writing

Swans in the Mist – Part One

Reposted from April, 2021 – Refresher for Part Three


Charlotte stood in the middle of the sprawling garden of her family’s country home, looking over the small fountain’s flowing water. The smell of jasmine, lavender, and roses filled the air. Charlotte tugged at her bodice; its boning digging in to her waist. Her flowing skirt of silk brocade floated out over her bloomers. She never enjoyed wearing formal dresses and didn’t understand why it was so necessary, especially when they were not entertaining.

She spied a small orange butterfly and walked towards it, around some rose bushes and other shrubs. Why couldn’t she be free like her little visitor? She twirled the neck tie of her blouse. Oh, how she longed to be free of all her family’s expectations. Currently they were trying to match her, and she was tired of meeting suitors who didn’t suit her at all.

The butterfly floated towards an arched pathway. Two cement swan planters sat at the entrance, full of blooming flowers. Charlotte followed the butterfly down the path. She had never been this way, and looked forward to a new discovery and a distraction for herself.

As she walked the trail, a light mist started to fill the floor. An owl cried out in the distance. The noises from the forest frightened Charlotte. She reached through a pocket of her outer skirt and felt for her dagger strapped to her left leg. She learned to protect herself growing up, there were too many rogues willing to kidnap and harm members of her family. She felt the cold steel hilt; it calmed her.

She continued down the path. Fallen branches tugged at her heavy skirt. One snagged it, ripping a small patch of the deep red fabric. Her boots peeked out from the hem of her skirt. A cobbler made them to her specifications, brown with crossing straps, and tall enough to cover her calves, to just below her knees. They protected her legs from the scratching undergrowth of the trail.

As she continued to walk, she lost her footing and slid down an embankment. The only thing stopping her from falling into the ravine below was her skirt which had become entangled on twigs and branches. She dangled briefly, reaching for a nearby tree trunk and struggling to get her footing. Finally, she found a hold to pull herself up, but her snagged skirt would not let her move further. At least she could now firmly stand without slipping.

Luckily, her left hand was free. She reached for her dagger, pulled it out, and began slicing away at the silk. Her mother would be furious, but which was more important — her dress or her life? Finally, she freed herself and climbed up onto the tree trunk.

The trunk spanned the ravine, but Charlotte had lost her sense of direction during the fall. She saw two trails, one on each end as she sat on the trunk. She decided to take the closer one as that seemed to be the correct one. Carefully she traversed the trunk and stepped back on the trail.

With her skirt in tatters, and the bodice still digging in, she took her dagger and slid it under the strapping in the bodice. Her maid had tied the strapping in such a way she could not get out otherwise. Finally, as the straps loosened, she took in a deep breath and her blouse floated away from her skin, allowing her to relax, and the bodice fell to the forest floor.

She turned in the direction she believed to be back home. The trail continued to turn, but did not seem familiar. Finally, in the distance, she noticed an arched opening. She picked up her pace, ready to be home. But, when she reached the opening, home was not what she saw.

Her jaw dropped. Before her was a lake, covered with mist. Swans floated nearby. By the lake was a small bench. She sat down to take in the view and to rest up before heading back up the trail. As she watched the swans, her eyes grew heavy and she succumbed to slumber.

Two shadows in the form of a woman and a man approached the bench. The woman checked Charlotte’s pulse and alertness. She was completely out, but alive. The woman nodded her head at the man. The man slipped his hands under Charlotte’s back and knees, picking her up, and holding her close to his chest. The shadows then disappeared back into the mist with Charlotte in tow.

writing

Decorating the Tannenbaum

Little white lights brighten the tree, as ornaments dangle from each branch.

Thoughtfulness goes into decorating, each treasure unwrapped and admired before hanging.

Some are decades old, filled of memories of childhood and long ago,

Others are newer, highlighting travels and favorite places.

Bells and snowflakes are a must. The jingling of the bells brings delight,

and the crystal and porcelain snowflakes, a collection through the years.

A touch of wildlife, birds, and deer when the theme is nature bound,

Shells, dolphins and turtles when the sea begins to call.

But every ornament is unique and special in its own way.

It’s a joy to put them up, bringing smiles all around.

poetry, writing

Good Night

by Carl Sandburg

Many ways to say good night.

Fireworks at a pier on the Fourth of July
      spell it with red wheels and yellow spokes.
They fizz in the air, touch the water and quit.
Rockets make a trajectory of gold-and-blue
      and then go out.

Railroad trains at night spell with a smokestack mushrooming a white pillar.

Steamboats turn a curve in the Mississippi crying a baritone that crosses lowland 
cottonfields to razorback hill.

It is easy to spell good night.
            Many ways to spell good night.


This poem is in the public domain.


To celebrate the 4th of July, I chose to share this Carl Sandburg’s poem instead of trying to come up with my own.

I learned of Carl Sandburg as a child in Chicago. The first part of this poem reminds me of fireworks over the city, imagining what it was like downtown to see them at Navy Pier. As a kid, I’d lay atop my dresser, (…I was six or seven…) and look out the windows in the corner of my room, watching the fireworks display from a near by forest preserve.

Happy Independence Day, USA!

writing

Star-Crossed Heroes

He was her Steve Trevor, her Superman.

