Pompeiian reverb

Pompeiian reverb

Form with no Function

Void reclining in

sleepless dormition

uncomfortably cramped

attitude of repose

I don't envy the model

this miserable pose

inverted geode doll

crystals inside out

vacancy within 

leaving all in doubt

where is the lady

in the gown of blue?

gone or just popped 

out to use the loo? 

who could blame the gal

who left her shell behind

lit out to find an

open state of mind?

cold bespoke casket

Rigid cloying mold

corseted to keep

cellulite on hold

escaped confines of

Spanxed conformity 

now wears old blue jeans

when she goes out to tea? 

perfection's a bitch 

reach exceeds our grasp

Venus de Milo curves

bite us in the asp

beauty's sepulcher

Snow White in her tomb

fair sex pilloried since

we were in the womb

pardon my cliches but

they're very real to me

man-made cages, jails, cells

dank familiarity 

expiring before 

we even begin

buried alive in

purpose built coffin

death eating father

brought the doom on me

honeyed hemlock of

morbid litany 

why the hell so smitten

with dames who are dead?

Pre-Raphaelite OCD

I'll bet she's a redhead

This maiden who left

empty dress echoing

glass still resonates

long after her going

I rejoice to see 

that this bird has flown

hollow lies the dress

of bondage glass blown

dragged herself out 

of bedragoned moat

our Lady of Shallot

good you ditched the boat

we'll hold space till you

Find functionality 

And if you don't well

keep on going, baby! 

Don't need ruby slippers

nor tight frocks of glass

to bust see-thru roofs 

you wrote your own pass

Oz only gave Dorothy

what she already owned

Emerald city exit

a balloon ride home 

Cinderella didn't

need shoes to break chains

didn't even need a Prince

just her head full of brains

I'll take a leaf from

departed sisters' book

to find my true north

in the mirror look.

Here's to our gone girls

Egalite! Sorority!

let's grab the brass rings,

ring that bell of liberty! 

This ekphrastic poem is based on Nocturne Reclining 3, by Karen LaMonte, shown above and on view at the Muskegon Museum of Art. Please visit and support local art museums! 

Tarmac Where My Wintergreen Berries Lived

I went back to the woods where I played 

with grampa in the dunes near the lake

My mother goddess Lake Michigan

or the big lake gitchegumme to locals 

this land was made for you and me

Houses sit and tarmac covers 

where my wintergreen berries lived 

drywall shacks that grew not from seed but 

chewed up, used up, spat out natural resources

post-industrial waste of too much muchness

too many structures holding too few people 

flimsy construction from destruction of 

the Great Spirit Gluskabe's stately dunes

irreplicable, irreplaceable, unshakable

until the diesel breathing monster machines came

gorging themselves on magnetite, hematite and quartz

of prehistory older-than-ice-age sands 

more non-renewable comrades fallen 

Avē Imperātor, moritūrī tē salūtant

Extinct is forever and gone is for good

it made sense of a sort when there were jobs, 

railroad, factories, newspapers, telephones 

neighbors and communities. America WAS Great

now it's just glutinous and grasping 

We build boxes to house bric-a-brac and junk

we buy too much of and don't need and

can't pay for and go bankrupt to have

and don't use and throw in landfills

already the size of small cities

useless crap to feed corporate and consumer greed

for things they will only destroy in a very short time

Woodsy used to say "give a hoot, don't pollute"

And we held hands and sang

if those poor owl could but see us now

ironic yard signs reading "no over development" 

in over developed sub divisions with landscaped

marram grass where it once grew wild

ripped out to replant in its native habitat

Why?

signs preaching "keep off the dunes"

in the yards built on trashed dunes 

and "dune preserve" preserved where?!

an asphalted over melted glacier Lake?

a concreted old growth back dune forest 

of pine, fir, Eastern hemlock, spruce, trillium

lady slippers, wintergreen, protective mosses 

oak, juniper, trilobite, petrified wood, fossils 

ground to wood chips to decorate lawns

that smothered animal habitats that grew

where leaves and needles once blanketed 

nothing remains except spent, sparse 

scraps of tree cremains left where they are 

till their spot is needed to build 

some family an even bigger house

And the Lorax laments on...

