As a free-range wordsmith making shadows dance a ditty til dawn, PEGGY REW knew she’d be an artist. Finally realizing it would be one who painted with words, she’s created trademarks as a poet, non-fictionalist and ghostwriter. Rew’s published hundreds of articles for Nevada publications, mentored writers from Reno’s Unnamed Writers’ Group which she facilitated for 14 years. She has published two books. www.rewcrew.com
Oomph of Margaret Peggy Anna
Outgoing, regardless of too many names, searching for
Outlets to release energy as a
Happy to see furry friends with new parents.
Obligated to All Things Pets, as well as being a vigorous
Free-range wordsmith who
Makes shadows dance a ditty til dawn
Always in search of the perfect word to
Redeem an imperfect world.
Grateful for breathing
Appreciative of life, yet
Resistant to simple-thinkers so
Enunciating, a voice for the voiceless, where
Teamwork influences support, however
Psychic powers have proven a Greek legend of
Escape from a dragon, though
Garnering happiness from kitten kisses feeds a
Yielding love for rainbows.
Affectionate with a
Navigating balance and harmony as an
Artist who truly loves to paint with words.
In full moon light,
I drifted off,
hoping to arrive in
my secreted astral harmony.
a youthful apparition
appears, a gaze
sensed my yearning.
Caressing my silhouette, my core,
it triggers me to
exciting me to feel perfect, sexy, charmed.
With suggestive gestures
in hazy, starlit obscurity,
lips kiss fingertips,
stimulated skin we lick.
I stroke thick tresses,
sweaty limbs spoon,
giftwrapped for each other,
mirage, hallucination, mine for now.
Dosing off, I forfeit sleep
to stare, to connect, to own
this sense of innocence,
such transparency for now.
Visions, sensations forcefully follow me
home to consciousness,
a dawning moon, I refuse to let go,
lingering, I conceal them, ruminate, smile.
Short is life
Guaranteed, not now nor tomorrow
Regret, pardon those feelings
Eying a classy, new car, bargain on the green one
Encounter a stranger, smile and hold the door
A new delicacy, order, savor and enjoy
Anger, release it to the universe
Creativity, slurp and wallow in it
Courageousness, orchestrate sparkle
Progress, works merely with human innovation
Evolution, today’s sweat and tears
Journeys, survival of the fittest, bravest and gritty gutsiest.
Oxymora of Sleep
For much of mankind, sleep is habitual or routine
to the fortunate, a talent practiced and envied
others, a black-market commodity to buy or sell.
For sleep or catnaps, feisty felines corner the market
children vehemently fight, kids debate you for hours
adults crave any power boost time they can steal.
Heatwave, wind, sunrise, a blizzard bothers not
a nocturnal beast, though normal humane
circadian rhythms are wrecked without slumber.
Some creatures face hibernation or hypersomnia
or challenge insomnia or narcoleptic journeys
but mortal health hinges on a ‘forty winks’ recharge.
Wind Symphony on a Windy Sunday
Commence, trumpets blast
tubas rise above trombones
Mama Dove Desna coos a Morse-coded
rhythm to her nest of dovelings as she
takes flight in search of a feast for five.
“Hey, Desna, how’s the babes?” Hollers Lilly, the preening Lark.
Eyeing a wormy garden bed, “Ravenous!” Chortles the provider.
Budding tree branches bounce with
spring breezes, sopranos and chirpers
claim their perches for a dusky recital.
“Eager to peep and cheep, Girlfriend?” Hoots Hulu.
Darling Starling, Stella squawks back, “Yeah, yeah, yeah!”
Finches and robins chirp and twitter
in anticipation of rising moon luster
and nightly quietening of April zephyrs.
The Life of a Starving Artist
Elegantly escorted to our table in the shadowy corner.
Mineral water in crystal goblets was delivered.
Presented by a handsome tuxedo, velvet covered menus arrive.
Over-priced, half-filled wine glasses are served.
Imported shaved parmesan is scattered over Caesar salads.
Warm knotted rye rolls invite creatively-molded butter.
Courteously, prime rib, end cut, juicy, aromatic, lands our lace tablecloth.
As requested, luscious twice-baked spuds complement.
More wine, lots of spring water, our table is dusted for crumbs.
Culminating a perfect meal, the puffiest cream puff was consumed!
Screams, running incessantly,
rescue me, but no one offers rescue.
Stumble, I tumble off a ragged cliff,
cold water grasps, but no hands reach.
