Take flight / spirit / spiral
To the gods / to the essence

Place the lessons / in yourself
Find the passions / in yourself

Ever cycling / never flitting
Take flight / spirit / spiral

And then / spirit / spiral home

/ / /

This poem was written using twelve words from Wordle 358 at The Sunday Whirl.


The Tower has Called

The Tower has Called

Heed their Call:
Tower over others

Treat yourself to a Shot, honey
Take a breath, shoot
Breathe, honey, breathe

Tell the truth, do no Harm

We’ve seen your Tell
We’re calling your Bluff

Standing on the Bluff
The Tower in the distance
The sound of a Fiddle
Alone, late at night

Take the Pass
Alone, late at night

Pass on your Fiddle
Before it’s too late

They’re calling from the Bluff

Heed their Call:
It’s okay to Bluff

They’re calling from the Pass

Heed their Call:
Pass it on

/ / /

This poem was written using the twelve words from Wordle 356 at The Sunday Whirl.

Shell out some money

Shell out some money
For a limbo contest
See how low you can go

The children are nowhere to be seen
Nor can you hear their rattles
Their laughter

Slide through the ring of spectators
Snapping images on their phones
Pit yourself against yourself

The children are safe
No blades are in their reach
No pills to be swallowed

The spectators gasp at your prowess
After the contest, slip some money to the concierge
To make sure your sheets are turned down

That same night, not in a hotel
Their children go to sleep on cots
No arms folded around them for comfort

/ / /

This poem was written in response to the twelve words of Wordle 357 at The Sunday Whirl.

lounging in nowstalgia

i never get carded anymore
too much gray at my temples
and in my beard

moving as I am towards the grave
as we all are

whatever machines we drive

or which ride us
grind us down so gradually
we don’t notice

we are no longer grooving
to the hip music
we were never groovy really

with our cassette mixtapes
and eight-tracks
so uncool

now we are
in the groove the rut
we said we’d never fill

yet so much happier
lounging on the couch
our sagging butts

on leather cushions
binge-watching Netflix
and sipping pinot noir

asking your spouse
to turn up the volume
because our hearing is going

or playing cards
hearts preferably
with friends

than going out to some
bar or club or lounge
sitting on stools or chairs

with tight plastic cushions
some symbol of youth
with our uncushioned butts

grinding hips
with your love
or your lust

the volume of the music
so loud
you must lean in close

colliding beautifully
on the dance floor
thus couching your love

to the beats
of the drum

/ / /

This poem was written in response to the baker’s dozen of words of Wordle 278 at The Sunday Whirl.

hold ’em

she dealt the cards
and soon called my bluff

i didn’t want to call it quits
so i went all in

it was a chance
worth taking

and it paid off
adding to my chips

we all took turns
being the dealer

framing that round
of the game

framing their chances
and our chances too

calling the shots
back and forth

our egos billowing
as our stacks grew

the fiery talk
cooled by craft brews

or stoked by them
i’m not sure

then more beers
and singing

off key
repairing our friendships

egos forgotten
for a time

getting all



holding our cards
holding our alcohol

holding our yoga poses
holding our chances

of success
in our hands

crafting a winning hand
from what we hold

and what’s
on the table

calling a spade
a spade

rose is a rose
is a rose

she giggled
calling in question

the rose’s

we called a halt
to the game

calling it quits
for the evening

not even bothering
with last call

wanting to call in
sick the next day

then she
called me

a cab
and I giggled

and sang
call me

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 205 at The Sunday Whirl.

shaping the clay

we think of the end

a coffee mug
that warms our tongues

clay that has been fired
in a kiln, transformed

or do we take it
for granted

a comic book we read
at night before sleep

for dreams of powers
and wild adventures

to recover that
which has been stolen

to put out the fires
that burn the world

when it is the origin story
we truly seek

our beginnings
not the end product

or is that wrong too
is it

not the past
not the future

not was
not will be

through the now
i am


This poem was written in response to Wordle 204 at The Sunday Whirl.

th ough t s

they’re rustling again
dry leaves tumbling by

don’t grab them
it’s no blasphemy

to let them go
you don’t need to keep them

or even hold them
open your hands

and let the plague
drift away

back to the monkeys
and their busy minds

smell the sweet air
feel the shifting deck

beneath your feet
rising and falling

earthen waves
in geologic time

here before you were
born whole

and here long after you
no tears

no effort
no will

no thoughts
no you

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 203 at The Sunday Whirl.

What is a diamond

What is a diamond
at night?

What of this barrier?
Will anyone see us cross it?

How beautiful
the sound of the water falling

How wonderful
the feel of the swings

suspended in air
filled with love and laughter

I’ll give her the ring
in the morning

/ / /

This poem was written in response to the night poem prompt at Poetic Asides. I also incorporated some words (diamond, barrier, waterfall, swing, and suspend) from Wordle 155 at The Sunday Whirl.

Time to Spider

it’s time to spider
to be the shuttle
in the weaving
to attend
to any splits
following lines
making sure
all is clear
and level
repairing breaks
keeping it intact

then the waiting
no rushing about

thinking of flying
releasing a long strand
and catching the wind
but too old
for that now
too settled

trying to find
the golden mean
every day

not listening
(for i have
no ears)
but feeling
the breeze
on my body

waiting for the echo
of struggle
in the lines

then i go
inject the venom
pulverize the insides
of my prey
for me to live
something must die


This poem was written in response to Wordle 140 at The Sunday Whirl.


an angel apart
to a world of waves
every mass of land
covered with boxes
homes and businesses
for the people of clay
fixed on their simple truths
and complicated lies
he watches them pair off
mooning their days away
trying in vain and vanity
to find what
they think they need
to cover the pain
of pairing and unpairing
of waiting to find another
snatching satisfaction
where it can be found
and it can be found everywhere
but never finding
peace or grace
though it surrounds them
and fills them
the angel helps
when and where he can
sometimes with a message
at other times with a memory
then returns to be
with his own kind

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 139 at The Sunday Whirl.