A Long Stretch for d’Verse, (almost)

Sorry, I’m stumped again. I think I’m locked into secure and don’t know how to get out.



The clear melody of birdsong,

a cool, soothing breeze off the lake,

the kitten’s purring, a warm hug.

The poet’s palette offers endless

choices to embrace and call

forth our gentle, loving nature,

for which the poet is revered.

We cannot argue, this is true.


From the same palette, also true:

a rancid stink of depredation

spreads like contagious lava

burning bridges, brutalizing

the senses, and overwhelming

love. How long can both truths endure?

It’s a long stretch between the two.

Or is there a total disconnect?











About Nan Mykel

At 79, I was just about to stop keeping a journal, but that felt like accepting that growth was finished. I don't want to be finished, yet! I'm 80 now, and struggling to communicate with you, if you'll come and set awhile. P.S. My how time flies! I'm 83 now.
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