Today, we are addressing the idea of sense. There are the five senses and the organs that put them to work. There is dollars and “cents.” There are different scents in our daily lives, We can also address a sense of humor, a sense of decency, common sense, a sense for business, a sense of closeness and loss … or any other sense you know or make up. All these can be put into play in your poem. Put your poetic skills to work and let us sense your muse!



“No more pennies,” we
were informed, and we could make
no cents of this change.

© Marie Elena Good, 2021

(Hardly a poem, but it was fun to write!)



I sense I found my mojo
And things are fine
my confidence is soaring.
There’s still a way to go
but it’s mine
so I won’t let life get boring.

I sense I found my humor.
And I just laugh.
It seems I find everything funny.
There’s this vicious rumor
that I’m daft,
but it rarely makes me money!

I sense I found my style.
People think
it must be easy to be me.
But I sit and smile,
and I wink,
it is much harder than they see!

© Walter J Wojtanik – 2021

287 thoughts on “PROMPT #339 – MAKES SENSE


    If I were a scent,
    I’d be misted lavender,
    weightless, floral, and relaxing.

    I’d relish—in being
    an irresistible calming effect
    on the senses.

    Easily disarm,
    even the best of defenses,
    as an approachable therapeutic gas.

    Benjamin Thomas


    I can

    the strength.


    I beat.
    I beat.

    As one.

    I can
    the energy.

    The feat—
    of love.

    less work.

    That is,

    I beat.
    I beat.

    I take,

    in its

    The myo—



    Benjamin Thomas


    If I were a comedian,
    I’d be a gas.

    Impale your heart—
    with magic laughter,
    and make it last.

    Clear out clogged
    arteries and make
    it flow.

    Chip away at charred,
    scarred tissue.

    That you would know,
    true happiness.

    Benjamin Thomas


    If I could change the world
    I’d offer my two cents.
    But I do sense, the world
    is changing me.

    But if the change of the world
    is at my expense—
    well then, ladies and gents,
    the world will get a scent
    of change.

    Benjamin Thomas


    use sound and sense
    to create messages,
    even when sounds make scents that bring
    no cents.


    It’s the thought that counts;
    actions speak louder than words,
    is what people say.

    It’s fiery love—
    burns, resistant to decay,
    that multiplies.

    It’s melding of will,
    synergy of intention,
    keeps us til this day.

    Consider, do the math;
    actions speak louder than words,
    —always been this way.

    Benjamin Thomas

  7. A Sense of Humor
    (A decuain)

    A sense of humor lifts emotions high.
    It even helps when things go horribly wrong.
    A hot-air balloon takes the heat to fly.
    A troubled heart beats rhythmically to song.
    And laughter lifts you up to make you strong.
    To see the funny side sometimes is hard.
    It may appear as years will drift along.
    A lightened heart heals though it may be scarred.
    A sense of humor lifts you to the sky.
    It even helps when searching for the why.

  8. Soul

    She has a perfect
    sense of style,
    lifting me and my
    faded pants and
    tee-shirts up
    from blandness.

    She has an acute
    sense of taste,
    precise and never faulty,
    keeping me and my
    cooking mistakes away
    from matricide.

    She has a demanding
    sense of honesty,
    for others, for herself,
    keeping me and my fears
    in check, moving ever bravely
    toward the truth.

  9. Just for a Moment

    Mother called them hummingbird moths
    those sphinx spinners drawn to the scent
    of petunias that reseeded every year
    banks of purple and white now and then
    some mutated stripes all sprawled
    like loose ladies across the front walk
    arms flailing in the evening breeze

    their aromatic perfume so deep and mysterious
    after a day of summer heat and those moths
    darting deep into fluted throats stealing
    nectar leaving in their wake bruised petals
    releasing even more fragrance so that now

    in a place far away I plant tubs full
    of their gaudy sisters spatter-painted
    deep purples and rosy pinks and deep reds
    tiny whorls of salmon and lemon yellow
    not really admitting my feeble attempts

    to return to that tiny house with bleached siding
    where a crooked sidewalk angled to the front door
    only to vanish in grass no connection
    just some state of being so that in a sense
    I’m at a loss, as well, meandering, senseless

    not really missing the old place with its bundles
    of dark memories but salvaging like how you sift
    through attic junk for just one thing to keep
    like those late evenings when blooms blurred
    in the dusk and the road dust and
    just for a moment all of it was sweet.