 

that they aren't going to use 

the divorce will be final before 

she moves in,  alone with her cat

kitchen larger than diners of childhood

sharing a cup they call loneliness

homes as large as tenement halls 

contrast the shotgun singles of my youth 

with a family of seven crammed 

to the gills under one roof, comfortably

homes that house families of families

two bedroom homes, not houses 

where people ate dinner at 5:30

around a Formica table in the kitchen

somehow they all miraculously fit 

chewing their knees with their rolls

now the huge kitchens are decorated

with cookbooks and spices no one uses 

and mass produced signs telling us to "Gather" 

in empty rooms with no one to comply

Seeger, Baez, Dylan, Peter, Paul and Mary warned us

There's an enormous dining room with

table big enough to seat the Love Boat crew

it's covered with packed boxes 

Each eats DoorDash in his room with 64" TV

Strangely Estranged, strangers called family

all that's in the commercial grade fridge 

which could hold food for a battalion

is vodka, half a lime and a takeaway

her Prozac prescription and a tin for the cat

paradise was razed for that

working to pay off overpriced boxes

they were never satisfied with anyway 

and soon they will move out and the

house will become another industrial sediment layer

crumbling my beloved dunes out from under

and they will gut someone else's childhood

to build their empty little boxes on 

the hillside made of ticky-tacky

to house their knicky-knacky crap-y

and they all look just the same. 

I want my berries back. 

Shall I tell of stars hidden by the queen?

lying underneath 

psychedelic sky

iridescent blue

sun spots in my eye

penning out my verse

he sleeps in the rays

each one celebrates 

in our preferred ways 

Shall I tell of stars

hidden by the queen

mute in the daylight

till night makes them seen

pondering nature

which glyphs to choose

lake days in the sun

my favorite muse

with hyperbole

in woods we do roam

shelter of the trees

is our little  home 

the bigger thought gets

a line of its own 

onomatopoeia

in glissade of foam 

alliterative 

litter festooned wave

words drip like driftwood

carved by the lake's lathe 

old lumber dock bones

like cypress kneed bogs 

watching memories 

and time float like logs

trash ornated surf

flecks of green and blue

silver metal can

a child's soggy shoe

assonance that makes 

an ass of me and you

oops, that's assumption

that I sometimes do

twinkling in the sun

mirrored sand beach

pass the Swiss cheese please

just beyond my reach

gritty on my teeth

from palm full of sand

universe of verse

trickling through my hand

I could write always

by eloquent sea

what better way to

spend eternity?

got water and pen

who could want for more

my man at my side

on Michigan's shore

If wishes were drinks we drunks would partake

peach bellini moon 

purple crow flies by 

pink Cosmo sunset  

in blue curacao sky

if wishes were drinks

we drunks would partake

of rainbow cocktails

and Sazerac cakes

but day is all done

color drained away 

like bathtub sloe gin

sunsets turned grey

but no one told them

arise and go home

are they asleep or

perhaps turned to stone?

sunbathing bodies

strewn along the beach 

shrouded in moonlight

their marble arms reach 

in homage to a god

with empty hole eyes

gems all removed for 

the lady who buys

back to the motherland

with her stolen hoard

on a tramp steamer 

and ghost crew on board 

and the ship goes down

taking all to their graves

the gal with the money

drowns beneath the waves

so goes paradox 

she who had has none

the thief is stolen 

by the stolen from one

such contradiction

in poetic irony 

what goes comes around

and washes out to sea 

cold as equator

wet as Sahara

dry as ocean deep

hot as the taiga

uniform contrasts 

mixed hyperbole 

same differences 

fluid simile

lyric without song

sensibly insane

musically tone deaf

Logically inane 

I shall never see 

verse so madding bad

I think that I shall

surely go quite mad

if mad is a place 

say that's where I'll be

but I shan't be long 

I'll be back for tea 

hopped a streetcar

just my cat and me

at the corner of 

Desire and Cemetery 

singing for sixpence 

on my ukulele 

puss strums the bass in

land of Honah Lee 

puff with the dragon

huff to the wolf moon

supping with devils

I'll use the long spoon 

riding the contrail 

to the end of the line

pull up a cloud 

right here next to mine

ask where I'm off to 

it's a ramblin song 

don't know myself yet

you can sing along 

start psychedelic

Sam, Bangs and, Moonshine

let her write herself 

this lil rhyme of mine

 

a pocketful of pocket

to pass the time of night

white noise machine 

to ward off my blight

so no point to my

silly pantomime

just felt like conversin'

if you've got the time

The Good Ship Marguerite L. and the Freighter D. Jack

My grandparents, Marguerite Louise (Kik) Kinney and D. Jack Kinney, were laid to rest many moon ago. Here's a little ditty I wrote in honor of their 70 years together. It's about two ships--the imperiled freighter D.Jack and a once fancy schmancy old ghost yacht the Marguerite L. The ships are named because my grandpa was a workaholic, like the mighty lake Michigan freighters.  And my grandma loved expensive things. And could have posed as a figurehead! 

