Meanwhile… out on the wily, windy moors…


You travel the heath

sheathed in cashmere,

shoulders draped in mink.

Your lips wear a warm shade of night,

that wraps your words in style.

Clouds like ink threaten

to rewrite the story.

What falls from windswept skies

is as dark as what rises from the moor.

Come back, come back,

to the castle’s arms.


(It’s no Motel 6, but we’ll leave the light on for you.)


Meanwhile, at the 5 & dime…

Your cards are on the table. The world is turning, she says.  The moon looms large in a landscape of cups. You turn to the window and wonder what lies in the blue hills beyond the tree tops.

Marie at Woolworth’s ’63

You’ll never catch Marie

in rollers at the 5 and dime –

other mothers, maybe.

No, you’ll find her,

lipstick in place,

dressed in a cool yellow shift

and Jean Naté.

She wears summer well.

Back at the counter,

if she finds you down on your luck,

or hungry for company,

she’ll eat lunch with you –

her treat.

She’s that kind.


2018 can be beautiful…

Painting by Albert Anker: Schoolgirl with Her Slate

In 2018, let’s ease up.

Let’s stop being jerks, and see the abundant goodness in people.

Let’s lay down our swords and shields. Every slight doesn’t have to be matched. Everyone different isn’t stupid or evil. Let’s form opinions from facts, and work for our beliefs with diplomacy. Let’s be kind, even when there seems zero payback. In the end, we’re empowered by the good we do. Let’s do better.


goodness surrounds you.

So much is subtle, so much understated.

Let your heart be keen to mercy

and you’ll hear its call,  in flight, above rough seas.

Toss your own kindnesses to the waves-

they’re lifelines to those around you

who flounder.

~ Rosanne Braslow


A Winter’s Day – oil painting by Marie Martine, 2011









Stop! Look! A poem can be the big brass band…

Geez, Louise!  When your world is on parade, that bass drum can give you a headache. Hang in there. Around the corner, you can set down your tuba. There’s a girl offering water to thirsty musicians.

(This is one of the poems that never made its destination. Oh, wayward poem! Do you hang by a magnet on the mailman’s refridgerator?)


Sit a spell

Someone else can beat the drum

The time has come 

to let your marching feet rest

Look. Here comes

Miss Something-or-other

sashed in satin 

perched on a powder blue Lincoln

all the while dreaming

she’s with the band



When it’s time to wager, put your money on poetry…

Put your money on black, or put your money on red. Some say it’s chance, some say fate. Whatever it is, make sure you’re in the game.

With the 2017 August Post Card Poetry Festival concluded, I’m nostalgic for last year’s work. Here are 2016’s poems and their post cards… consider it an August in review. If you missed this year’s fest and would like a postcard, let me know. I’ll send one and it doesn’t even need to be August… 

How’d you get so lucky?

Your desires were a tall stack of chips

that got played

till your pockets were empty

So good to know 

you were in the game all along

and not marching by

weighed down with fists

full of plastic


It is coincidental that today’s postcard is next in line… that being said, I ask you to consider these questions: What will it take for our representatives in Washington to tighten up the gun control laws and make military-style weapons illegal? At what point does an individual’s right to bear arms infringe upon the rights of their neighbors to live in safety and freedom?