Zilkie Speed Rider

Here’s a snippet from my current Work in Progress. Aqua Boy type Fantasy!


‘…the force of the approaching Zilkie could be felt like a swirl pushing against his (Kye’s) legs. He came to the surface, treading water. A second later he was rewarded.

“Anthym!” he roared, so loud it left no doubt. “Stop right there!”

The Zilkie soared and there was a flash of red hair, but at least, it seemed that Anthym had heard him. The Zilkie went back under and the second form folded and then broke apart.

A moment later the lad’s red hair cleared, and then his face, laughing and spitting out a bit of extra sea water.

“Did you see that, Kye?” Anthym shouted with joy. “Did you see it? The Zilkie just scooped me up and gave me a ride!”

Kye, treading water beside the excited boy, nodded his head. “How did you know, Lad?” he asked. “That a Zilkie was nearby and you could get on it?”

“Kenjaro told me!” Anthym exulted.

Kye noticed that they had an audience; most of the others had swum closer to hear. They made a companionable circle of faces in the water, now that they weren’t anxious about Anthym. The weavecraft floated nearby and the Zilkie swam back and forth a few hundred feet away.

“Kenjaro can sense the Zilkies when they come near?” Dysian asked.

“Kenjaro says that Zilkies are like cousins to Otterbys,” said Anthym. “Not as smart though. He says the bigger they are the smaller their brains.”

Kye couldn’t help but grin in the appropriate direction.

“You’ll keep that comment from coming out your mouth, if you’ve got any smarts, Kye,” answered Ajax, who was floating across from him.

“You may tell Kenjaro that human’s brains aren’t built the same,” said Dysian. “We may seem big, but we’re not necessarily dumber.”

Anthym just smiled. “Kenjaro says he’s not sure about that, Mister.”

Tebahk shook his head. “Are you really hearing all of these things from the Otterby?” he asked. “How is that possible?”

“It’s a long story, Mister,” Anthym replied.

“And the Zilkie came right up to you!” Tebahk went on in amazement. “You rode it like you’d been training for years, Lad!”

“Can I ride him some more?” asked Anthym, looking at Kye.

“Let’s think about this,” said Dysian. “Anthym, ask Kenjaro if you’re the only rider a Zilkie will accept from our group.”

“Kenjaro says,” answered Anthym a few seconds later, “that with his help, other Zilkies would probably be willing to accept us. Three should be all we need to go north.”

“Three!” exclaimed Tebahk. “I’m still astounded that even one came so close to you!”

“Well, can I?” demanded Anthym, itching to continue his ride on the Zilkie.

“Not unless you can direct its movements, instead of it taking you for a ride!” answered Dysian. “Tebahk, how do your people control the Zilkie’s?”

“I can show you that, if the Otterby really can convince three of the creatures to come near you. Directing a Zilkie is similar to the way you ride your Korgies.”

“Don’t worry, Mister!” interrupted Anthym. “I’ll jump off if the Zilkie takes me too far away! Can I?”

Dysian gave in with a laugh. “Oh, all right, Anthym. At least falling off a Zilkie doesn’t hurt like falling off a Korgie does.” ‘


In the Pocket of His Love

pocket mirror

Above is apparently, a painting on a pocket mirror, done in 1796. The verse says:

  ‘Misfortune ne’er invade her breast,

                              But peace which knows no end!’

Now, I’ve  been a little down lately. It seems to me that I fail a lot, and this occurs to my mind late at night. I ask the Lord forgiveness, but I’m not sure for what and have no drive to change things. I miss my boy.

‘Home to Heaven where he will be,

Happy for all eternity.

Up there he’s having a party,

and whole new worlds to see…’

But there’s others I want to come. People in trouble I care about. Prayers for souls that rise like aches.

Nighttime is when it all visits me.

But I won’t quit. I’ll always hold on to the knowledge of His love for me.

Whether or not I deserve it, or if I’ve accomplished anything or followed the rules or learned to love others just a teensy bit more than before, and much more than myself.

