Share joy

Help! I want to know what brings you joy.
I write prose and poetry (scary!).
I’m collecting moments, experiences and meaning of joy.
I’m curious.
Will you tell me about a person, a place, a thing?
Maybe an activity, an event, an experience?
Does your joy radiate from the physical, emotional, intellectual, spiritual?

Please share your joy with me.

I posted this to @MCP2016  Facebook group last March. The responses melted my heart, brought  tears to my eyes.  Thank you @MPC2016 for your contributions; your words and pictures are my cherished reminder of shared joy; I read it often 🙂



I’m your momma

Swagger poem about motherhood. Add your own verse if you have one.

I’m your momma, I’m the boss.
 I can do the dishes, I can clean a fish

I can pluck a chicken, I can grant your wish.

I can mix cookies; I can bake bread.

Tuck you in at night, favorite stories read.

I drive you every place; I cheer you in your race.

I worship the dreams in your tiny little face.

I can grow a child. I tame your wild.

I coax you to try; I know the answer to “why”

I hug and kiss you, especially when you cry.

I smile tears and fears when we say goodbye.

I’m a master juggler –

I manage work and home

I control your destiny

I pay for you to roam

I give money, if you need a loan.

I’ll bandage your broken heart.

No doubt it’s come apart

I’ll dry your tears with love.

Your guardian angel, hovering above.

I can sew a costume, redecorate a room.

I can plant a garden so we can watch it bloom.

I weave the many strands of love with my magic loom.

and when you mess up, I’ll be your angry doom!

Even when you rant and rave,

I love you more than all.

Everything I had, I gave

to you, my darling doll.

I’m Your Momma!


Does he see?

Zippp and buckle;
I don my leather armour.
Ready to ride.
Shiny black and chrome, purring power.

An elderly gent materialized
out of that gas station perfume.
He asks me,

“Dear, can I take
you home?
You’re my
fantasy woman.”

Does he see
chase freedom
down the open road?

Maybe he sees curvaceous
country backroads
hiding mysterious shadows . . .

Does he see
rocket around corners,
that adrenaline throttle-twist?

Or does he see
weave and dodge
through rush hour traffic?
I’m in spin cycle now.

I wonder if he saw
grab my front
in gravel?

Did he see
fly over the handlebars,
and the mirror’s rib-cracking kiss?

Did he see
and my silver steed on
the ground in
a swirl of dust?

No, only a
blonde in black

Fangirl stuff

You don’t want to know!

How did I turn into a 13-year-old star struck giggly, excited girl?  Sam Heughan, Outlander’s Jamie Fraser,  is the source/cause/target/object (can a person be an object? Ah no, more correctly the subject!) .  Loving all his screen time in S1 & S2, along with youtube creations, gifs and memes made by other fans!


Summer Moments

I am from rustic cabins and dusty tents

I am from multi-coloured campfire flames crackling in smoky swirls

I’m from crispy sooty hot dogs and gooey golden marshmallows

I am from mosquito bites and wasp stings, no-seeums and horse flies

From midnight skinny dipping amid eerie green waves of aurora borealis

I am from scorch-toasted white bread slathered with sticky red jam

From  hot chocolate  clutched in numb water-wrinkled fingers steaming into blue lips

I am from a clammy clinging  bathing suit and straggling hair dripping down

I am from tooth-rattling shivers and stretching full-length on sun-warmed sand

I am from coconut sunscreen and lemon-scented bug repellant

From potato salad and fried chicken and slippery juicy watermelon

I am from sweaty sleeping bags and soggy towels hung on tree branches oozing with pitch

From Coleman stoves and kerosene lanterns, flickering candles and ghost stories

From fly-specked outhouses with wilted toilet paper and ancient magazines with curling edges

I am from 15 cousins diving, swimming, canoeing, building rafts and sandcastles, racing over hard packed beach sand, laughing and crying, fighting and playing

I am from black and white photos of unidentified children in boxes of misty happy memories.





Biker Babes, Cycle Sistas, Wheely Wenches and assorted she-devils

I’m from motorcycles, from black leather chaps and gloves, I am from a yellow Savage, big thumper, single stroke Suzuki.

I’m from polished chrome wheels and studded black saddle bags strapped with braid and buckles.


I’m from wind I’m face, bugs in my teeth, bandit bandanas, fringed black leather gloves, heavy riding boots.

I am from down-shifting for a corner, leaning  far far over, cracking the throttle to pull through the curve, synchronized  perfectly round the arc

From racing speckled pavement under the foot pegs, from weaving through traffic. From the broken-line highway, curvy quiet back roads, and spin city madness.