It is ironic that in the poem, she saves him. Everyone always called Grampa the romantic Galahad, the rescuer, the savior all of which he was. Grandma appeared the frail lightweight but was in fact tough as a battle axe and 10x more incisive.

It is set in Lake Michigan, where my Grandpa and I swam and walked many miles over many years (while Grandma stayed home and read Architectural Digest). This poem is for my father D. Jack Kinney II, who knew all there was to know about the ships of Lake Michigan and who liked a good story.

The Good Ship Marguerite L.

stranglehold cold wind

mutes dull foghorn moan

banshee storm-ghoul's shriek

deafens warning groan

weakened lighthouse beam

struggling to sustain

snuffed in fog-clogged night

and vision-dimming rain

Embattled Freighter D. Jack

seeks safe, havening moor 

refuge from the storm

heads blindly toward shore

solid blank stare fog

lightless night darks drear

no moon marking rocks

sailors think all's clear

no fog gong foretells

dimmed lighthouse mocks

no death- knell warning

sailors off the rocks

beamless empty sky

deadly barrier ahead

ships smashed to bits

tale ends with all dead

blame the deafening blind fog 

curse the storm that rent the night 

sing of D. Jack's end and gloom 

blame the waning of the light

but tale's end is not yet writ

fate not sealed in lake tomb

sad's the song that ends too soon

ill's the wind that blows but doom

there is another verse to

this sorrowful rhyme

in the wings a heroine

is waiting for her line

within rock walls is calm

without tempest's brewin

bony schooner, Marguerite L.

sleeps moored in brooding ruin

by good fairy or bad sprite

Neptune's guide or Hades' shade

sends storm ripples into port 

rouses ghost ship to their aid

sleeping beauty wakes again

hears the S.O.S across the wave

though old, frail, falling apart

there are sailors she must save

with bump-booms, banging clangs

plays hornpipe on rusted chains

grind-jangle, rattle and clank

screams louder than the rains

by happy stroke of luck

or black magic rune

D. Jack harks danger

in her warning tune 

The rocks are avoided

The freighter finds a way

round the hidden breakers

ghost yacht has saved the day.

what genius loci possessed

Marguerite L. that night?

to rise up from death bed 

and take up the good fight?

sailor is a brother,

to seamen in all clime

Do some come back to warn 

just in the nick of time?

How to write mystery stories and whodunnits: detective story starters and mystery writing prompts

March is National Reading Month. Mystery readers, are you tired of cracker-bland mysteries you put down in sheer boredom? Mystery writers, are you sick of writing dull-as-plain-toast plots that readers barely nibble at? Here are mystery story starters for tales readers will gulp down whole and beg for more before the first even digests. Use these writing prompts and mystery story starters to write can't-put-down stories. This article covers detective stories and mystery story starters for crime fiction, affectionately called the whodunit. 

Basics of mystery story starters. Every mystery story needs an introduction, characters, plot, climax, denouement and conclusion. Detective stories are all about detail and sequence. But crime fiction doesn't necessarily need resolution and closure--a very effective literary device is to leave mystery unsolved. Charles Dickens was known for writing several endings and letting the readers choose (!) Ending on a cliff-hanger has the advantage of paving the way for sequels and more sequels. 

Plot development for detective stories. There are different school of thought on whether mystery fiction writing prompts should start with character or setting creation. Settings seem the best as they give a framework to place other elements in. Regardless, always write what you know. If you grew up in Michigan in the 1940's or Mozambique in the 1990's, write to that specific knowledge. Use your cultural or religious background or family history. Don't try to write about what you don't know unless you plan to do a barge-load of research. 

