Saint Patrick’s sister voices her opinion

For the Thursday Treat prompt at imaginary garden with real toads:


Saint Patrick’s sister voices her opinion

Statue of St. Patrick in Aughagower, County Mayo

Statue of St. Patrick in Aughagower, County Mayo (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

What can one say about a brother?

Everyone knows
they are not saints.
Patrick was no different,
although time and its passing
have made him so.

The truth of it?
There were no snakes
on the island.
How would they have come?

Patrick would not
have driven them out,
he would have sat down
to tea and crumpets, a peat fire,
perhaps a wee whiskey
and blarneyed the snakes
into swimming to France.
Yes, so he would!

A poet, a charmer,
but no saint.
He was Irish, after all.
And that’s the truth of it.

Carol A. Stephen

Company for Lunch (poem)

In response to a prompt at imaginary garden with real toads. Laurie Kolp’s challenge to write to the word miscreant. I saw a photo that Laurie had a link to that resonated, and just happened to work well with the word prompt too.

Company for Lunch

Just before noon our noses
find the source of wafting smells
fried potatoes and hot oil, a soupςon
of vinegar and salt, ketchup for non-purists
or non-Canadians. Chip wagon.

Chips (BE), French fries (AE), French fried po...

Chips (BE), French fries (AE), French fried potatoes (AE) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

We order our usual medium fries, salt
and vinegar at the half-full point,
then another generous scoop of hot
potato, fingers of starchy yum.

Trail of Crumbs photo Credit: L. Kolp

My brother’s serving overflows, he drops five
leaving a trail of crumb-gulls,
french fry hawks and other
feathered miscreants to squawk
and hover, a flurry of wings as each
tries to steal a treasured prize.
In thirty seconds, no trace of spill remains.
A wary truce as birds move off to
wait for the next free lunch.

Carol A. Stephen

August 11, 2012

Wisdom of Thumbs and Soil

A poem celebrating the knowledge that comes with age and experience of the world, and ancient wisdom.

2005 Powwow

2005 Powwow (Photo credit: Smithsonian Institution)

Wisdom Of Thumbs And Soil


Our elders walk in the way of the wise,
they know but wait to be asked
questions by those who have
forgotten their thumbs. The young
cannot sign, are left to wander in
cold wearing the skirts of summer, their
feet frozen in January snows, blue toes
poking through sandals, eyes not yet
mirrors of what and who has passed.


Zulu woman making pot at reconstructed traditi...

Zulu woman making pot at reconstructed traditional village, South Africa (Photo credit: gbaku)

Our elders are skilled in the craft
of beads and skins, knives curving
along the hides, knuckles curved
white under the tension of the leather,
fingertips delicate as they knot threads


to bind beads to a silken cord.  


Withering hands spin in the shadow
of grief, as the mind grows and the body fades.
Those who begin to question hear
the dead whispering stories in the roots
of trees. Those coming after will
rest among the roots of ancestors,
will take from the soil knowledge of
seed and root and branch. This tree
bears the seed of all trees yet to come,
as it was born of all trees that
have come before.  



Tree (Photo credit: blmiers2)

Carol A. Stephen
October 14, 2011


some of the phrases in this poem based
on Stephen Jenkinson’s Orphan Wisdom teachings


A poem for Friday the 13th

No, today is not my birthday, but I did write this for my birthday back in April.

Circling Friday the 13th date on calendar with...

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

13 is Not My Unlucky Number

You say Friday the 13th and spooky
in the same sentence. You say unlucky.
I say Friday the 13th and birthday.
Being born on the 13th day has its own burdens.

To see ill luck upon my special day
would be an unlucky omen, oxymoron.
Bad luck cancelling good? Imagine
what kind of birthday wishes I might
choose, blowing out candles in an ill wind.

I always counter the bad luck quotes.
My lucky number is often 13.

Carol A. Stephen