I am from adrenaline rushes and orgasmic excitement electrifying my body, catapulted forward, the Zen of the road.

I am from biker bashes, Angel Acres and Summer Stomps, from motorcycle shows, greasy oil-smelling swap meets and toy runs in the fall.

From dread of danger, threat of violence and the edge of imminent possibility!

I am from miles of road weary curves, from noise, vibration, numb butt, sore shoulders, aching hips, clenched fists, wobbly neck and ice-cream headache.

From an enduro ride, mesmerized by nightmarish highway lines repeating endlessly in my eyes.

I’m from sweltering, dusty roads, bikini topped beneath a gaping leather jacket, buckles and straps billowing in foreshortened shadow image alongside.

I’m from shimmering heat waves radiating up from melting pavement and my hot idling engine between my knees,

From front brake lever gripped, back brake foot stomped, left leg extended in tripod balance at stop signs, waiting for slow lazy traffic lights.

I am from biker babes, cycle sistas, and wheely wenches. From 1%ers, AFFA, devils and Angels.

skull head bike

Swaying, blasting, cruising, roaring, vibrating down the road on our metal steeds, brothers and sisters, wild and free, riding the edge of excitement!

I’m from late-start road trips, riding a mountain pass at midnight with ghostly deer in the headlights, from cattle guards carefully crossed, swim suits and snacks at hidden, deep blue lakes. From gas stops, and pit stops and roadside diners, stretching tired aching muscles.


From loosened choking chin straps, helmet squashed hair, from unzipped chaps and heavy leather jackets, wind blown bandanas, and gritty gloves. From wrap around sunglasses concealing racoon eyes over wind-burned cheeks, watering eyes and ringing ears.

I’m from rib cracking handle bars. From front-brake in gravel twisting my wheel, jerking the handle bars hard to the left.  From a bucking metal bronco, tossing me head first into the swirling dust, me and my steed on the ground. Ouch!  Never front brake in gravel, big mistake.

I’m from hot tubs and too much liquor, blasting good fun with my sisters, happy road trips to Whistler, Tofino, Sooke and Cranbrook. Three sistas riding in formation, taking turns in the lead and sharing everything, especially laughter.  Remember the gas station perfume?

From marsh-scented, bug swarming, cool dips in the road.  From eye stabbing chrome reflections, from sensuous starlit night cruises vision narrowed to the headlight halo before me, from crotch rocket café racers at Starbucks,

From shivering though clover-scented fields abuzz with golden bees, from wind-whipped green valleys mysteriously shadowed.  From a herd of hostile cows blocking the highway, warily weaving through the evil looking horns lowered in menace.

I’m from birds startling up under your arm, from bee stings on the cheek,

From rain-soaked boots and gloves, cold fingers and toes. From quilted electric vest bathing my back and chest in glowing, comforting heat.

From soggy bandanas over my face, and from foggy rain-dotted glasses.  From sliding tires on slick pavement, an hour to go before shelter and rest, hang on and pray.

I’m in love with the power between my legs and thighs, caressing my crotch like a giant vibrator.  Riding is the most exciting thing I’ve ever done, aside from making love.

I’m from an elderly man admiring my leather clad figure at a rest stop, and asking, “Can I take you home, dear? You’re my fantasy woman.”

I’m from cold air blasting up my nose, pure fresh oxygen.  It smells of freedom and the open road, all cares left behind.


Otis salute






Trolling in mist

The black radar screen suddenly revealed a huge bright green blip to the south east, approaching rapidly across Queen Charlotte Sound.

Bored, and tired of hanging around at the BC Packers scow in Cascade Harbour waiting for the Fisheries to announce another gillnet opening, we’d decided to go trolling to make some extra money and get away from the float and boat parties. We’d been tied up for 2 days doing laundry, buying groceries and doing minor net mending and gear tying.

We untied the Wild Thing and headed out about 6 am, bound for the Yankee Bank and the Storm Islands.  The Pacific heaved in a slow, rolling, greasy, dull green ground swell;  patches of drifting, suffocating cold grey fog blanketed the invisible sky.  Visibility was down to 100 feet but we had our radar oscillating and our charts out and our depth sounder switched on, the smell of graphite heavy in the cabin air.

The radar screen on each rotation depicted a few small craft moving slowly three or four miles away, and the ghostly green outline of the receding shoreline mirroring the topographical marine chart.

