Friendship Oak

On a trip to Long Beach, Mississippi a couple of years ago with two of my traveling buddies, we spied this humongous tree on the side of a large building (which turned out to be the Southern Mississippi Gulf Park Campus), and decided to have a closer look.

This sign was posted at the entrance.
We were amazed by its size!
It was roped off, so this was a close as we could get.

After returning home, I learned that as of 2011, this tree stood 59 feet high, and had a circumference of 19.8 feet. Throughout its long life, it has survived hurricane winds that have stripped it of its leaves, and has had its roots saturated with seawater from storm surges from the Gulf of Mexico. At least twice since the 1950s, acorns have been gathered for seedlings for replanting along the Mississippi Gulf Coast to replace the live oaks that were destroyed by Hurricanes Camille and Katrina.

A view of the Gulf from the front of the campus.

The Turn

For we mere mortals, the apathetic world keeps turning.
Fanatical time goose-steps forward, ever forward,
leaving behind wrinkles and gray hair, aches and pains.
And a cautious wistfulness takes root in our hearts, 
to turn back the clock, to be granted a do-over.
But Father Time—or perhaps, Mother Time—heeds no one.

If I could be granted a wish, a single solitary wish—just one,
this old Earth would spin backward, until it reached the turn
where I took the path through the easy valley instead over
yon rock-strewn hill. The green valley lay forward,
it’s way smooth and grassy, no challenge to home and heart.
The hill looked enormous, formidable, so I fled from the pain

that can transpire with a challenge met, for the nature of pain
makes one shun an operose endeavor. And not one
to take the more difficult way, I tucked away my heart.
I locked all the doors, ignored the wary words turning
somersaults in my imagination, pushing forward 
against my closed mind. In time, they played dead, rolled over.

Time swept away my eagle’s voice, raucous cries now over.
No sound escaped; even attempting to call out caused pain.
The eagle I was meant to be, folded her wings; forward
momentum ceased. Once multiple paths became only one.
The words became memories as the world turned and turned.
But inside the raging silence, a hatchling stole my heart.

The hatchling became a nestling, then fledgling, bold of heart,
Flew away from a nest that grew cold, its purpose now over.
Then, inside the raw silence, words woke, twisted, twined, and turned,
Called out to the comatose eagle, wakened the pain
of a repressed voice that had grown rusty with age. “You are one
once more,” spoke the words. “The time has come to fly forward.”

Now the eagle shouts her words. Body time-worn she pushes forward,
For though a day late and a dollar short, she still has heart.
Time may march on, train-wreck the body, but silences no one.
If the words are yet on life support, they can be warmed over,
the chill chased away, freeing vocals of moth-eaten pain
that withers the soul when what it is meant to be is overturned.

The eagle in me soars forward, my words far from over.
Letters flourish in my heart, dulls old age’s constant pain.
At long last I am the one I was before I missed the turn.

©2021 KT Workman


(Note: The sestina is a strict ordered form of poetry, dating back to twelfth century French troubadours. It consists of six 6-line (sestets) stanzas followed by a 3-line envoy. Rather than use a rhyme scheme, the six ending words of the first stanza are repeated as the ending words of the other five stanzas in a set pattern. The envoy uses two of the ending words per line, again in a set pattern.

First stanza,..1 ..2 ..3 ..4 ..5 ..6

Second stanza, ..6 ..1 ..5 .. 2 ..4 ..3

Third stanza, ..3 ..6 ..4 ..1 ..2 ..5

Fourth stanza, ..5 ..3 ..2 ..6 ..1 ..4

Fifth stanza, ..4 ..5 ..1 ..3 ..6 ..2

Sixth stanza, ..2 ..4 ..6 ..5 ..3 ..1

Concluding tercet:

middle of first line ..2, end of first line ..5

middle of second line ..4, end of second line..3

middle if third line ..6, end of third line ..1)

Definition of a sestina taken from http://www.shadowpoetry.com/


Image by suju-foto from Pixabay

Winter in August

This is a simple monochromatic watercolor painting of a winter scene I did for my class a couple months ago. Only one color was used, raw umber muddied down a little using neutral tint. The point of this lesson was to let the watercolor paper serve as the color white. And on this early-August day here in the South, I have to say all that snow looks pretty darn good.


Tanka 3

red-gold cannot stay
frost ices flaming tresses
as winter creeps in
through autumn’s unguarded door
forging fire into silver

©2021 KT Workman

(Note: A tanka is a form of Japanese poetry made up of 5 lines containing 31 syllables. The 1st line has 5 syllables; 2nd, 7 syllables; 3rd, 5 syllables; 4th, 7 syllables; 5th, 7 syllables. It can have any theme.)


Image by Mystic Art Design from Pixabay

Putting on a Show

At the urging of a recent (as of today) WordPress friend and excellent photographer, Timmothy Price at http://offcenternoteven.com, I decided to start sharing some pictures I have taken with my iPhone, along with watercolor paintings I have done. Please don’t judge either too harshly because I am strictly an amateur concerning both. I place no copyright on the photos I share; anyone is free to copy and use.

In early spring, the flowers on an oak-leaf hydrangea are creamy white…
Then, the flowers gradually take on a pink hue…
And as summer sets in, turn bronze.