Now she’s lost in a marvelous universe

living with the Hulk,

while Clark has his Lois Lane.

This world is foreign to her soul,

But she remains all the same.

The Hulk shows he needs her and wants her,

He’s gentle and kind; a really good man.

She’s grateful Clark found his Lois,

Lois could give him so much more

than she ever could. But still,

he was her Steve Trevor, her Superman,

and that can never be forgotten

by his Amazonian Princess.

writing

“Christmas Eve/Sarajevo” – TSO

It’s Christmastime. She’s sitting in the drive, windows rolled up, air conditioning going full blast. She’s in no hurry to go in to entertain the family sitting in the living room. There’s time for that. For now, she needs to listen.

The music starts to play…purely instrumental, purely orchestral, purely rock. Some may be shocked; it’s her second favorite holiday song behind Fogelberg’s “Same Old Lang Syne”. She reaches for the volume and turns it up, as loud as her car speakers can handle. The windows and mirror begin to vibrate.

Carol of the Bells and God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen are amped up and electrifying. She closes her eyes. She feels the beat and moves her hands against the steering wheel before her.

She’s transported to another place, frozen over, snow falling, a vision of an eerily silent place fills her mind….a far distance away from the hot Florida holiday. She gets lost in the sounds for three and a half minutes.

The song closes. She breathes, and turns off the car. Time to see the family.


It’s that time of year, where thoughts of cooler weather and the holidays start in my world…Christmas in July. Growing up, my dad would pull out his tapes, and later, CDs, and begin playing holiday music this month. I’ll be sharing various snippets this month in honor of his memory. I hope you enjoy this a little blast of Winter as the summer heat settles in.

writing

Title Bound

Magic, do you feel it in the air?

The hair standing up on your neck,

the electricity coursing through your veins.

Hearts pounding like thunder.

Excitement as the stick hits the puck.

Screaming ensues as it flies across the ice.

Thunder Bug enlivens the crowd.

They rally on some more,

fighting for time in the rink.

Checking and charging,

breakaways and more.

He shoots! He scores!

Let’s Go Lightning!

Let’s Go Lightning!

writing

Wishes

I wish I’d had a little Boo,

A sweet little girl, wide-eyed and innocent.

Big eyes, the color of her Dad’s,

Brown hair like her Mom’s in pigtails

And an infectious giggle that didn’t stop.

Joy and laughter,

coloring and running around.

A love for her monster Sully, ever so sweet.

I wish I’d had a little Boo.

A sweet little girl to read fairytales to,

Spinning up some special stories just for her.

Watching her grow and blossom.

I wish I’d had a little Boo.

writing

A New Phase

A beautiful girl stands at the window looking out to the garden beyond. Raindrops roll down the window as the rain stops. She raises the window and the curtains catch in the breeze; the smell of flowers permeate their room. The dark clouds slowly give way to the sun and the flowers glisten in the light.

She sighs a deep sigh as she looks to her left. Her little sister, still so small, sleeps peacefully. She tortured her sister growing up, teasing her endlessly. But now she is faced with the future and needs to mature. That doesn’t mean she won’t pick and joke any more, but she’s learned, she also needs to keep an eye out for her little sister too…oh, the benefits and responsibilities of being the first born.

Soon she might be able to date boys, when her dad and mom let her. Shh, don’t tell them, but she’s had her first kiss. She will need lots of room to grow; hopefully her parents remember being teens.

She also feels she needs to achieve…she’s a smart one and creative too. She wonders how high school will be different from her old school…especially after the roller coaster ride the pandemic had on her education.

Her body is changing; she’s rocketed up to over five-foot-eight, so much taller than she ever expected. She’s changing from a girl to a young lady. She’s still learning how to move and dress in this new figure of hers. Her hair hangs straight and long. She wonders if she should change it, but that can wait for now. There’s still an innocent young girl there, staring back at her in the mirror.

Summer is escaping quickly, and fall will arrive soon. So much growth and change is on its way. But for now, she enjoys what is left of summer and keeps on being a kid for just a bit more. She returns to the window and rests her head in her hand. The curtains flutter around her. Growing up can wait.


Dedicated to my friends with firstborn girls, and all the drama that comes along as they grow up.

Inspired by a poem from Mitchel David Ring: https://thelightison.blog/2021/06/29/firstborn/. Thank you for the inspiration! ~ DRM

writing

Scars

My mind drifts back to a time when

Innocence and new love ruled.

The scars were few,

you gently explored them

with your touch and with your kiss.

I only had two back then, but now there are more.

Would you explore them and show me

That gentleness once again?

The one on my knee has turned to many

The white scars glare when I am tan.

The small one on my bicep, something benign.

My elbow scarred from falling to the pavement.

Would you be gentle to them?

The stretch marks that cover me,

Where depression and weight took their toll.

The three inch scar at my bikini line,

Removing the reason for no children.

Only to end at my first scar,

behind my upper lip from

when I fell as a child.

Would you care, would you be kind?

Would you explore my scars with your gentleness again?

writing

Good Friends

You know you’re good friends when:

You don’t clean before they arrive.

They’ve seen you without makeup.

They’ve seen you with your hair a mess.

You can laugh together at being stupid.

You can cry in front of them and they know

whether to hug you or slap you silly, or both…

And you have conversations about poop.