Here’s a pseudo-haiku. It’s not exactly the traditional format, but seemed to fit this poem. With all the jingle-belling and sales, sales, sales, try to remember the “reason for the season.” Of course, my books would make great gifts. Have a Happy Holiday, however you celebrate.


Christmas has become

just a four-letter word of


– by Rose Klix 1987

Published in Volume II of Pastiche of Poetry



South Dakota Wind

Land refused to ground them.

Sea gusts blew first generations

from England to Connecticut.

New York ancestors braved blasts

in Patriot’s Canada, scattered,

buried children, lost connections.

Lumber drew them farther West:

Chicago wagon makers, Kenosha

carpenters. Nebraska tree farmers

hoped for new standing timber.

A final exhaled warm soul

chilled a chinook in Oelrichs.

Prairie grassland blasts blistered

Buffalo Gap near eldest son.

We inherited South Dakota

wind’s tempestuous survival.

Poet’s note: In case you didn’t know, I was born and reared in South Dakota. This poem placed first in the South Dakota State Poetry Society’s 39th Annual contest and was published in their Pasque Petals magazine, Fall 2015 edition. I’ve been eyebrows deep in my father’s genealogy. Our ancestors’ stories inspired this poem.


“Fame is a Fickle Food.” Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

The above quote is attributed to Emily Dickinson. I used her thought as my poem’s theme. The following poem probably falls in the category of Ars Poetica. Some sources say writers should never write about writing. Who wrote that rule?

The South Dakota State Poetry Society (SDSPS) challenged me to write a poem about Writing. The poem won first place in their 39th Annual Contest! Thirty-nine years is a long time to be a respected poetry society. Perhaps they know a thing or two.

Like to write poetry? Go to sdstatepoetrysociety.wordpress.com They are also affiliated with the National Federation of State Poetry Societies (NFSPS). Go to www.nfsps.com to see many opportunities.

Fickle Food

“Fame is a fickle food.” – Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

Yes, dear Emily,

fame is fickle.

So are our readers’ tastes.

Advertisers and

publishers tempt

us with whatever

fattens their bank accounts.

I’m a fickle writer.

My plate is always filled

with banquet offerings.

I aspire to be:

an understood poet

(a feat in itself),

a staged playwright,

a creative novelist,

a thoughtful essayist,

who also tells engaging stories.

One day I’ll realize

I cannot eat it all.

These nibbles may not fatten my income,

but I enjoy tasting.

My dessert may wait

posthumously or not at all.

Interested to learn more about Rose Klix? Visit www.Rose Klix.com

Zip Code Poem

I was challenged to write a poem about my zip code. The rules were simple – the first line contains the number of words in the first number, second line the number of words in the second number, etc. My zip code is 37918. So the first line contains three words, second line seven words, then nine words, one word and finally the last line is eight words. My poem totaled 28 words. Of course, your zip code would contain different numbers in each line.

I entered the following poem in the South Dakota Poetry Society (SDSPS) 39th Annual Poetry Contest. SDSPS is an affiliate of the National Federation of State Poetry Societies (NFSPS).  My poem won First Place! Thank you, SDSPS judges. I’m grateful to the Pasque Petals editors for publishing the contest results. I love reading through all the fellow poets’ works.

The SDSP’s blog website is sdstatepoetrysociety.wordpress.com The NFSPS website and links to other affiliated state societies is http://nfsps.com Check out all the opportunities to share your work.

Here’s my zip code poem:


If tall, I’d

be kind to little Paul. I’d bend,

hear child whispers in my ear, enjoy his kisses.


lift high hopes he grows kinder than me.

If you enjoyed this poem, visit www.RoseKlix.com to learn of her poetry and prose collections.



Feeding Naturally


sunflower seed head

The following poem reminds me when we planted sunflowers in our backyard. I enjoyed their faces turning towards the sun. The stalks grew much larger than we imagined. In the fall the birds were crazy for the seeds. I decided we needed to ration throughout the season. We dried the huge seed heads in the garage and pulled them out one by one. Since then we’ve bought the black sunflower seeds for our feeders. But this hasn’t been near as much fun as watching them pull apart the seed heads.

