Coming Out Of The Closet Mark lll

So, I joined the ranks of twooters who twoot. For some reason, I find it easier to decline the verb, ‘to twoot’ than ‘to twitter’. Surely, tweeting has nothing to do with twittering? They don’t even have the same root verb. In the interests of my own sanity, I am sticking to ‘twoot’. At least, while talking about it.

My youngest sister talked me through the process of twooting and I felt good to go. A little surreptitious lurking was required, I thought. Say little. Watch and learn.

I know. I couldn’t.                                        

My lurking lasted a relatively short time and one or two twoots just begged for a little twoot back. So I did.

Then last night I got into a twootering conversation with someone my sister follows. Yes, use all resources.

This delightful person is a historian. ( I refuse to use ‘an’ – there is a breathed h there when said. Historian. See? ‘An’ has no business there. Even if it may be deemed correct by some. Or a lot.  An honest answer to flout grammatical inaccuracies.)

Anyway, I digress. As I am wont to do.

This twootee was sharing little tidbits of information on medieval Ireland. Lots of little bits. And, honest to God, each bit was funnier than the last. Did you know that in medieval Ireland if a woman could sew she was a desired commodity? Twooted a twoot on that one.

Did you know that there was an Irish goddess of sorts who had a beard (not on her chin) that reached to her knees? How could I not twoot to that? Really, how could I not?

And so it went on. Every little twoot she gave had me ended. I even resorted to using acronyms I dislike. LMAO and LOL and such. Can’t waste characters when limited to whatever number it is that hasn’t stuck in my head yet.

I just watched as the numbers decreased and I was only half way through a sentence. So, delete, edit, make the most of the few allowed.

This could be good for me, I think. (Obviously, it hasn’t kicked in yet judging by the length of this post. Thought I’d say it first.)

It’s like trying to describe something on a postcard instead of a letter. Trying to keep comments brief. Yes, that may be good for me.

Anyway, by the end of my twooting session with this lovely lady, the tears were running down my legs, so to speak. (Don’t wet yourself. It’s just an expression.)

And, she had lost a few followers!

I mean, come on. Really. ‘Life is raw. Poetry is raw. Always has been. Always will be.’ I think was my rough twoot to this information.

Who is that sensitive to lady’s beards and dog shit? Well rid, I think, if she can’t discuss historical fact. (It does boggle the mind, though. That beard. My gawd!)

So, I figure I owe her a few followers. If you have a mind to press her button, she’ll press a few of yours. Although it might just be my mind that couldn’t resist the innuendoes. Ya think?

‘Tho, btw, feel she’ll gain a few followers with a gsoh.  fyi!



Tomorrows Passing

Your talent and encouragement persuade me to have-a-go. Cubby, at makes it all seem so easy, with clear guidelines and perfect example.


Haunted by tomorrows passing,

Streams of tears overflow today.

Love’s alluring kiss is missing,

Has been amiss for many days.


All hope is gone with silence spent,

Haunted by tomorrows passing,

Two hearts asunder, broken, rent,

Cast aside in moments wishing.


Day is lost to hopeless musing

And dreams of pleasured nights, we two

Haunted by tomorrows passing,

Alone, in mind, from one so true.


In spirit realm our souls abide,

Honest, forthright, gift of blessing.

Two, united, no longer hide

Haunted by tomorrows passing.


Friday Fiction.




Ghosts of ancient days linger, harkening to words long ago spoken. Poets and philosophers shaped the world then and delivered truths in Epidaurian splendour, extolling creation’s wonders. Restorative treatment for unsupported hearts that questioned our same beginnings. Spirits weep silent tears, unheard by those whose hearts are cold to musings.

With healing touch, new words are formed and man’s ailments find an echo in undiminished souls from theatrical beginnings.

A hush descends and even spectres bow to the new. One voice begins and lyrics swell poetically. No dissonant chords to haunt. Phantoms silenced by poetry, personified in the singer.

End Of The Road

Maybe dreams of flying are not always for the best! Same song, different result.

Precipice ran to meet,

Beckoning this one leap,

Fall into the chasm,

Dream, forever sleep

In arms of love’s surrender,

Crashed against its sides,

Anointed bloody union,

Hearts split open wide.

Crushed at zenith’s falling,

Dashed hopes lie, heavy broken.

Flight of fantasy, marred by truth,

End of the road, was spoken.