    Happy Father’s Day to all the Dad’s and Mentors out there who father kids everywhere and in all circumstances whether related or not. Great coaches, educators, service workers and on and on….
    You make a Difference! thank you.

  10. John 3:8
    There’s a sense of
    intent within a breeze,
    the way it moves deliberately
    through the air.
    Or is it rather
    Another who has intent,
    a purpose that becomes direction
    in pursuit
    of some unknown mysterious cause
    which mortals cannot
    or hear,
    but feel;
    a silent caress of
    purposed molecules
    rolling on our faces,
    dancing in our hair,
    across our skin?
    Why would we want to know,
    why would we wonder where,
    why even care,
    but that we feel it on us,
    in us, too?

    It seems we
    love and long for breezes,
    at least until they are gales.
    I think deep down within
    our sense of their intent,
    there is a core
    of awe,
    and maybe,
    © Damon Dean, 2021

  11. Scent of a Poet

    When poets take census of five human senses
    their artifice pilfers the prosaically senseless.
    Tasting hard sounds and hearing soft scents as
    Poetic adroitness to wonderland sends us.

    • This prompt “makes Sense” reminds me of the poem “The Testament of Beauty” by Robert Bridges; a poem I came across recently, prompted by C.S. Lewis. Here is the first few lines, but the entire poem is worth the read.:

      Man’s Reason is in such deep insolvency to sense,
      that tho’ she guide his highest flight heav’nward, and teach him
      dignity morals manners and human comfort,
      she can delicatly and dangerously bedizen
      the rioting joys that fringe the sad pathways of Hell.
      Not without alliance of the animal senses
      hath she any miracle: Lov’st thou in the blithe hour
      of April dawns—nay marvelest thou not—to hear
      the ravishing music that the small birdës make
      in garden or woodland, rapturously heralding
      the break of day; when the first lark on high hath warn’d
      the vigilant robin already of the sun’s approach,
      and he on slender pipe calleth the nesting tribes
      to awake and fill and thrill their myriad-warbling throats
      praising life’s God, untill the blisful revel grow
      in wild profusion unfeign’d to such a hymn as man
      hath never in temple or grove pour’d to the Lord of heav’n?

    • You, sir, ARE a poet. It is clear that you have read and have a grasp on what makes a poem, a poem. Not only that, but the composing of a poem seems a very natural flow of who you are and how you express yourself.

      This one is fun, a great take on the prompt, and begs to be voiced. I’m soooooooooo glad to have you out here, Kevin! You make me smile!

  12. We’ve Gone Senseless

    Common sense has exited the house
    What used to be just ain’t no more
    To tell the truth we’ve lost our way
    It seems we’ve lost our ability
    To think with the most simplicity

    We used to have a sense of humor
    It brought us laughter, not offense
    Now it seem whatever’s said
    Is taken far too personally
    Doesn’t make any sense to me

    We used to stand on common ground
    Now we all want our own little piece
    We’re so busy being individuals
    That we’re missing the joy of unity
    It just doesn’t make any sense to me

    And where’s our sense of decency?
    Our quest for pride eliminated that
    Where once we kept sins out of sight
    Seems now they’re out for all to see
    Bet God’s not happy with you and me

    We need to bring back common sense
    And laugh at each other’s sense of humor
    Get back to occupying common ground
    And resurrect a sense of decency
    And hopefully get back our dignity

  13. The Scent of Peace

    she picks some lavender sprigs
    a small bouquet of purple
    the calming scent wafts softly
    through the little room
    soothing her tired soul

    her breathing mellows and her
    heart beat returns to normal
    finding peace

    I’m trying out Walt’s form – the Boketto – that was featured on Poetic Asides on Friday