Choose a known time period and locale. You can set your story in any time period or place, as long as you know enough about it to make your mystery story credible. If your idea of medieval life is Game of Thrones, probs best to avoid the middle ages. This author once tried to write a 1930s English country house murder mystery like her hero Ngaio Marsh. Without having lived then and lacking enough research, the result was a schmaltzy pastiche. Mystery story starters require a specific setting. Where did the whodunit take place? 

Write mystery stories outside the hackneyed setting. So having said know the terroir, don't use overused places. Thinking of Scooby-Doo here--an abandoned mental hospital, a disused school, onboard a ship, country mansion are common (dead common) places. Try to get away from stereotypical mystery settings if possible. Tie it to your own locale so you can envision the details better (the disused factory on Third St that you drive by every day, the historic St. Adalbert's Catholic Church you attend, for example). Be precise but not trite in description--setting drives mystery stories more than any other genre. 

To detect or not, your choice. Mystery fiction stories may or may not include a detective character. Agatha Christie's best-loved mystery story "And Then There Were None" is crime fiction with no solver of the crime. Whodunit detective stories obviously require a detective-type main character. But it may or may not be a police officer or private eye. Start thinking characters, beginning with the investigator if there is one.. Match an appropriate person to setting. Your detective can be of any age, strata of society, occupation or nationality as long as you can write with some authority. 

Mystery Writing prompts for detective stories main character. How will your detective interact with official authorities? Is he a policeman or a PI? Is she an amateur crime-solver like Miss Marple? Does she solve mysteries as a hobby, but assist with investigations? Maybe he hasn't always been on the side of justice., such as Father Brown's friend Flambeau once the greatest jewel thief in Europe, turned detective. Perhaps your detective operates separately from public investigators or is too young to work professionally (like the Three Investigators, Nancy Drew or the Hardy Boys). Your detective may have a different occupation altogether: librarian, cleric, rabbi, pharmacist, garbage man (trash collectors see lots of dirty secrets). Lillian Jackson Braun's series "The Cat Who..."features a cat detective! 

Plot writing prompts for detective mystery stories: Frame the crime. It may involve a celebrated murder, international heist or art theft or it may be a local incident that affects only certain people. Maybe it's just an odd occurrence that unravels a larger problem. It could be a victimless crime fiction but victims make it more interesting. Details about what happened should come out little by little. The detective should be lead on a few wild goose chases by "red herrings" finding out whodunit. 

Outline and sequence the problem. Create a timetable for personal reference and draw a map of the crime scene and environs. These become the plot, but you can also add your map to the book. This mystery reader loves it when authors provide maps. Even if it's just a map of the study showing doors, furniture etc. I have trouble visualizing from verbal directions so this really helps me "see" the scenario. 

Detective story characters writing prompts: People the story. Who are the dramatis personae? Flesh out characters. Determines criminals, witnesses, suspects, accessories and assistants. Perhaps it's passengers and airplane crew, or members of a club or secret society in which the whodunit occurs. That narrows the field. Again, describe with accuracy and details but avoid stereotypes and tropes: beautiful, curvy blonde, hard-bitten detective, frail old man. Also keep the cast of suspects down to about 8-10 max. It's too difficult to keep plot lines clear otherwise. 

Detail writing prompts. Scatter some clues. Toss in subtle details that a witness may notice and mention to the detective, but not understand. Don't have the detective pick up on it right away. Readers love to catch things the detective originally misses but don't make it obvious. General clues are okay but try to spice them up. Tire marks could be from certain vehicle. Character clues--unique buttons from uniforms, grandfather's cuff links, Mrs. Highbrow's jewelry, a girl's personal perfume--could lead in one direction but be left by someone else. A smell of curry might have been planted to frame the Indian gentleman. These are called a red herrings and are useful if not too obvious. Also, don't make clues so complicated that only an expert would understand them. Don't dumb down or get too rarefied. 

Identify the MMO: Every crime is based motive, method and opportunity. The motive is the reason a character might have for committing a crime (money, jealousy). The method is how the crime committed (think Clue here--in the garage with a tire iron). The opportunity means who was available to have committed the crime. 

Identify the alibis (or lack thereof) for characters. According to the timetable, decide who was where and when at the time the problem occurred or crime was committed. The detective may remove someone from the suspects list and then re-add them as she finds new information. It really does work to make the criminal the least likely person, perhaps someone hovering in the background or someone who isn't who she claims to be. 