Sinking, I choke back salty water,
my life, my breath, I can’t catch.
I’m now embraced by a mysterious lover,
guiltless sweat throbs, I lustfully melt.
Into an erogenous affair, I tumble,
my pulse, a breath, I can’t catch.
A tsunami of emotions drowns me,
but for this dream, rescue me not!
Facade of Serenity
yet pauses despite
obscurity shadowing our cozy kitchen,
Mommy lovingly tucks my head safely beneath her chin
hugging me tightly
she yells bad words at Daddy
I cover my ears
brother hides behind the curtains at the front window
the garbage man outside waves to him
our new baby brother cries
the TV screams reality
and upon our cold mac and cheese, the sun sets.
my day roars
my new treads.
My diminutive lunch
of nuts and berries
a nice hot bath
harmonized with a
crushed ice beverage
is just the answer
for my dubious day.
Spring morn stirs, docile
full moon drifts, Crabapple chirps
my cup steams, dawn glows.
Her belly mimicked a puffy, gray, furry cloud,
with a slight waddle and a definite green-eyed
glare, she was ready to spill this miracle of nature
that wiggled and squirmed within.
Wanting to collapse, take a day off, regain strength,
nature began the 2am delivery of seven occupants
ready to make their debut, Philomena’s tiny nurturing
body became vacant finally, after sharing it for 64 days.
Judged an obnoxious weed,
though scrupulously the most versatile early spring wildflower, I am
nutrition for beetles, birds, bees
playful blush for childish noses
yummy accents on Grandma’s salad
and then poof…
a wish for imaginative humans.
dirty hands arrange transplants
rainbow pallet, peace.
Life’s About the Moo View
Regardless of wind or weather,
earth’s magnetic poles
magically direct all bovine friends
to always face north or south
while grazing or resting
in any worldwide
peaceful pasture that
accepts the weight
of their mysterious decision
as mud and grass emerge
through splits of knurly hooves.
Skin Color from the Sun
by Daryl Ngee Chinn
‘How can we tell
what part of you is Jewish or Chinese?’
In Love with a Rainbow
World, will we ever resolve biased issues
of appearance: skin, orientation, eyes, hair?
Society, will we ever accept the variety of
inquisitive voices: lingual, dialect, vernacular?
Humanity, wasn’t America the place to start
anew: no matter race, love, creed, size or color?
Time to ponder, why is acceptance of our vivid
human rainbow still questioned in America?
Chinese, Irish, Italian, Jewish, Mormon:
can you tell which part of me is me?
America, you are a rainbow of societies,
cultures, family recipes, clothing, religions.
When is it too late to love, to tolerate, to learn,
to enjoy, to pray, to educate, to honor, to accept?
Decades of muddled, joyful,
a fanciful imagination smoothed and protected,
hiding us from monsters and dragons
in tree bark forts near railroad tracks,
my best allies were ‘all things pets.’
Flashbacks backhand dirty blonde bangs
from sky blue eyes,
Scout & Parky make a mad dash
just to lick my dirty face,
proving their unconditional canine love,
away in the wind we soar atop our parakeets, KeeKo & Luigi.
Birthing more litters than any cat I know,
our gorgeous calico mother cat,
MoKee, loved and nursed and nurtured
every one of them no matter age, size or color,
she loved us, too, so
did she or we wish she was our mother?
A subconscious recall hangs in gladness knowing
safety existed in make believe and dreams
where accountability was only required
in chocolate mud pie making,
chitchats with Fred & Ethel, our tiny turtles
and rusty wagon pulling filled baby brothers.
One is the Loneliest Number
Our front door shuts,
I can hear the big garage door open,
but then it slowly closes.
I’m soothed by the radio.
Watching out the front window,
one car passes at a time
as the sun wraps around our house.
At the window again,
two kids jump from the school bus
and run home.
My three tennis balls anticipate,
I’m just not in the mood,
so flop over.
I dose off
The metal clunk of our mailbox
wakes me, I run to see the mailman
dropping in four letters.
I get a drink.
I sense the rumble, our garage door is opening,
eagerly, I try not to
wiggle and worm too much.
My 5 o’clock friend.
Sleek suspicious body style lurks
fearful onlookers sense
per the vicious waylay
and dangerous silence of the
The slit of a gangster-type windshield
obscures several squinty eyes
of renegade occupants who
menace society as elapsed
closeted skeletons of yesteryear