our steps will always rhyme



Here’s one of my favorite songs by Leonard Cohen:


I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm
Your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm
Yes, many loved before us, I know that we are not new
In city and in forest, they smiled like me and you
But now it’s come to distances and both of us must try
Your eyes are soft with sorrow
Hey, that’s no way to say goodbye
I’m not looking for another as I wander in my time
Walk me to the corner, our steps will always rhyme
You know my love goes with you as your love stays with me
It’s just the way it changes like the shoreline and the sea
But let’s not talk of love or chains and things we can’t untie
Your eyes are soft with sorrow
Hey, that’s no way to say goodbye


<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/rhyme/”>Rhyme</a&gt;


for my solitary vision



Here is a poem by Marvin Bell



Questions to Answers



For my unique voice,

for my solitary vision,

I was given the song of a bird

outside my window

and all the of the songs that answered to it.

For my way with words,

for my unusual behavior, listen,

I was given an essence of chocolate

which only made me desire

all other chocolates.

For my individual grief,

for my perfect isolation,

I was given maps to mass graves

on every continent

and still for my feet I was given shoes

and for my hands gloves in winter

and now if I ask

whose shoes otherwise and whose

gloves if not mine

I offend those who liked my poems

for a while.

And this is why I have come to believe

That there are, to my questions,


After all.







<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/solitary/”>Solitary</a&gt;

Tree Swallows, Cape May

kenschneidertsflock3 tree swallows

Here’s a poem i wrote about thirty years ago:


Tree Swallows, Cape May


At the meadows

in mid-September, a million silver

tree swallows

wallow and swoop in the air,

taking great swallows of air,

folding up on the tall stalks

of marsh weeds

like shining Christmas ornaments.

As one,

they flash like a flag

of silver and slate blue

against the turbulent blue sky,

unfurling south.



( published in  Life List   Finishing Line Press, 2016)



Photo by Bob Feldman





<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/unfurl/”>Unfurl</a&gt;

Diamonds for the cancer crown

plump-plum rhia hills

painting:  Plump Plum    by Ria Hills


I am a nine year survivor of advanced cervical cancer.  I wrote a number of “cancer poems” during 2008-2009, when I was undergoing radiation.  This is one of them.

It’s written in the form  “Diamonte” which means it’s diamond-shaped.  You’ll see the pattern.   This is not a particularly pretty poem!


Diamonds for the Cancer Crown


Rank, fulsome

Clutches, rasps, repels

Garbage, offal, bakery, garden

Lures, flows, delights

Heady, spicy




Gooey, oozing

Drones, buzzes, insinuates

Sermon, complaint, rhapsody, praise

Burbles, canonizes, compliments

Delirious, delighted




Flaw, fault

Encroaches, impairs, devours

Tumor, lesion, scalpel, graft

Stitches, smoothes, heals, thickens

Souvenir, badge,





Treatable, gullible

Palpates, softens, plies

Fruit, flower, sprout, shoot

Crunches, breaks, cooks

Curable, shrinkable



mary schuler ruptured radiation

painting:  Ruptured Radiation  by Mary Schuler




<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/spicy/”>Spicy</a&gt;

Carousel of Time


Here are the lyrics to a song by Joni Mitchell:

The Circle Game

Yesterday a child came out to wonder
Caught a dragonfly inside a jar
Fearful when the sky was full of thunder
And tearful at the falling of a star

Then the child moved ten times round the seasons
Skated over ten clear frozen streams
Words like when you’re older must appease him
And promises of someday make his dreams

And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We’re captive on the carousel of time
We can’t return we can only look
Behind from where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game *

Sixteen springs and sixteen summers gone now
Cartwheels turn to car wheels thru the town
And they tell him take your time it won’t be long now
Till you drag your feet to slow the circles down

And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We’re captive on the carousel of time
We can’t return we can only look
Behind from where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game

So the years spin by and now the boy is twenty
Though his dreams have lost some grandeur coming true
There’ll be new dreams maybe better dreams and plenty
Before the last revolving year is through

And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We’re captive on the carousel of time
We can’t return we can only look
Behind from where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game.

carousel of time


<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/carousel/”>Carousel</a&gt;

the ambling pony


Here’s a poem by Thomas Hardy:


Beeny Cliff


O the opal and the sapphire of that wandering western sea,

And the woman riding high above with bright hair flapping free –

The woman whom I loved so, and who loyally loved me.


The pale mews plained below us, and the waves seemed far away

In a nether sky, engrossed in saying their ceaseless babbling say,

As we laughed light-heartedly aloft on that clear-sunned March day.


A little cloud then cloaked us, and there flew an irised rain,

And the Atlantic dyed its levels with a dull misfeatured stain,

And then the sun burst out again, and purples prinked the main.


– Still in all its chasmal beauty bulks old Beeny to the sky,

And shall she and I not go there once again now March is nigh,

And the sweet things said in that March say anew there by and by?


What if still in chasmal beauty looms that wild weird western shore,

The woman now is – elsewhere – whom the ambling pony bore,

And nor knows nor cares for Beeny, and will laugh there nevermore.



<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/amble/”>Amble</a&gt;

that shimmers on the brink of absence

camels of the desert

Here is a poem by Richard Wilbur,  an American poet, and a favorite of mine:


A World Without Objects is a Sensible Emptiness     by Richard Wilbur


The tall camels of the spirit

Steer for their deserts, passing the last groves loud

With the sawmill shrill of the locust, to the whole honey of the


Sun. They are slow, proud,


And move with a stilted stride

To the land of sheer horizon, hunting Traherne’s

Sensible emptiness, there where the brain’s lantern-slide

Revels in vast returns.

O connoisseurs of thirst,

Beasts of my soul who long to learn to drink

Of pure mirage, those prosperous islands are accurst

That shimmer on the brink


Of absence; auras, lustres,

And all shinings need to be shaped and borne.
Think of those painted saints, capped by the early masters

With bright, jauntily-worn


Aureate plates, or even

Merry-go-round rings. Turn, O turn

From the fine sleights of the sand, from the long empty oven

Where flames in flamings burn


Back to the trees arrayed

In bursts of glare, to the halo-dialing run

Of the country creeks, and the hills’ bracken tiaras made

Gold in the sunken sun,


Wisely watch for the sight

Of the supernova burgeoning over the barn,

Lampshine blurred in the steam of beasts, the spirit’s right

Oasis, light incarnate.






<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/shimmer/”>Shimmer</a&gt;