.We were idling peacefully along over the deep slow swell with four lines of trolling gear set out.  I could just make out our white Styrofoam pigs on the outside lines, fifty feet behind the stern.  The 3 by 4 foot by three-inch thick pigs plowed through the sea attached to  the troll lines.  Acting like giant rectangular bobbers, they mark and suspend the descending  troll line.  They are

Trolling lines have paired marker beads every two and a half fathoms which are designed to hold the snaps in a set position.  Each snap consists of a flasher, a lure and a hook tied together by nylon line.  The flasher’s underwater action  imitates the action of a fish in distress, supposedly attracting notice and interest.

flasher2 - Copy
flasher - Copy fishing flashers

Below the snap and flasher are the lure and hook.  Lures can be rubbery hoochies of varied colours,  shiny brass or silver spoons, and small fish- or squid-shaped enticers for catching salmon.

The pigs dance and jerk if a big fish has taken a hook on one of the outside lines and is fighting to escape. Bells are mounted atop each trolling poll and ring as an occasional salmon strikes one of the inside lines.

We have two sets of girdies on each side of the stern; some professional trollers would have up to 3 spool or gurdies each side.  The lines are weighted with lead cannonballs to hold them down in the water, with all their dangling snaps or jewelry cutting through the ocean and hopefully attracting salmon.

I ran one side of gurdies and CC ran the other, his side had the boat controls-throttle, gear leaver and steering wheel.

We were trolling along the edge of the Yankee Bank an hour out of Cascade Harbour.  We’d just set out our lines, and had come into our warm, cozy cabin for a hot drink from the always steaming kettle on the oil stove.

It was foggy and cold on deck, even though it was the middle of August, with only about 100 feet of visibility around us.  I’d mixed us a couple of hot chocolates and placed some slices of bread on the top of the stove to toast, and the smell of food and drink was welcome.

CC flipped on the depth sounder to see if we could see any fish under us, and the radar was rotating around.  I bent over the radar screen to see our position and any navigation hazards near by.  I tensed, hands gripping the eye pieces.  Something big approaching rapidly straight towards us.  We, with 30 feet of trailing lines and gear strung out behind.  It would require careful turning to avoid tangling the lines.

I called out to CC to have a look.  He studied the plot of the huge green blip in the black oscillating screen.  Faster and faster,  closer and closer that large menacing blip approached.

We heard the deep-throated woogh of a fog horn from out of the fog, so close I jumped.  Was it a freighter, a cruise ship, a coastal ferry?  Ships of that tonnage can take up to 12 miles to stop and they don’t turn on a dime either, and this green menace was heading right for us.

There are navigation rules at sea, like rules of the road – pass port to port, do not pass in front of oncoming ships unless there is plenty of sea room, sailboats without power have the right of way, marking buoys have red or green lights to indicate if you are to pass on the port or starboard side to stay in the navigation channel.

I stared at that advancing, glowing green blip.  I was confused as to what heading the approaching ship was on; its course seemed erratic and I was unsure about which direction we should turn to stay out of its path.  The ship was so close!

Suddenly the blip disappeared completely from the radar screen and a horrible racket of fog horn and the low thrum of gigantic engines echoed eerily from the muffling damp fog.  We raced up the stairs and out on the deck, straining to pierce the swirling mist.

Just at the edge of vision, right beside up only 100 feet away, a rusty black-painted hull topped by a five-story building, wreathed and veiled in shrouds of fog coalesced in front of my horrified, terror-stricken eyes.

Heart pounding, held breathe, rigid with helplessness, the behemouth materialized in intermittent flashes.  Scattered stateroom windows and port holes glowed dim and ghostly far above.

We turned sharply from the threat, who cares about the gear! CC spun the stern wheel hard to port and throttle up that screaming jimmy diesel engine.  Our pigs were plowing deep, shedding green water, half buried.  The trailing lines  stretched and jerked, the pole-top bells jangling and ringing.

The ghost ship chugged and throbbed beside us, belting out its fog horn mourn on its Alaskan heading.  Rapidly disappearing in the enveloping fog, leaving me adrenaline-crazed and shakey, I adjourned to the cabin and added large tots of dark rum to our hot chocolate.

WE looked at each other and clinked mugs, smiling in relief, idling along and sipping.  We checked the radar screen – it was working again.  The ship had blocked out our signals.  Once finished our drinks, we pulled in the trolling lines, unsnapped the gear and layered them neatly in the trolling box.  We detached the sytrofoam pigs and lifted the cannon balls aboard.  I had caught 4 coho and 1 nice red spring of about 22 pounds.  CC had caught 3 coho and a white spring at about 16 pounds.  Our gear was fine, we’d made some money.  We’d avoided a collision at sea.  It was a good day for the Wild Thing, one I’ll never forget.  I can still recall the image of a black apartment building as sea, bearing down on us like some nightmare threat from hell.