Write a climax. Generally, something intense happens which brings all the events together. It's usually an event of some drama, seemingly unrelated, with some element of surprise. You might include death, danger or disaster. It is this event that ultimately explains the mystery. There should be an explanation for why she did it, but it doesn't have to make sense. Grudges, scores settled, paybacks usually have deep roots. As the saying goes "old sins cast long shadows." 

Allude to solution, earlier on. Once you have your conclusion, be sure you hinted at it previously, but in a not obvious way, such as by something a character said or let slip. It's not fair to the reader, who is trying to solve the puzzle themselves, to have something completely unforeseen resolve the issue. It's cheating. My favorite plot devices are when children or previously discounted people (visually impaired teen, "senile" elderly person,, developmentally disabled man, "hysterical" woman) have said something that the detective overlooks (Miss Marple wouldn't) which come back to be helpful. 

Write your denouement: This is the resolution of the mystery. This is when secrets come out and loose ends are wrapped up. Some details will reveal themselves in the plot and your detective can articulate the rest: the what, who, when, where, how and why. Or, as was discussed before, you can leave some loose ends hanging, some questions unanswered. If the crime is wrapped up, summarize with a short conclusion on the outcome. As readers part company with the detective, you might even give a few hints about her next adventures, Be sure to read a few detective stories for inspiration

They put a black rose on my door

I don't talk about this much but today just seemed right to share my motherache. We lost both our 5th and 6th child, the last of our children, both girls, to separate in utero trauma. I have pictures of them but they are too vulnerable to share. The skin had not fully formed yet, and it makes me feel I need to protect them all the more. 

But they had little wrinkles on their knuckles. Seeing that was like a grapefruit spoon to the heart, or whatever part it is that hurts so bad when you see a tiny helpless being, your being, who you would give the world for and whom you can do nothing to save. A person who should grow up to annoy and worry you, but won't. 

Both little ladies were ironically the same gestational age when they passed away. But their causes of death were different. And we never found out what exactly happened with either. Here's more on that and a poem I wrote for Mary Therese. 

I got an infection, I think Strep B, no one ever said, with my Mary Therese. My water broke. She was alive and kicking right up to the end as my fluid leaked out and there wasn't a thing I could do to stop it. The doctor didn't catch it in time and it was mostly gone when he did. 

I felt when the fever broke and Mary Therese kissed me goodbye. I almost voluntarily checked myself out of life that day. I had a loving husband and darling children. But the pain burned so bad I thought it would devour me. Then Our Lady sent St. Teresa of Avila to talk sense into me. 

I know, it sounds insane. But I saw them both, plain as day. Maybe it was the delirium of the fever. Or the pain. It wasn't the drugs because I couldn't keep anything down. They would have let me have it because she was going to die anyway, they said. That could have been more tactfully said but I was past caring. 

And she did pass, but only after patiently keeping her mama company all that long, horrible night. The whole family was there, all night to say goodbye to baby sister. Big Sister Molly stayed awake the entire time and only fell asleep when Mary Therese left us to go to heaven. 

Maybe I just want to believe that heaven cares, that this is not the end, that I will hold my children again. You're darn right I do. Not much point in anything otherwise. 

They put a black rose on my door, in the maternity ward. To say, no baby here, nothing to see, just move along. 

Here's a poem I originally wrote for Associated Content for my little Mar. I wasn't ever going to name a baby after me, but somehow that name just seemed to fit her. Daddy wanted her to take part of Mama to heaven. Mary Therese's birthday and death day were January 5, 2001.

Waterlily Rose Maid

her eyes, green-gray, still waters, do not cry

not mirror nor window of soul-dark spaces

guardians hold prisoner, secrets shy

in soft tranquil deep and twilight traces

her skin, like dogwood blossoms translucent 

rose petal fair and water-lily pale 

heaven-bound as nimbus, storm-cloud spent 

fresh as a lamb, nested quiet in vale

no tears descend this tender, pallid cheek 

no sorrow escapes this unworldly maid 

no companion shares nor solace does seek 

perfect in slumber, unmoving and staid

Silent in her grave, somber and death-cold 

Never to feel pain, nor warmth of mother's arms enfold.

I wrote this a few years ago, in a darker place. Now I know that you will feel our arms, baby. I think in some way you already do. 

Love always, mama.