Sunflower Seed Frenzy

by Rose Klix

A gathering of autumn bird

visitors arrived unannounced

at the cardinal’s feeding tree.

He’s learned to share —

sometimes. Picky eaters throw

millet and corn on the ground

to mourning doves and

the blue jay clean-up crew.

The summer birdfeeder emptiness

left them gleaning on their own.

Rob pours a new mixture

into the holders.

Black sunflower seeds

are all-time favorites

to create a feeding frenzy

and envy from the blocked squirrel.

Published as a 39th Annual contest winner in Pasque Petals, The Magazine of the South Dakota Poetry Society, Fall 2015, Volume 89:2

If you like Rose Klix’s poem, you might enjoy her poetry collections and published prose writing. Visit her website at www.RoseKlix.com

Are We Almost There?

by Anonymous

“Are we almost there? Are we almost there?”

said a dying girl as she drew near home.

“Are those our poplar trees that rear

their forms so high ‘gainst the heavens blue dome?”


Then she talked of her flowers and she thought of the wall

where the cool waters dashed over the large white stone.

And she thought it would soothe like a fairy spell

could she drink of that fount after her fever was o’er.


And oft did she ask “Are we almost there?”

Still her voice grew faint and her flushed cheek pale.

And they strove to soothe her with useless care

as her sighs escaped on the evening gale.


While yet so young and her bloom grew less

they had borne her far away to a kindlier time.

For she would not tell it was only distress,

that had gathered life’s roses in its sweet young time.


And she had looked where they bade her look

at many a ruin and many a shrine,

at the sculptured niche and the shady nook,

and watched from high places the ruins’ decline.


And in secret she sighed for a quaint spot

where she oft had played in childhood’s hour.

Though shrub or floweret marked it not,

it was dearer to her than the gayest bower.


They swiftly more swiftly they hurried her on.

But these anxious hearts felt a child despair.

For when the light of that eye was gone,

And the quick beats stopped, she was almost there.


(After the poem, my handwritten copy states, “Copied by Philena D. Baily, Lisbon, Iowa 1856” and “Susannah Z. Bassett, Linn Grove, Linn County, Iowa:” The notation after the poem states “ This piece is written about: A young lady who had visited the south for her health but finding that she hourly grew worse her friends hurried her home. On the journey she was very much exhausted and continually inquired, “Are we almost there?” She died just before reaching home. A friend who accompanied her wrote the song.” The poet friend was unidentified in this note.

I found the poem in a collection of my Aunt Delores Hart’s research. I believe my aunt copied it during her research in Linn County, Iowa while looking for her great-grandmother Elmeda Bassett’s genealogy. Elmeda had a sister named Susanna Zerna Bassett. Perhaps Susanna was the unidentified friend who wrote the poem. My copy contained fold lines and water stains. After sitting in a binder for years while we moved and moved, the writing is now difficult to read. Unfortunately, I waited too long  to find it again. My dear aunt had died several years ago so I cannot ask her more about it.. Hopefully, I’ve appropriately preserved the anonymous friend’s sentiment in this typed copy.)



Most, if not all, my life I’ve believed in reincarnation.

Here is a poem I wrote when sixteen years old.


Past is present, and future came. First is second, the third’s a game.

Restoration to a new dawn, visions of what was are not gone.

Present, future, and past is done. Second is third and first is spun.

Who are you and what do you do? I’m nobody now that I’m through.

Future – now; renewal – begun. Third – infinity; past – rerun.

I am here and I didn’t fall. I’ve come back to seek my call.

– written in 1966 (reprinted from Pastiche of Poetry, Volume II and introduces Past Lives Before Now.)

Newly released prose New Age book Past Lives Before Now reports on twenty-three of my past lives recalled through dreams, déjà vu, visions, and regressions.