At night I want to be a child, dancing in the sun,

In a field where Christopher Robin might run.

Or a hobbit.

I will remain in His pocket.

I Need to Get OUT There!


Look how intrepid, oh marvelous trot~

With riding-cap and socks-a-polka-dot.

Double-button waist coat

and little leather gloves,

poofy-sleeves and swirl-skirt and bright (green?) skies above.


A little smile shines in her eyes,

says she’s in the moment and doesn’t realize.

How tiny is her waist and how energetic her face,

and how the years,

go fleeting like gears,

and our bodies can’t keep up the pace.


Looking for my younger self,

in the oh-so distant past.

Striding panting up this hillside,

yet here I’ll be in the moment at last.


A fresh breeze will call to me,

like a love song of old.

Telling of God’s sense of adventure,

and the landscape so bold.

And yet delicate- the branches, the ornate lacery,

Walking (or bike-riding) is a journey that’s good for me!


This gift is daily for me to find,

Trails underfoot and grassy pathways unwind.




Snippet From My Favorite Professor

smuggler's den

Here’s a scene from my book, which I’ve never published yet. It’s kind of special to me. Formerly titled; The Professor Finds a Way, and currently titled Sagistic. In this scene Finklebrecht- nicknamed ‘Finch’- is teaching his soldier partner Attaclearon how to talk to gnomes.

Suddenly Attaclearon jumped.

“Whoa!” he said. Finklebrecht looked over and met the gnome’s eyes. Vanhi had just finished breakfast and joined them, and now he’d evidently spoken in Attaclearon’s mind again.

“Your partner is annoyed with you,” sent Vanhi as a message in Finklebrecht’s mind, and stating the obvious. “I can feel a strong impression of his emotion.”

“He’s had a difficult time being saddled with me,” sent Finklebrecht back, shutting his eyes.

“Gnome seems to be talking to both of us at the same time,” muttered Attaclearon. “Tell me again how to talk back to him, Finch.”

Finklebrecht explained. Patiently.

“His thoughts go directly to no target,” sent Vanhi. “I can’t receive them.”

            “Put your thoughts in a box, Attaclearon, and send them out,” said Finch again. Attaclearon scrunched down, with his eyes clamped closed. But he only sat still for a few seconds before he expelled his breath with impatience.

“Quit wiggling and concentrate,” scolded Finklebrecht.

“Just what box are you talking about, Finch?”

The box. The one in your mind. Don’t you see it when Vanhi talks to you?”

“There’s no box, Finch. He just talks to me; that’s all.”

“Not all humans can communicate with us, Finch,” put in Vanhi. “This has been noted before.”

“Maybe the gnomes should talk to Captain Bann,” said Attaclearon out loud. “Tell him, Finch.”

Finklebrecht sighed.

“I don’t need to tell him. Vanhi can hear and understand you just fine, Attaclearon. You already figured that out with Seskanu. They just aren’t comfortable relating to too many humans at once.”

“Just tell me about this box, Finch. Is it a wooden box?”

“No, idiot. Think of it like a frame, then.”

“A frame. Like a picture frame?”

“Like your mind is a chalkboard and I’ve just drawn a box on it with white chalk.”

“What’s inside the box? And do you close the lid?”

“There’s no lid, Attaclearon! Four lines, connected at the corners! Like this!”

“Well, you don’t have to shout.”

“Close your eyes. Sit still. Make your mind a chalkboard and draw four lines on it in the shape of a square.”

“Could’ve said that in the first place,” mumbled his friend.

“You see it? You’ve got a box?”

“Big box or small?”

Finklebrecht spoke very careful.

“Big enough to see the message inside it.”

“What message?”

“The one you’re going to send. Tell Vanhi you’ve got black fur from your navel to your neck.”

“I’ll tell him your bird brain fits in a box.”

“Quit picking for nits.”

“Quit ruffling your pinions.”

“I don’t know what you’re going on about anyway. I’m not riding off into danger this time. The unicorn won’t do me any harm.”