  14. The Cents of Huckleberry

    Huckleberry Hound Dog
    ‘Bout a foot-and-a-half tall
    Sits on my office floor
    Up against the wall
    His red & white paint faded
    Black missing from his nose
    He looks good for his age
    ‘Cause he’s 60 years old
    My grandpa gave me Huckle
    My plastic Hound Dog bank
    He told me save my pennies
    I told him I would, thanks
    I started saving right away
    Putting copper in the slot
    Temptation said to spend them
    But will power shouted “NOT”
    So as the years progressed
    My Hound Dog bank got heavy
    But I had to put it away
    When I joined the military
    Around the world I served
    While Huckle stayed in place
    For more than 20 years
    I went from base to base
    I forgot about the Hound Dog
    ‘Till visiting Gram one day
    Gram said he missed me lots
    And then sent us on our way
    Now we’ve been reunited
    Huck is up against the wall
    Happy in his old friend’s home
    Now he waits for cents to fall
    I checked his slot the other day
    Seems he’s just about full up
    But I don’t want to empty him
    Those pennies love their pup
    I think it might be possible
    Those pennies bring me luck
    So all those cents are gonna’ stay
    Inside my plastic Huck
    Still I am very curious
    My Hound Dog bank’s so old
    What if Huck began to talk
    What stories could be told

  15. OSB
    (a rhyming boketto)

    Overly sensitive bunk
    Our minds full of worthless junk
    We act like renegade punks
    I feel we’ve sunk
    In a pool of gunk

    How can we escape the funk
    Free of gunk in which we’ve sunk
    We need spunk

  16. Off balance
    (Another Boketto)

    Overly stimulated
    Nonsensically offended
    Pure irrationality

    Only God can rescue us
    Set all things where they belong
    In balance

  17. Sensory Musing

    It is hard to write this and not feel
    ungrateful with all my senses intact
    ready for the most part to do what
    i ask i told my wife recently that
    i wish i needed a cochlear implant so
    i could take it off sometimes for a
    hearing break or that i could stop
    my skin from feeling quite so much
    all the time it feels ungrateful
    but what do you do when your senses
    are perhaps a little too intact
    when noise is processed as pain and
    sometimes touch feels like needles
    sharp knives fire crawling down my spine
    is that an autistic trait? they never
    are ever quite fully able to explain
    do you just…cower in a corner forever?
    too afraid sometimes to leave the house
    the sudden onslaught of sound and
    light and perception of existence too
    frightening real imagined looming large
    sometimes i text my wife while we’re
    sitting together on the couch with
    headphones in my ears shades over
    my eyes curtains pulled closed
    sensory processing on hyperactive mode
    i text her things like
    how was your day
    i love you
    what do you want for dinner
    can i have a hug
    am i too much
    thank you
    i love you
    she gets texts back hearts
    and flowers and tender devotion
    i scramble to pick up the pieces of me
    and try to put them together in some
    kind of order that would maybe make
    sense to the world but i usually fail
    i am trying to learn to let the pieces lie
    sometimes and maybe just rearrange
    them in ways that are comfortable
    and make sense to me and maybe
    the world’s perception shouldn’t matter
    it shouldn’t
    but it mostly does

    – Erin Kay, 2021

    • As a side note, it feels important to mention with this one that I am autistic and that’s why i mention it in this way. It isn’t just some neurotypical wondering about autistic traits lol it tends to be a part of how i perceive anything/everything

    • Oh sweet Erin ….

      There is so much packed into this small space. All of it makes me “feel.” But, “am I too much” was my undoing. 😦

      I read your poem, your explanation, and Pat’s response. Please be sure to read Pat’s response carefully. Let her message sink in.