I have several oak leaf hydrangeas around my home. They are very hardy, but do best in partial shade.

Mother Moon

Mother Moon looks down on me tonight,
Full, pregnant, an alabaster ball on the horizon.
My lonely spirit yearns to take flight.

I wonder—does She feel Her children’s plight,
Or our heartaches uncaringly shun?
Mother Moon looks down on me tonight.

Oh, lovely lady, with my tears I write
Odes to your glory—have you seen a one?
My lonely spirit yearns to take flight.

If I could unfurl wings, become a sprite,
I would fly to your domain, eschew the sun.
Mother Moon looks down on me tonight.

You climb through the stars, my envy You incite.
I hunger to rise with You, dressed to bedizen.
My lonely spirit yearns to take flight.

Grant me wings and I will be Your acolyte,
Tiptoe past twilight, with this old earth be done.
Mother Moon looks down on me tonight.
My lonely spirit yearns to take flight.

©2021 KT Workman

(Note: A villanelle  poem has a fixed form, written in tercets, usually five in number, followed by a final quatrain, all based on two rhymes. The 1st and 3rd lines of the 1st stanza are repeated in alternating order throughout the poem, and appear together as the last two lines in the final quatrain.

Rhyme scheme: a-b-a, a-b-a, a-b-a, a-b-a, a-b-a, a-b-a-a.)


Image by Gerhard G. from Pixabay

You’re Only Lonely

I was watching YouTube videos tonight, music for the most part, and stumbled upon a song I hadn’t heard in years—“You’re Only Lonely”, released in 1979 and written and sung by J. D. Souther. Though Souther was known more for being a songwriter, his vocals on this song are as amazing, heart-wrenching, and beautiful, as are the words themselves.

I know it’s old, but damn, it’s good!

I hope you’ll give it a listen…

Sweet Time

Listen now and heed me well
To this tragic, timeless tale—
We’ve all lost loved ones
To distance and death
And occasionally, to circumstance.
Or just by believing there was time,
Sweet, sweet time, always time,
To visit and while away that time.
Yes, all the time in the world,
Static, breathless, endless time
I believed—
When I was young.

Years pass by in the blink of an eye,
And you notice one day
How many have died.
Gone, all gone, with time’s treacherous tides,
Their scattered, ivory bones picked clean
And carried away into death’s dawn.
Time, sweet time, and them—
Now gone.

Time is not so sweet anymore,
You long for the grim reaper
To knock upon your door,
And drag you away,
You care not where,
Over here, over there, anywhere.
It makes no difference,
Any place will do
As long as it is far away
From this world now without you—
And you and you and you.
Far too many yous
Have stepped beyond the veil.
And you contemplate,
Anticipate—

Do they frolic upon some sandy shore,
No aches, no pains,
No worries anymore?
Is there a chair saved just for you
At the table where they meet?
All say a prayer upon that beach,
Good bread, good meat,
Good God, let’s eat.
Teeth young and sharp,
Do they tear into food?
And lusty, not rusty,
Into each other too?
And be not at the mercy
Of fickle, tricky time,
For in this hallowed place
There is no time.
Just laughter and love
And the joining of friends,
God knows I long for that—
As I long for the end.

©2021 KT Workman



Image by dalnimi oh from Pixabay

Fear the Wrath of the Lord

Fear the wrath of the Lord!
The soulless preacher yells.
Lest you be damned and cast down into His eternal hell—
Yea, smitten with the fury of his mighty golden sword.

In flaming paper boats, the piceous Styx you will ford,
Sails strung with clacking bones and screaming, screeching bells.
Fear the wrath of the Lord!
The soulless preacher yells.

His shiny, black shoes pound the boards,
His dark, shifty eyes flash a tell,
While his carefully crafted words cast a spell
Upon the brainwashed zombie hoard.
Fear the wrath of the Lord!
The soulless preacher yells.

©2021 KT Workman

(Note: Originating in French lyrical poetry of the 14th century, a rondel prime poem is a fixed form of verse based on two rhyme sounds and consisting usually of 14 lines divided into three stanzas. The first two lines of the 1st stanza are repeated as the refrain of the 2nd and 3rd stanzas. The meter is open, but usually has eight syllables per line. Rhyme scheme: A-B-b-a, a-b-A-B, a-b-b-a-A-(B)—capital letters represent lines repeated verbatim.)


Image courtesy of:

Zeferli Stock Image and Video Portfolio – iStock (istockphoto.com)

Pay the Fiddler

(Note: this is a follow-up to Good Enough.)

Marlena wouldn’t have opened her door to just any man, a girl had to be careful after all. But when she’d parted the curtains a smidge and got a gander of the pretty man standing on the stoop, she about tripped over her own feet getting to the door and flinging it open.

“Well, hello there,” she said, pasting on a saucy grin. “What can I do for you?”

Light bugs and moths danced around the porch light, throwing flitting shadows over his scarred face. He quirked a black eyebrow. “Marlena Bledsoe?”

“The one and only.” Must’ve been asking about me down at Rudy’s. She tucked a bleached-blonde curl behind her ear, cocked a hip.

“It’s time to pay.”

The smile slid from Marlena’s face. Her belly knotted up. “Huh?” But she knew…

Continue reading Pay the Fiddler