Sally had a hangnail on her left fourth toenail
irksome though the agnail be
Sally chose not to see
Sally drew the conclusion
that the hangnail was an illusion
her claw ensnared many a thread on the bedclothes in the night
grew to proportions out of control
spiked the very fabric of her life
Stalwartly Sally strolled onward through her days
one foot then the other in a blissful, mindless in haze
conversed with the earth,
Sally plodded her trusted soles
taking along her real wounds
her weary, unhealed soul
Sally marched in blistering sun, rain, sleet and snow
she sauntered until her hangnail grew itself quite old.
over time and measured ground
as galling things will do
Sally’s snag worked its way up, out and through
now Sally’s soles are worn
her soul has seen the dawn
She continues to walk
with a certain smirk
just as if she never knew.

“Until Every Child Is Well”

Our son was kidnapped quite similarly to this young survivor, Justina Pelletier.
His occurred prior to social media’s influence. You won’t find him in the news. Over months of time they steadfastly divided our family and eventually conquered us. They methodically frayed the very fabric of who we were. Tore us to shreds and we are still putting the pieces back together.
He withstood abuse, long term isolation, torture in the form of daily water-boarding type punishment, gaslighting and brainwashing. DAILY, FOR EIGHT MONTHS IN ISOLATION AT 14 YRS. OF AGE.
On a locked pediatric psychiatric ward against our will.
We lost him. He lost us. We all lost each other.
So traumatized and shamed was I to have had my beautifully nurtured boy torn from my arms under such violent accusations, I became mute around it.
Year’s later I began to write through my muted state.
I’ll continue to write this story because most of you think nothing like this will ever happen to you.
And most of you are right.
But just in case one of you finds yourself or a close relative or friend in such a situation,

And year’s later, my boy still missing, I found a pen.

“Ghost ghost ghost
How is he Now
Peter Hunt, PhD, Satan
he knows the most
Never fair for either
How could it come to that
How could it ever have come to that
I promised you
I promised you, my dear sweet child
I promised so hard
Never ever, ever to let them
Allow them
Permit them
To do the unthinkable
The unimaginable
The atrocious
Take you from me
Take me from you
A promise so hard
A heart so ragged
A soul so stolen
A life so tender
My once upon a baby boy
Little guy
My reason for joy
They stole you from me
They stole you from he
They stole you from we
They stole you from
the you that was you
the you that would be”

Wilde N.B.


They failed to keep their promise, “until every child is well”.

Wish you well Justina. You are not alone. Ride your glorious horses into the wind.
You are beautiful.

Photo credit, FB A Miracle For Justina page

Gentle Water

Many years ago a doctor asked me,
“Do you have a pair of sneakers?”
She had fully assessed my state of despair. In her professional opinion she could offer medications and therapy, both of which evidence strongly backed in their effectiveness. Both of which I’d given more than a fair shot over time.
We sat in silence for a moment.
I replied, “Yes. I do, but what do you think a stupid pair of sneakers is going to do to repair my splintered life?”

And this photo is from my morning walk with my newly adopted rescue dog, Red and my camera.

If you see her, please tell her it worked. Her name is Theresa.