      Hugs and prayers ….

      and please keep writing. ❤

    • Erin, this was a beautiful rendering of what most will not conceive….After I was sexually assaulted from about the age of 10 until I was 15 and then years of being stalked by my abuser… I stopped being able to see colors from the age of twelve until I was 15 when I escaped the last time he attacked me…One day the world was flooded with color, and I treasure it ever since… but touch… I hated to be touched… even a hug from someone I trusted burned on my skin as if they had burned a blister on me… some smells made me vomit…slowly I forced myself to desensitize myself…until the touch of others stopped burning. some smells I don’t like but they don’t make me vomit, art helped me also…Writing poetry helped, and step by step… I regained me…It was not easy and exhausted me, but I wanted me back… there are small pieces left and they worry me that I will not conquer all of it. I also learned to cover up things…because I did not want pity for when I am pitied I am seen as damaged… Keep on keeping on and may you find your own way to deal with it…I understand this kind of struggle.

      • Mary, thank you so much for this thoughtful response. I’m really sorry to hear about those early experiences, I can relate on a certain level. The physical/sensory reactions that humans have to trauma sometimes are so weird and remarkable. What you said about not being able to see color for a while reminds me of what it physically feels like after I have been masking and pretending to be just fine for too long (something that kinda has to happen in order to go to work and function in this world unfortunately). Touch will always be difficult for me, I think. It has been since I was a kid, I had zero physical boundaries respected by any of the adults in my life, and I think my brain eventually just decided that I just can’t handle touch from anyone other than a very very select few.
        Poetry and writing in general have also been such a comfort and channel of healing for me, I am glad to hear that it has helped you! We are resilient. Thank you again for taking the time to respond to me, Mary. Sending lots of positive thoughts and energy your way.

        • thank you Erin… Being a child protect services worker helped me just to know I was not the only one… IN recent years I have found out my abuser also abused about 8 other young women… and I suspect there are more… He died in december of Covid… and on the day he died I wrote this poem

          I Am Free…

          I am free in a way
          Most of you will never understand.

          I am free from the darkness
          That huddled in my heart.

          I am free from the fear
          That lurked in my mind.

          I am free from the prison
          That kept me chained to darkness.

          I am free as the wind
          That blows through my forest.

          I am free as the stars
          That dance on clear nights.

          I am free to sing
          Those songs of joy I tucked away.

          I am free
          And my life
          Is no longer owned
          By another.

          Mary Elizabeth Todd
          December 9, 2020

    • Thanks for sharing a view of your world with us. Love your poems. I don’t have sensory overload, but I have a hyperactive startle reflex that makes me jump a loud, or sudden noises. The only other thing that probably comes close is my brain being stuck in overdrive from PTSD. It’s like being stuck fight/flight/freeze/fawn mode all the time. Or the entire stress response is raging with your foot stuck on the gas pedal.

      • Thank you, Benjamin! I love reading your poems also, I have lacked energy to be on here very often commenting lately, but I am always struck by your words and the sheer quantity in which you are able to write. And I can definitely relate to the very sensitive startle reflex. I think it’s something that is very common in people who are neurodivergent and/or who have PTSD. My major in school is psychology, and I am just so fascinated by the way the brain and body work together to respond to stimuli like this. It’s interesting to be able to understand a little better from a psychological perspective, but it is still difficult and somewhat stressful

  18. Erin, so glad to read you today–and love your sitting calmly with headphones on and texting so the senory processing piece doesn’t overwhelm… with my students, the “needles” on skin could be a simple piece of clothing, a tag, a sweater…. it’s real, but let the world perceive the beautiful woman with all her distinguishing qualities… Bi-polar me wants sometimes to try and explain it all, but I too, “fail” and yet we SUCCEED because we are! //she texts back hearts…and tender devotion// Great Line!! //do you just cower in a corner forever//: NO! You let your light shine as you did in this poem… thanks for sharing and virtual hugs, albeit without touching:))

    • I always appreciate your comments, Pat, thank you for this. It is sometimes very overwhelming to feel such a huge lack of “normalcy,” relative to how most other people perceive things. The sensory stuff seems to get worse and not better, but I am at least finding better ways to manage it. But I am doing my best and that’s what matters! Hugs from a distance to you as well, my very encouraging friend ❤️

  19. IF I WERE A SCENT (Take 2)

    If I were a scent,
    I’d be misted lavender,
    weightless, floral, relaxant.

