Wish Breaker

what of the hauntings in your heart?
does terror leap and grab
you in the throat
or are there seeds planted as wishes
held sacred in this most secret
of gardens
where artemisian light flows wild
and free with an inner strength
both curse and blessing
in these
watery dreams –

what makes or breaks your legs
in these moments
lucidly held in your hands –
do you tremble whisperingly light –
a slice of a shiver
some untranslatable on the tongue
silver grey scale
like the runaway fish that surface break
and bubble kiss in their undisclosed
pathos –
an innocence locked in the mistral’s wings
a symphony strung in silver violins –
volumptuous chords drinking from the goblets
of the psyche long held ancient
whining in the bended elbow of the old oak –
or is it an apple tree –
the rubble the remains of your town
which upped and left
of its own discord
as you flew away
in a slurry of swirling skirts brushing
against your exposed ankles –
this is the war inside us –
we are children of a wondering moon –
nothing more than fallen fruit

©2017 Scribbler’s Dipstick

mlmm prompt: writing prompt sunday: “it’s all in the title”

Wish Breaker
Undisclosed Pathos
The Silver Violin
Children of the Wondering Moon
The Haunting of Cora Applebaum
Whispers in the Willow Trees
Psychic Chasms
When Fish Runaway
The War Inside of Us
The Town that Went Missing

all great titles of choice – so I opted to weave ideas and essences from each into “one” thing ♠

201 files

I am most familiar
in high contrast –
the blindingly brilliant days
when the garbage strewn back alleys
and black metal stairs
case themselves
in an opaque darkness
the details are hardpressed –
etched in asphalt and grey scales

It is here I wait
frame and click –
letting vignettes breathe themselves
into a life –
culled from the trance
you of the ordinary
perform mundane rituals –
recycling binned
re-shift the broken wooden pallet
upon which sit two balding truck tires
a sprocket wrench and a rusting bolt
its nut long lost somewhere
as a cracked wing mirror reflects back –
things are no longer closer than they appear
while a thicket of tomatoes
in 4 gallon pails
full green in leaf and spider-legged yellow blossoms
jungle your path
the red fruit staked and tied up
with flesh coloured panty hose
cut at the crotch
and a juicy beefstake boy is almost full
to bursting
waiting for your loving hand –
the pluck
from stem to plate
in infinite grace
of your tread on the spiral staircase
your escape and launch
from 3rd story back door
to courtyard
where you tend to an oblique slice
of asphalt and concrete life
renting out your dreams
in the day-to-day

©2017 Scribbler’s Dipstick

mlmm prompt: saturday’s mix

Rainy Day Greys

it’s a thick sweater snuggle in
with a hot cuppa tea
if it pleases –
sweetened with a slip
of honey
to dissipate the bitter taste
of another
endlessly steeping
grey sea sky day
delivering on its promise
rain rain rain
soaking into the new
evergreen cloak
grounding the brown sand
to chocolate café au lait
serving up my joint pain
as crunchy biscotti
on the side


I would love to …
Three Movies Sweater: Hand-Knits : pattern by Handarbetaren on Ravelry


nothing to be done for it
snuggle deeply into it
the rain falls as it will
and I wonder what happen to all the swarms
– the black flies
where do they hide?
when it’s an endlessly weeping stream
for surely they can’t fly
where do they hide?
and why don’t they drown
and die –
this would be some consolation
and relief

©2017 Scribbler’s Dipstick

Out-takes and Doppelgängers

I was sitting and thinking on – when there was a ruckus outside my door, a pounding upon the timbers confirmed, and with a splintering crack and rush, they came tumbling in, landing in a heap, at my feet.

I blinked, once, then again, and not to my great surprise, watched as they settled themselves upright. Assembled before me, standing in the twilight, the largest of the lot, cleared his throat, and in a low rumbling, grumbling voice, spoke:

“You’re the stitchwitchy wordy,” and a small, tinny voiced piped in, “nerdy” – “yeah thanks Franklin, that’s all we need right now,” the large one glared at the long whiskered mouse, and turned back to me, “woman, right? We got the right place? And you’re about to re-write another Fairy Tale for a Weaver’s prompt?”

I relaxed, sat back and stretched into my long-necked chair, and carefully considered the group at my feet – 3 mice, one whom I believed was blind, he had dark glasses and a white cane, and 4 fruit, of the rounded, orange and rather large sized kind – pumpkins, which was a bit odd, considering it was Spring and not Fall. “Yup, I’m her, so what’s up fellas? What brings you here?”