“You attract worms. You’ll find trouble in no time.”

“Attaclearon, you’ve the more challenging job. You have to hide Vanhi, deal with these prisoners and escort both the gnomes home if I don’t get back in time with Jisette. Just you be careful.”

Attaclearon sighed, and then he closed his eyes. It took a few seconds, but then Vanhi jumped beside him.

“Whoa!” the gnome sent.

“What is it?” sent Finklebrecht back to him.

“It was your partner. He just said something to me. He’s figured it out, Finch.”

            Finklebrecht opened his eyes and stared at Attaclearon, and then he smiled. He clamped his hand on Attaclearon’s shoulder.

“Good job, my friend,” he said to him. “I knew I was leaving Vanhi and Seskanu in good hands.”

Big Sailing Ship Magazine Cover


I found this nifty magazine cover. Sitting back from my computer screen, but wearing my glasses, first all I thought was that I liked the colors and the setting of the picture. I love the swirls in the water. The sails flapping and the flags making pretty curls of art.

Next you see the title, and you wonder. ‘Captain Mahan? Who is he?’

So of course, I refer to Wikipedia. (I always do, I admit.) I learn this:

Alfred Thayer Mahan [məˈhæn] (September 27, 1840 – December 1, 1914) was a United States naval officer and historian, whom John Keegan called “the most important American strategist of the nineteenth century.”[1] His book The Influence of Sea Power Upon History, 1660–1783 (1890) won immediate recognition, especially in Europe, and with its successor, The Influence of Sea Power Upon the French Revolution and Empire, 1793–1812 (1892), made him world-famous and perhaps the most influential American author of the nineteenth century.[2]

Also, I learned this:

Scribner’s Magazine was an American periodical published by the publishing house of Charles Scribner’s Sons from January 1887 to May 1939. Scribner’s Magazine was the second magazine out of the Scribner’s firm, after the publication of Scribner’s Monthly. Charles Scribner’s Sons spent over $500,000 setting up the magazine, to compete with the already successful Harper’s Monthly and The Atlantic Monthly. Scribner’s Magazine was launched in 1887, and was the first of any magazine to introduce color illustrations. The magazine ceased publication in 1939.

For any who don’t know me, I can tell you that I’m a curious sort of person.

I went to see my grandbaby Gladys yesterday.  Now Gladys has a habit, when you first come to see her, of staring at you for a long time. She is curious too, like her grandma. Like me she wonders, ‘why do people do what they do?’

Curiosity is so important. It’s what drives us to learn, and therefore what increases our brain capacity. I like to think it’s what drives us to God. When I was five years old in the Kansas City of 1966, I used to often ask questions like, ‘Why are there trees?’, ‘Who made the cats?’ and ‘Who made the world?’

It always amazed me how often my questions, no matter how big, ended up being answered by God.

“God made the trees, and the cats and everything in the world. God was the one who made it rain, and the sky blue. God was the one who made us.’

Now I know, God also was the one who made us curious. So we could ask many questions, and they could lead us back beyond Wikipedia. They could lead us back to Him.


He Sings to Her


One may think she’s a lady in a little box,

there’s no door behind where she stands.

The black tree-forms are like sentinels,

Is that the moon or a dome from other lands.


But somehow there’s height in her privacy,

And knowledge those are roses at her feet.

The water and the night isn’t cold,

The sound of song is where these two meet.


He’s singing a dream over to her,

Of romance and the time right now.

Her balcony is a flowery stage,

Respect and tenderness he bestows.


The trick you see, is to make the music last,

To love that person standing in your view.

To protect that note of lilting grace between you,

And stretch the serenade until Heaven’s dew.




He’s a Nifty Son-in-law


Ryan, Holding Gladys, His Baby in Red, and Astraea, His Niece

My son-in-law, besides being a great husband for my daughter and a wonderful daddy for my granddaughter, is also a talented singer and musician. He can play several instruments, sing too, and he’s a clever lyricist.