If One Could Talk In Idioms

“Who let the cat out of the bag?” Kitty exclaimed. She realized the Iceland trip was no longer a surprise to Finch, her Dad. He is as stubborn as a mule. This news opened up a whole new can of worms. After months of careful planning, to have to change horses midstream really raised her hackles.
She glanced around the room at her three siblings. Buck, always one to take the bull by the horns uncharacteristically excused himself. Said he was going to see a man about a horse then have a gander at the oil burner.
Channing, her calm, sensible older sister looked across the old oak kitchen table top.
“Kit, why do you always strain at a gnat and swallow a camel? You know that even if I wanted to mention it I couldn’t. With my new job at City Hall, I’ve been flat out like a lizard drinking. The mayor thinks I flew the coop as it is.”
Kit eventually got around to landing an eagle eye on those of Fawn. Her youngest sibling, last in the family pecking order. The one the stork had surprised them with on a lark. For seven years Kit was protected under her mother’s wing, then Fawn. She remembered feeling as mad as a box of soapy frogs when Fawn arrived.
From nearly the beginning Fawn proved to be a fox in the hen house. Seeming to always find a way to get someone’s goat. When it came to Mom’s good graces, Fawn took the lion’s share.
Kit knew even as a child that the world was her oyster and that Fawn was only a one trick pony. Not that she was an ugly duckling, but Fawn did need their mother’s extra TLC after all. As kids, Kit and Fawn fought like cat and dog. Kit would learn the hard way that she’d even up the score with Mom’s attention when pigs fly.
Buck always felt like a fish out of water. He went through the typical teenage phase of trying to impress his peers as the cool cat. As he matured he found himself comfortably embracing being something of a lone wolf. Grateful that his wife, Robin was a social butterfly.
Now, the four siblings perched among each other in the kitchen of days long gone. Buck, the lone wolf, Channing, who lived in a world of puppies and rainbows, Fawn, sometimes meaner than a junkyard dog, and Kit, ever the people pleaser.
Kit had arranged the family trip to help their Dad through the dogged nights and day’s grief after losing their Mom. Sure it had been three years ago, but he was still as sick as a parrot over it. Her therapist advised her against it of course, saying let sleeping dogs lie.
Buck’s phone chirped off a text. Just Robin chiming in.
Dad texted to say he’s on his way home with Bee Sparrow, of all people.
“Isn’t she the cougar from the golf club?” Sniped Fawn.
Yeah! Beatrice Sparrow, lives next door the Bares. Retired CEO. She’s a fox in the boardroom I understand.” Quipped Buck.
“Now let’s not have a cow over this.” There’s got to be a reasonable explanation.” Piped in Channing from across the table.
Just then the kitchen door swung open. In walked Bee Sparrow followed by Finch. All four children stared silently.
Buck, Channing, Kit and Fawn, I’d like you to meet Bee Sparrow. Bee and I, well, me and Bee, we’re not flying to Iceland. We’re taking a vacation in the Villages. Then we’re on a pigeon wing home and Bee is move in.”
“Move in?” asked Channing.
“Yes, Bee and I are going to live together before we get married.”
Fawn whispered under her breath, “I knew it.”
Buck gave them both a big bear hug.
Kit said, “Dad, what about our trip to Iceland? It’s all planned and paid for.”
“I know Kit, but that trip was the straw that broke the camels back. It made me realize that this is my life now. I’m going to live it my way. I appreciate your efforts, but it’s time you get that bee out of your bonnet. Every dog has its day and it’s high time for me and Bee to fly like the birds!”


Five Words In Fiction

“Capuchin, Capuchin!”
“For once, children, allow me to walk.”
Friar Benedict brushed past the peasant children as he rushed along the cobblestones toward the monastery. The Franciscans called for his presence at the bed of his dying mentor, Friar Francis.
He carried his young countenance through the village into the countryside. His destination, the tiny monastery where he was raised by Friar Francis. Set atop an alpine mountain, a solitary sanctuary of prayer.
Just as he’d done hundreds of times previously, Friar Benedict traversed the arabesque terrain leading to the place he once called home.
Upon arriving he tried to ignore the harbinger as the bell struck twelve.
Without knocking Friar Benedict flung open the wooden, cuprous hinged doors. An immediate sense of something acrid emanating from the cooks kitchen overtook him.
“What is that foulness you’re stirring up in your kettle, Friar Cook?”
“The potion, our last effort! You’ve made the trip, Brother. He’ll rest now.”
“I don’t know what you’ve hunted down to put into him, Cook. But if he can eat that he’ll survive for certain! I’ll go to see him.”
In the dark sleeping quarters the old Franciscan’s frail body lay across the bed while he slept. His formerly round cheeks, sunken. His strong jawline now sharp and jutting, dangled almost unhinged. Friar Benedict couldn’t find it in him to awaken the old priest or leave without word. He chose to sit on a small milking stool by the bed.
Memories of his life with and before Friar Francis sifted through his mind. Friar Francis rescued him from a life of loneliness.