They shuffled a bit closer and the largest pumpkin spoke again, “We’re here to tell ya, we’re staging a Wild Cat Strike,” at which 2 of the 3 mice, shivered and squeaked.

“Guys, get a grip, there’s no cat here, so it’a all good.” I looked to the Big Pumpkin, he hadn’t offered his name, and nodded my head, “Wild Cat Strike? Go on – ”

“Yeah, the thing of it is, we’re fed up with all this ditzing about because of Crimparella’s mad whims and flights of fancy, and you know, it’s never cool to be pulled out of the patch by that damn old Hag, and hey, you know, we have rights and feelings, and it’s noted in our trade union’s collective agreement, Section 5.7239, Article 44 dash 88, subsection 6 -”

I raised my hand and waved my pen, wand-like with a flourish, and said, “Look guys, I don’t need the particulars, but what’s this got to do with me. Seems to me you need to take this up with your union rep – and hey, what’s with the name ‘Crimparella’?”

“Hey! Look Lady, we came here in good faith – you’re about to re-write – we need to cut this off at the head – before it gets out of hand – again,” the smallest of the pumpkins pucked up, in a pie-sliced tone –

“Jack, chill man, no need to be so dicey with the fine layyy-dee,” the blind mouse purred in a smooth jazzy voice, which, I admit, did surprise me.

“Yeah, well, as I was saying,” continued the Big Pumpkin, “this whole shtick is running us thin, in the patch, and the mice, they ain’t too happy either. As for Crimpie? See, that’s where you folks on the outside have no clue, none at all, as to the real nature of “your beloved” characters – and us, leather-bound as we are, on the inside? We live the out-takes and scenes, and it ain’t so picture perfect, ya know.”

I cocked an eyebrow and nodded with a sly smile, “I bet. Anyhow, so what do you want?”

“Look, the thing is, Crimpie is throwing another hissy fit, wanting to go to the Spring Ball, but the mice are busy Saturday night and we -”

“Yeah, man, we’re playing the Mouse Trap,” the blind one purred again, “Me and the boys are burning it down on the wrong side of town, and there just ain’t no time for being hitched to this story scene .” The other mice twitched their whiskers and squeaked with delight, humming a few bars to some tune. “I tell ya, the place is going to be s-m-o-king – you come on out and see us honey, tell the doorman you’re friends of the band, – ‘Hickory Dickory Dock’ – and that Rickie issued a p-urr-s-o-nal invitation,” Rickie cooed in my direction.

“Yeah, I was saying,” the Big Pumpkin butt in, ” we ALL have plans – and lives. Me and the fellas are playing the Rolling Rutabagas – ”

I raised my eyebrow, “Another bar?”

“Nope, they’re our rivals – bowling tournament, ya know – it’s a ‘death match’ – and everyone this side of the wild stroll is going to be out, rooting for us. So Crimpie’s latest whim? It’s a total no show – no go – no way – hence, the Wild Cat Strike.”

“So, whaddya say honey, you on side with us?” The Big Pumpkin asked, as 2 of the 3 mice started humming, “we’re not gonna take it, no we ain’t gonna take it” – and before I could answer, there was another crash through the door. An Old Hag, dressed in a red hooded cloak, which was oddly fluttery at her back, landed in a crumpled heap, at my feet.

“Ellie? What the hell happened to you?” The Big Pumpkin asked, “and what’s with the big green frog-wart on your face – and what? lacy fairy wings?”

She hiccuped a breath, looked up through her dreadlocked hair, and muttered, “spell backfired and rebounded , caught myself in the mirror – this bloody overtime and doubling as doppelgängers is murder.”

©2017 Scribbler’s Dipstick

mlmm prompt: tale weaver: reverse/naughty fairy tales


Tea for Two


it is an echo
a lingering reflection
waiting with invitation
I try to avoid
until its quiet persistence knocks
one too many times
and I open my soul’s door

I sit within the well
of my loneliness
we are face to face
you and I
I uneasy
you quietly resigned
and the grey silence
lengthens like a thread
until I nervously pull loose
a string
and ask –
would you like tea?
– yes, that would be fine
and I rise
but turn back
we are face to face
ask –
how do you like it?
and honey
or lemon?
perhaps just black?

time stretches the grey gauze
until I am loose and split-cut
my eyes brimming
as you reply
-yes, all of that, is just fine

©2017 Scribbler’s Dipstick

image: Japanese ceramics: sourced without certainty as to the artist – but I would love to know ♠