to the point of “being committed” to the series. Must be done.

Each drawing is 9 x 12 in or 23 x 30.5 cm on paper from a sketch pad I had in a drawer. Nothing unusual on my choice of graphite; a Ticondaroga (yellow pencil HB) and a company “promo” pencil, most likely a B, both lurking in their drawers.

I made a Frankenskein family series of drawings for Halloween reminiscences. Old pictures are great at re-unions. The light touch and the family name might lead to some story writing in future.

So I should be committed. Enough. It was a fun project.

Gar (Edgar) Frankenskein
Luth (Luther) Frankenskein
Thia (Cynthia) Frankenskein
Dio (Diodorus) Frankenstein

A Note 27-10-20

27-10-20 Tuesday


I write daily notes on blank pages that will eventually fill the spiral book. Then, I’ll get another book and write or sketch several pens dry.

Being notes these are in sentence and paragraph format that make complete thoughts on paper. This is my usual habit. 

Sometimes I add a parenthetic or bracket statement so my today’s obvious point or allusion will make sense to me if one day I would be required to explain or interpret just exactly some random sentence ‘means’, precisely.

I could,”Hmm,” “Ahh,” or squinch up my nose and reposition my glasses, but the meaning is in the words on the page (or in parentheses) or the meaning is not there in the words, but I haven’t run into writing pages void of meaning or not-sensible, quite yet anyway. Non-sense in the good sense I will do—sometimes extemporaneously.

What I do find is more than a few people do not know words. The walk to their dictionary must be fearsome far away. I have read junk writing though–but I keep refining every effort I get to re-write better.

Good day!