A New WordPress Blog


The Peaceful Pub came into existence in 2004.  It began with five members and by the end of the year we counted our blessings for the twenty additional poets and writers who had joined together at the Pub’s fireside. We celebrated every new member and every new post.  It was a great source of joy, camaraderie and some pretty awesome poetry and prose.  In May of 2005, there was a ‘great disaster’ and suddenly all of our efforts were wiped out by a ‘massive server hack’.

Pubsters are a hardy bunch and the group became a family. They/we did not quit. In fact,
The Pub flourished in spite of the ever-changing platform. As years accumulated so did our membership.  It sky rocketed; 2007-2011was our heyday. Even when Facebook began the death knell for forums, we maintained almost a thousand members, until this, our thirteenth year, when the decision was made that enough is enough.

Don’t forget, Pubsters are a family and they are not quitters. The result is a new blog.  It is a multi-faceted blog authored by a group of loyal and talented Pubsters.  I hope you will stop by to imbibe of the literary libations and to offer your support.

The Peaceful Pub


The Road Taken (how it happened)

On the way to somewhere else
they met, briefly, on the road not taken,
not the one mistakenly referred to
as the road less traveled.

Two different roads entirely and
there was no map.  So many detours:
walks in the rain; a searching;
a discovering and a letting go.

That’s not to say there was no pain,
a pebble in the shoe, a bruise.
Houses that were never built
stand empty in the memory.

All that didn’t happen
just a paving for the road taken.
Noon sun in a feral burn,
evening laced with starlight,

A garden planted, the bloom
tended. It was more than random,
less than premeditated.
That’s how it happened.


Critics claim that Frost’s “The Road Not Taken” isn’t a salute to can-do individualism;  it is a commentary on the self-deception we practice when constructing the story of our own lives. It is touted as the most popular poem ever written in America and also the most misquoted. (most often mistakenly referred to as The Road Less Traveled). (according to The Paris Review)


Without Doubt

The summer sky,
by night laced with stars,
by day a larger one. The sun

all spark and flare
and promises of tans
even with the sunscreen.

Last night blew the light
away. Today the wind reigns
over gray skies.

It is July, the sun
will return and when it sets
night will again be laced

with stars. The cycle is constant;
you can count on it,
Have no fear.

All Grown Up

You wore the whimsy of light
in strawberry hair,  in summer tanned
hands,  and eyes as blue as a July sky.
You were a song
that sparkled the wind.

Unfettered, you flew so quickly
we couldn’t keep up. Maybe grownups
invent rules to maintain control. If
that was true, it was not
a conscious thing…

More like self-preservation,  or maybe
just holding on. I don’t remember
when it was you went from sagging socks
to nylons,  or when you quit naming frogs
in the garden

And sneaking them into your room.
But here you are all grown up, frowning
over calculus, balancing equations
that I don’t understand; the strawberry
hair coifed neatly,

The summer tanned hands manacled
by a perfect manicure
and the blue eyes shadowed
by secrets
you will not share.


Aunt Mae, thin as a reed
but not nearly as supple
saved everything…

She saved photos and programs,
old clothes, shoes she’d outgrown
and dentures in a can.

Not one for mincing her words,
she was noted for her sharp tongue
and her rich kitchen,

She baked and roasted, sautéed
and toasted and was well noted
for her generosity.

As I mentioned, she saved everything
but we, her closest kin
were hard pressed to explain

why she kept that antique coffee grinder
with handle missing, coffee beans
still in its drawer,

and one old spare tire on a rusted rim,
worn thin of any tread, and busted
beyond fixing,

but we were sure there was a reason,
so, as a matter of respect
we kept them too,

or maybe, in truth, we keep them
just to cause consternation
for the next generation.

After all, why deprive them
of the pleasure of such a find,
and the glory

of creating their own story
about Aunt Mae, whom none of us really knew
until we packed up her things.