    I’d relish—in the fact
    of being invisible, irresistible,
    on the senses.

    Easily disarm,
    even the best of defenses,
    —Immerse opponents in therapeutic gas.

    Benjamin Thomas


    You make my heart—
    beat raspberry flames of passioned fruit.

    You make my lips—
    sing things absurd, unheard, ultrasonic.

    You make my eyes—
    see wild stars, through your countenance, hung
    in nature’s sky.

    You make my skin—
    burn like sizzling, strewn embers, blown
    like dissipated golden shards.

    You make my taste—
    explode; with hunger like a beast, craving for the feast
    of exotic romance.

    You make me hear—
    the deadly, whistling, whooshing sound,
    of Cupid’s sure-fire arrow.

    Benjamin Thomas


    The sense of touch
    Is dynamic.

    It is the bridge
    between the internal
    and external worlds.

    The inner is balanced,
    routine, tightly bound,

    The outer is unpredictable,
    chaotic, and wildly erratic.

    The sense of touch
    is dynamic.

    It allows us to make
    sense of all objects
    great and small.

    It conveys to us
    the manner of size,
    shape and form.

    The sense of touch
    is dynamic.

    It is the bridge
    between the internal
    and external worlds.

    It is the magical portal—
    between the physical,
    and psychological realms.

    It allows us to substantiate
    a torrent of love—at the helm,
    from one soul to another.

    It allow us to spread the cozy warmth
    of affection—on special delivery,
    from one person to the next.

    It is deeply personal,
    intimate, and much, much
    better than any text.

    It allows us to perceive
    the daily ill-will intent,
    down to the very minute detail.

    It preys upon us
    the siren-song of searing pain,
    wounds, and anger inflicted.

    Then it substantiates the healing rain,
    love and care—that’s only gifted,
    through touch.

    Benjamin Thomas


    I am air—
    weightless, without mass,

    You are solid,
    weighty, flammable,
    we have—potential.

    To be combustible.
    We are a match, ignited
    through phosphoric friction.

    You are red,
    fluorescent flames—
    thorough, merciless.

    I am spent embers.
    Hot, pitiful ashes.

    is matter

    that cannot be

    Our love is


    Benjamin Thomas


    If a rich man is measured
    not by what is taken, or obtained,
    but by what is given;

    Then we are poverty stricken,
    wholly given to the beast of greed,
    mules—a beast of burden.

    It is better to be an emptied vessel,
    than a pot rich in flavor and not
    lacking content.

    It is better to be spent, rather than full,
    or rot and not be content.

    Benjamin Thomas

    • After my mother died, I fell into poverty… I remember one day, I had to make a choice to buy the herd of cat food or me…I prayed really hard that I made the right choice… or that it would be resolved somehow. I went to check the mail and someone sent me enough money for both… Soon after two people gave me money each month. One of those people died and I am paying the money she gave forward to others…. thanks for this poem


    When the lights go out
    all the senses are restricted
    by the suffocation of darkness.

    When the sun goes down
    all the senses lose their fight
    for roaming freedom.

    At the rising of the sun
    the star-baked awakening
    of the senses take flight.

    Benjamin Thomas

    • It is funny that when it is dark I begin to see more clearly things I only glimpsed in the light


    There’s no introduction
    for silent wings
    perching atop
    anxious fears.

    Shadows spring silent
    appear to fly to bright born

    Attempt to pluck out eyes
    wonder-struck with jealousy
    pull a permanent curtain

    Disgrace the face of the dawn
    wrestling the emergence
    of bustling war rays.

    To slow the imminent decay
    and cadence of the black vulture
    evil twin of the day.