He remembered the orphanage, the other children, the devastating fire. Before that, with his Gypsy Mother, he remembered the still, reflective pond and the skrying. The hope that someone would one day save him.
Then the day of days that Friar Francis and the Franciscans happened upon him as he scavenged the forest floor for food.
And every day thereafter in their loving, nurturing care.

Now the dying Friar Francis registered Benedict’s quiet presence. Slowly he stirred from his sleep.
Reaching out, his aged hand appeared withered and frail.
Benedict held it in his, patting it ever gently. He spoke softly, leaning across the shadowed space.
“Friar, Friend, Brother, Father,
I’m here. Lord Jesus, I’m here.”

N.B. Wilde

Written in response to creative writing class prompt for use of the words:

Capuchin, Arabesque, Cuprous, Acrid, Scrying

One page, 12 font, single line space limit.

*Photo of The Capuchin Church, Rapperswil, (German: Kapuzinerkloster Rapperswil) is a Capuchin friary located in Rapperswilin the Canton of St. Gallen, Switzerland

Source: Wikipedia

Fort Getty

Uncle Eddie was my Moms brother. Her only sibling, two years her junior. She was crazy about him and he about her. When he, the sailor returned states side from the Korean War she had given birth to half a gaggle of kids.
I guess he figured he’d help her out on the island while Dad worked in the city. He helped in the form of taking us on adventures around the island. Not to mention the fact that he adored us kids! One of his favorites was driving the oldest bunch of us out to Fort Getty once a week or so for a walk along the dilapidated military dock. A history lesson was always included and it always centered around war. But we expected that. We were Baby Boomers. Post World War II born and bred.
We loved Uncle Ed and the attention he showered upon us. I had a particular fondness for our trips to Fort Getty. It was a real fort back then. No park, no parking area or fences. No picnic tables or benches. Not a single thing of comfort or pleasure. Only an old abandoned military fort with two gravel tire tracks. A fort with a long dock stretching as far as I could walk out over the sea to the north. When we reached the end with our Uncle he’d tell us all sorts of tales about the sea. Most of them were biology based, related to what we could actually see clinging to the pier or the sand or swimming past us from where we stood, sat, crouched.
Sometimes we swam with him, but we had to climb down the old ladder into the icy water instead of slowly immersing ourselves on the shore of Mackerel Cove. We avoided the ladder whenever we could. He never pressured us.
I was very skinny as a kid. I believed that I would one day misstep and fall into one of the cracks between the dock planks and perish.
Today and whenever I return to Fort Getty I see a blurred image from long ago of my Uncle Eddie there at the end of the dock. All thick black hair and laughing. The five oldest of the Wilde kids and the dog looking up to him like he was the hero that he was. Barefoot, well maybe flip-flops due to Andrea getting that one huge splinter, (grrrr) swimsuits, pails, shovels, questions.
He’d answer all the questions, we’d pile back into the car and round Beavertail to listen to the music of the fog horn if the weather allowed.
By the time we returned home, Mom had maybe fed and diapered the babies, put them down for their naps and started dinner.
“Mom! Uncle Eddie took us to Fort Getty! Look what we found!”

And I still haven’t slipped through those huge cracks in the dock.

This sea loving woman is standing right where we all stood starting some sixty years ago.
I see all of us there still.

Writer’s Block

My words have lost their gravity fallen into outer space
wieghtless in the state they’re in.
Where in the world will I begin?

The alphabet drifts up into the night
to the stars, the moon, the milky way.
with capitals and lower case
letters align, spell out, display
then fly between the charcoaled space.

Barely percptible to the naked eye
locutions float ever high
comply across the midnight sky.

Commas, colons, comets
parenthesis and planets
quotes and quantum leaps of faith
out of reach, yet somehow safe.

Verses form in constellations
guide dreamers and schemers toward edifications
They seem to never end
beyond the moon, around each bend
dialogue written in astral stairs
oms echo through light years.

I cannot find it in me to write.
My words have lost their gravity fallen into outer space.
wieghtless in the state they’re in.

This is where my work begins.