Chimera 66, #16


As waning ice of winter drips

into our spring, my fingertips,

tempestuous, cling.

Catharsis now brings

tearful scene;

quiv`ring lips.

As all our season’s trials end,

your icy words my soul defends.

Our love not lanquid

nor is it torpid;

not morbid

or pretends.

Oh, let our winter’s stone-cold hearth

alight once more with fiery breath,

stretching arms to greet;

opening to meet


our true warmth.

Clogyrnach: (clog-ir-nach): It usually has a six line stanza that combines one couplet of eight syllable lines a. a., one couplet of five syllable lines b. b., and the final two lines of three syllables.b. a.. The two three syllable lines may be written as a six syllable line if desired.

Chimera 66, #14 Kickoff

“The Crank”

“Slide the handle here; turn the crank there!  The flea-market guy said it would work or I may take it back for full refund.”
“Why buy an antique coffee grinder when there’s no coffee in the house?”
“I like the ambiance it gives my banal, boring, stuffy kitchen…?”
“Why don’t you amble out to our lackluster kitchen and fix some humdrum breakfast?”

coffee grinder

Linking to the HOST

Chimera 66

June 6, 1944
June 6, 1944

Cold shudders, early angst this warm, June day.
For many, it will be our hero’s last.
The heart that wildly beats foresees the fray;
a holding of each breath before
the roar of bullets sting the air.

Among the still-born, glassy eyes of men
who now lie limp upon this beach’s shore,
I see the halted grin; the sigh of children
seeking only love; wanting more.

(write about “angst”: a feeling of dread, anxiety, or anguish in exactly 66 words)

4,414 (#confirmed) young men lost their lives in the Normandy Invasion June 6, 1944.


With innocence and child-like eyes,

she peers into the murky


A twist;

a gasp of joy, her mouth now oohs!

An aha moment of splendor

as shadow turns to light

as she, alone, creates amazing colored webs

expressing mad excitement with each spin.spider web poem

Now she feels what the spider feels

as he builds his new nest of circles, angles, trapezoids

while on his homeward quest.

“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.)


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.)


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.

The Guardians

The Guardians

The first fly catches her scent in the hot, summer wind. Buzzing his arrival, he scrapes his feet and glories in the Guava juice erupting from her mouth. Death is a strong, sweet thing for those with voracious appetite. Guardians of the Dead leave sticky, spiny footprints tracking her body, their microscopic ears attuned to a tornado of hissing emerging from her last gurgling expiration.

The Music Maker


“The Music Maker”

He played her like an old, worn tambourine;
a frightful, dull man’s musicale.
The thunder from her drum a shallow scene;
a misty, seismic moment from his gal.
The music not enhanced by their dog, Sal
who also entered her embittered howl.
The house reverberates; the neighbors pale
as door and windows rattle from her glance;
as lovely Lynn flew off her Richter Scale.

Hadron Collider-event

The Messenger

I doubt not God’s my messenger and oft
I see him in the whirling colors there.
His message is a gentle love, aloft
and all his voice remembered everywhere.

He is the author of the spider’s way
whose mystic journey often spins astray
unless that force and guide is heard.
He is our stamen stretching for the sun;
He is the unknown spark hid in hadrons.