    Benjamin Thomas

  26. Waking up to a sense this is weird….

    My cordless phone didn’t ring.
    I was asleep and the phone by my bed
    Didn’t ring either…the land line
    I keep because it is a co-op.
    But there is the speaker on the phone
    Telling me that my power
    Went off at almost nine in the evening,
    And came one right before my phone
    Rattled me awake saying over and over
    My power had been restored…
    I fell asleep at midnight
    With the power working…
    Only to this body less voice
    Saying I had no power for three hours
    Before I fell asleep.
    And why was the cordless phone
    Announcing loudly that it was back on
    When it had not been out to my knowledge…
    I felt I had woken like Alice in that weird dream
    With white rabbits and mad hatters, and Cheshire cats
    And Red Queens running as fast as they can
    Just to stay in one place…
    I shook my head, and said after writing this…
    “I hope this does not mean a day
    Full strange things. Not sure if I am up to dealing
    With a day full of weird ways.”

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    June 22, 2021

  27. A Sense of Beauty…

    I heard it said
    That beauty is in the eye of the beholder…
    I disagree… for beauty is there
    Even when our eyes do not behold it.

    There is beauty in the fingers
    Of a newborn curling its fingers
    Around its father’s finger…
    And we often see that as beautiful,
    But we do not see the beauty-
    Of those fingers, when they are wrinkled with age,
    And scared and gnarled by life,
    As they clasp the hand of a loved one
    In that last minute of life.
    It is there in the hearts of those two hands
    Who have shared a life of love.
    The beauty in those two hands
    Is more beautiful than those of the infant
    Who latches onto his father’s hand.
    For the father loves the infant, but
    The infant does not yet know love.
    It is the father’s love that makes
    This a moment of beauty…

    For love is what makes us notice beauty
    In things and people, we did not see…
    And in that spark of a moment…
    Our eyes see what was always beautiful
    Once love has opened our eyes…

    It maybe true, that beauty is in the eye of the beholder…
    But it does not mean that the beauty
    Wasn’t always there.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    June 22, 2021


    The morning mist surrounds her
    and vast open land awaits.
    Nothing stands in her way ~ yet,
    she hesitates,
    waiting in silence.

    Sensing her world will soon change,
    she pauses to soak in this
    place of peace.

    **photo to accompany will be posted later on my blog

  29. A sense of belonging….

    We all want to belong-
    This longing within us
    Makes us reach out to others
    Maybe like ourselves…
    Who have felt similar pains.
    Maybe those to which we connect…
    Who have felt similar joys.

    I was part of a family
    Who loved me, and
    I loved them.

    My Grannie told me…
    I did not belong
    That they had to keep
    And love me.
    I was only a toddler…
    Learning I was separate…
    And alone broke me
    More than once.
    Until it was what
    I thought I was…
    A person who never belonged.

    Yet I loved them, and
    They loved me.

    The shaking, the slapping,
    And the gritting of her teeth
    When she saw me, never hurt
    As much as her words.

    I made places for myself
    To belong to others,
    But never have belonged
    To anyone but myself.

    I loved them,
    And they loved me,
    But they have died,
    And I am alone.

    I was fine with being alone
    Until recently…
    The little girl who didn’t belong…
    Isn’t the woman that I am.
    I want a sense of belonging…
    Of being more than myself.
    I want the lies that guided me
    To be hammered out of my thinking…
    I want what we all want
    A place of belonging.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    June 22, 2021

  30. Pingback: The Trail Lies Ahead | echoes from the silence

  31. The Scent of Joy

    I usually wake up,
    When I take my first sip of coffee…
    What joy it brings to me…
    Bringing me out of my morning stupor.

    This morning I chose tea…
    Not any tea but one
    Laced with lavender,
    That hints of satin nightgowns,
    And lace and a lazy day.
    What secret passions
    Hide in that whiff of lavender,
    What dreams I hide, within whiffs
    Of lavender bringing a secret joy…
    I am not willing to share.

    This afternoon I will visit my garden.
    I will work with tilling and hoeing,
    And fixing the tomato stakes, and
    Visit the marigolds who throw out joy
    From their leaves to their petals.
    They keep bugs at bay.
    It is the reason I tell people
    To the why I plant marigolds,
    But the truth is
    Roses may smell romantic,
    Iris smell exotic,
    Gardenias leave me breathless,
    Geraniums smell of the earth,
    Marigolds bring me joy.
    Their flowers bright, but
    With their perfume they throw joy
    Out randomly, and that always makes me smile.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    June 22, 2021

  32. To Pingback… I Loved the photo… I loved your poem but I am a sucker for mists… growing up in the mountains they were my comfort…but despite my being a sucker for mists… your poem makes me ponder…which is a compliment.

