“The Great Llama Drama”

The Great Llama Drama

Yes, Llamas on the loose!
Thelmella and Louanne.
They’re on-the-lamb down I-95
as fast as llamas can.
Headed for the Grand Canyon
with fearless, careless abandon.
They’ve slipped their surly bonds
for the land of llamas beyond!

“Holy Hands!”

John card playing(John Casey) Photo by Jacqueline Casey

I dreamt last night I attend
the Church of the Holy Hands!
Firm fanatics, believers brew;
a congregation of Fifty-Two.

“Have pocket aces in your stew
before you receive your due;
before glory rains upon you, too!”

I genuflect, bow and find a pew
as the devil shoves his chips my way.
All my Hold’em followers chant: “Tsk-tsk.
It ain’t ‘gamblin’, you fool!
Just a calculated risk!”

 (write a 66 word piece.  Include the word, fanatic.)




You’re rolling out to sea
You’re waving me goodbye
Yet I am not set free
this seagull cannot fly.

“Goodbye”, the buoy tolls.
“I’ll miss you more and more.
Release my restless soul.
Adrift, I cannot soar.”

I’ve learned one certain truth:
there isn’t any death.
There’s only your last words
where I am left bereft.

Don’t ask a ‘pardon me’;
I’ll free you in advance.
I’ll let your kisses go
forgetting our last dance.

Love is a kind of death
like giving up and in.
Don’t ask me not to share
as boundless heartache mends.

Goodbye, goodbye, my heart
your sins now have reprieve
as I forgive your part:
your love did not deceive.

So waves my hurt from shore;
Your wintry face is pale
as I will love you more
as soft now sets your sail.

Love is a kind of death
like giving up and in…
But once the moment’s gone
Love’s promises don’t end.




Mathematical Universe(see Max Tegmark’s “Our Mathematical Universe”)


Whose hand now tracks this journey in its field?
Who placed it in that Universal norm?
Whose pattern makes it swirl and glow and yield?
Whose logic gives it stature in this form?

Its turnings strong and sure; no anxious pause.
Its destination perfect and sublime;
the artist pushed that pencil is first cause
for other worlds envisioned at that time.

Who tracks my body into being mine?
Who gives me voice and life; connections, too?
Directions come from stardust where I shine.
Pitched in black ponds, dust forms a circling brew.

Whose journey sends a chilling down my spine?
Imagined hand thus prompted by what mind?

Wordle #199, Feb 15, 2015

Hadron Collider-event

ACT with our CUES.
WRESTLE with our devils
HELD in SAINTLY TRACK unbending,
dismissive of all SCIENCE, save our quarks.
Smashed upon the evil level,
While MEMORY is stark.

Written for Sunday Whirl, Wordle #199.  Twelve Words:  cue, held, track, saintly, angel, act, science, crack, pebbles, wrestle, memory, empty.


She pushes, coaxes, presses needle through.
With labored love, the handsome fabric glows;
the heart, remorseful, with it thus imbued.
Her stitches mixed with tears, the fabric knows
she makes her mourning coat from their love nest.
Resounding chimes the tolling bell
that beckon all to see his final best:
that coat of many colors where he dwells
as, lovingly, her thimble now may rest.

 Thimble W_T_star_mark_embroidery-AT-9-10(prompt for Chimera is “thimble”. Write your story in  exactly 66 words.)

“The Nebula”

Dusty Poem eagle-neb-lg

“The Nebula”

Bright star whose dusty depth reveals her wrath:
a lonely, wanton sphere, she spreads her arms.
Amorphous, ever-rising in a path
to form a dome in nature’s growing warmth.
Her energy of light with striving yearns.
Her formlessness, a swirling, shapeless ring.
A shifting tumult, red and yellow burns
before she moves to full-blown crystal scene.
Circling the sun, Love strives, forever moved.
She bubbles forth; a hazy, infused fog.
She struggles, summoned, ever must she prove
more than a misty, ill determined bog.
Great nebula, where stars are berthed and born.
We are but specks of dust within your storm.


John remembers the ways of the Ohlone as he digs for oyster along the shore at Emeryville.  Near his dead father’s old fishing shack stood Shellmound Park; a midden of many lifetimes.  A mountain of crusty mollusk fused together rose 60 feet above San Francisco Bay with a dance pavilion atop its summit.  The dance and the park died with the passage of prohibition in the 1920’s.

“Where Have all the Monarchs Gone?”


“Where Have all the Monarchs Gone?”

The bees now crash the windows to my soul.
I will despair, unable to withstand
with cozening, the cruel, deceptive whole
as GMO’s now spread across our land.

The bee will sigh; the butterfly will gnash
her teeth; the Monarch now Monsanto’s slave.
Who sprays our corn? Who whistles making cash
from food genetic, modified so brave?

The cricket’s heart, in fields he also raves
against the holy husk. How high his price?
While Rachel lies a listening in her grave
no butterfly imbibes as Milkweed dies.

The spirit of the worm has inched away
the stunning metamorphosis can’t stay.


(“Plant a new Truffula. Treat it with care. Give it clean water. And feed it fresh air.” (Theodor Seuss Geiselt, better known as Dr. Seuss)