God has greatly blessed me with both of my sons-in-law. I’m so happy to have them! Here’s the lyrics Ryan wrote to this song, he designed and sang himself.

I was lost, I was free/You told everyone we wouldn’t last a week Now we’re here, for all to see/Spittin’ their words like weapons cuz baby talk is cheap You can call me winter the dawning of spring/I’ll hold you close but you gotta believe/I know one day we’ll be…Livin’ in the Free World

The prophets spoke, the end is near/Missed their turn and took broadway out beyond the pier We stayed stoned, in luxury/Takin’ our turns cutting line ’til one day the prophets sang You can call me winter the dawning of spring/I’ll hold you close but you gotta believe/I know one day we’ll be…Livin’ in the Free World

Late at night, I heard the thief/With steps like thunder in the hour of judgement the world asleep Tried to wake you, you couldn’t believe/Never the same by the mornin’ now we stand in His glory

So I go, to a world unseen/This trail never ends if we can ever make it off this dead end street You can call me winter the dawning of spring/I’ll hold you close but you gotta believe/I know one day we’ll be…Livin’ in the Free World

2017 Christmas Ahoy


Christmas has washed up to the door again,

Like a wave of shimmer lights tinkling downhill,

They’re pretty and the mood delicate,

But the flashy stuff of dreams won’t stay still;


So I can grab on and linger,

Cherish reading stories to kids and singing songs,

Hold on to the light of their faces,

Know loving them is where I belong;


It’s the big fancy gift that God has given me,

Along with the piles of treasures under the tree,

Children, and more ‘love you!’s than I can count,

Is there a ruler measuring hugs squeezed on me;


Although this is grand and such a lovely gift;

I was a child once myself long ago,

I prayed ‘Now I Lay Me’ and God listened,

His love still surrounds me like blankets in the snow.




Moonlight Peril Poem


Leagues of years will pass, mankind at peace,

City of Moonlight will thrive, land underneath cease,

Longing for hallways of water, the home of the Mere.

Allowing something new, mankind’s children to play here.


Watery Gate won’t last forever, the city of moonlight forgets,

Stone of Ketursh is the only eye open, a daily watch it sets.

Moonlight’s hands dip in the Watery Stone, till the one is born,

He will restore Ketursh’s gate, calling the Mere forth like a horn.


When the ninth son of the ninth son of the ninth son is here,

The Nine Bells of Galigali will toll loud and clear,

Yet beware when the Nine Bells, their trumpet calls send,

Time is running short and the city of Moonlight will end.’

(Here is a poem from my current WIP, describing the peril the beautiful city of Moonlight is in, and who must be found to save it.)

Winter Joy Come


Just outside my window the sky is a delicate winter blue. The sun is shining on the bark of my dogwood tree, clean like a memory of Springtime. The wind is tapping in gentle gusts.

All of this is reminding me, of joy.

People talk about the difference between joy and happiness. Happiness is connected to our experiences, they say. Happiness is given to those with healthy minds and bodies and bank accounts. Happiness is fleeting.

But joy, they say, that runs deeper and apart from circumstance. Christians are supposed to grow in joy.  Jesus is the light of the world. He is the God of all comfort and He loves us.

So many sorrows everywhere, and such large unfixable problems. A lot of mistakes and letting go of dreams. Work and work avoidance. I could focus on these things and lose sight.

But looking out my window today, I remembered Springtime.

‘Thou must joy’, we are told. ‘Joy in the midst of sorrow…’ This is spiritual maturity. This is the job of joy.

And yet, today, I feel it stealing in, like a fragrance of flower petals tinged with a glint of sunshine. I understand something I never realized before.

Joy isn’t old, it’s young. It isn’t in the winter of our lives that we finally figure out how to earn it. We, like little children, pass off our problems to God and dance and sing and find peace. Because God is so nifty and circular and all-inclusive. Old, young and everywhere in between. Winter and Springtime and right now.

I love Jesus, my dearest friend, and God the Father, who takes care of me.