  33. Please forgive me for this poem….It just had to come out….

    My sense of humor gets me into trouble….

    I have had a wicked sense of humor
    For many years now,
    And it goes at sharp curves, and quick stops,
    Before it races away….

    Working in child protective services
    Gave me a gallows twist on it…
    In a job which can get so dark…
    Relief can only be found in humor,
    At the weirdest and most impractical moments…
    I was not alone… it was the way we front liners survive.

    But this world we live in, shouts hurts and woes,
    And blames others for their strange choices in life.
    To make a good choice I have learned
    Takes considering how it will affect others,
    And if it is going to affect others badly.
    Then I tell you don’t do it…
    It never works out well.

    But still I had to laugh at my bad choice,
    Of sitting on a sofa in a house…
    That smelled of urine,
    Only to have my clothes soaked in it also.
    I stood up rather abrupt, and said,
    I think you need a new couch, and
    Maybe grandma should wear diapers.
    They looked rather stunned at my declaration.
    I drove home and began to laugh…
    It had been a horrid day…
    Cussed out more than once,
    Told the hearing was moved
    And I would be in court tomorrow
    For an emergency hearing, and
    My night would be studying notes,
    But not until I stripped down naked.
    And cleansed every inch of me,
    And threw my clothes away…

    I asked God again,
    When are you going to give me lice,
    So, I can quit this job…
    We made a pack God and me…
    If I get lice… I get to quit.
    Never got them.

    The next day my coworkers laughed at me…
    And I could tell they were glad it was not them…
    They understood my humor…
    They had the same kind…

    I had to learn to tone it down,
    When I was out in public…
    But sometimes I want to shake my head…
    How can people be so crazy…
    Oh, I am not supposed to say that.
    Forgive my little josh,
    I will try to be more careful…

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    June 22, 2021

    (Marry The Gold)

    The beauty of inspiration is hardly inimical.
    The might of its contagion spreads like the wildfire
    of French marigolds.

    It seeks to hold the retina captive—taken hostage,
    with its awestruck glamour, like a tenfold hammer,
    sizzling optic nerves piped to the brain.

    It seeks to remain, replicate its burning sunset flames
    spewed out to whimsical petals—
    edged and tamed by the guardrails of amber yellow.

    True healing seems to be its abiding fellow;
    burning away the dross of pain, anger, and torment
    of hidden sorrows.

    The true rapture of inspiration knows no tomorrow,
    for the skilled nature of its artistry demands the here—
    and now.

    It is an alluring shield against the precise arrows of anxiety,
    deflecting the anguish of a perilous state of mind.

    If we would only labor to find, dig, for its glittering treasure,
    marry the dimension of its true measure, and seek the gold—
    of inspiration.

    Benjamin Thomas


    If I were a scent, I’d be echinacea
    purpurea, or better yet, the common
    sense of hydrangea.

    No wait, if it’s not too late…
    Perhaps, an Oxalis purple clover—
    tell all the others to move over.

    Well, come to think of it…
    I’d much rather be the intelli—
    gence of royal yellow roses,
    yes, now that’s what I meant.
    Hence, the hesitation.
    Makes scents doesn’t it?

    You feel me? Or, smell me?
    Well—you know what I mean.
    And don’t say it’s nonsense,
    because I just made sense of it.

    Benjamin Thomas


    If I could choose to be a scent,
    I’d be elegant Velvet Rose—your perfume.
    Sensible. Mist. Perceptible,
    to you and me. No one could stop,
    our inextricable chemistry.

    To be your skin’s fragrance.
    To be outpoured from your pores.
    To be oh so close, only to know more—
    of you.

    To know the sweet tone of your skin.
    To be on again, off again, on again—
    Only to be alone, with you.

    To know the sweet brushes of your hair.
    To know it’s simple touch.
    To breath, and know your air
    And to know much—more, of you.

    Benjamin Thomas

  37. The scents I miss…

    I have a yellow plaid shirt of Da’s.
    He loved to wear loud non-matching clothes.
    He wore rainbow suspenders,
    With his plaid shirts
    And plaid jacket and plaid cap…
    Totally clashing, but he didn’t care…
    He wore paisley in the mix,
    And thus the reason Ma picked out
    What he wore to work.
    The yellow shirt has lost his scent,
    But I remember when it still clung
    To the clothes he wore those last days.
    I pass others onto nieces who wanted them.
    I will cut up this garish shirt,
    And work it into a quilt one day, I say.
    My cat Dezia loved his left sock and
    Got drunk off the smell.
    I miss her too.

    Ma’s gowns I hugged close
    To smell her once more.
    I cut those up for throws,
    To give to her granddaughters
    And great granddaughters…
    A memory of her for them to hold close.
    I kept her blue sweater and for a long
    Time I would pull it close
    Just to have a bit of her left.

    The scent of someone you love
    Who has passed (and in the southern tradition
    You must lower your eyes, and look sad,
    When that word is mentioned)
    Is a perfume that cannot be made…
    It is a scent uniquely their own.
    You will cling to that smell
    Just to feel them close again.

    I think of people like me,
    Who live alone, and how sad
    No one will ever cling to a shirt,
    A gown or socks just to hang onto their perfume
    Once they are gone for a moment
    Just to know part of them is still there.
    Just for a moment not to grieve.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    June 23, 2021


    In a seashell, movement began in reverberation,
    circling in echoes round about its orifice.

    Until the sound escaped on skittering coattails of
    summer’s breezes—tickling and caressing ocean’s epic waves.

    Drunken by saltwater sea’s symphonic ways,
    wholly lost in its enmity—mesmerized in its
    violent blue sways.

    Benjamin Thomas

  39. A sense of being tired and weary…

    My body does not absorb iron from food…
    And when it begins its downward spiral…
    I begin to feel weary and weak,
    And there is a tiredness that will not let go…

    I know I am at the beginning of the spiral…
    There is a chance I can stop it
    Before it races down that hill like a bolder
    Crushing all in front of it…
    I have to nap… I have to take breaks…
    I don’t want this…
    As I lay down to sleep,
    I feel my tears falling
    Silently for no one is here to hear…
    I know soon if I do not stop it…
    Dark thoughts will invade my brain,
    And my friends will call me daily…
    Just to check on me.
    I have told them… to watch over me…

    I wear at night on my behind
    A patch of iron…
    Praying my hope that
    This one will work,
    For I don’t want this race to the bottom.

    My mind sensed
    How my body is shifting-
    Getting ready to spiral out of its control.
    I used to deny it was happening
    Until I was nearing the bottom
    Towards my end…
    I am not ready to end.

    I do not like this weary feeling…
    For I am a warrior born, and
    I want to defeat its hold on me.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    June 24, 2021

      • thanks I had my last iron infusion in November…I am beginning to sleep a lot which is one of the first signs…. and I get tired easily… I am hoping the iron patch pulls me back up… I see my blood doctor in August…

  40. I come to the garden alone…

    There is a song I love that starts
    With those words…
    As I walk into my little garden,
    I often feel a breeze blow,
    And cascade of different greens
    Glowing in the sunlight
    From the trees, and veggies
    And wild flowers
    Transports me to a different place…
    A place of stillness
    That is difficult to find,
    And as the light glows on me…

    It is then that I feel a wave of peace
    Like a river flowing over me,
    And I know I am loved,
    That my life matters,
    And I know I will go forward…

    The sense of well-being
    Takes hold and guides me
    On this quiet journey
    To where I am connected
    To the Creator who has blessed me
    With these moments of quiet joy…

    Each time I go to my garden alone,
    There comes a minute like this…
    I am blessed as the wind passes me
    To go forward to another…

    I wish I could explain…
    This moment of peace,
    And the sense that it gives me
    Is also a sense of love.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    June 24, 2021

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