Muses….They breeze in when I least expect it, usually after hours. Which was the case just after New Year’s Day in 2016….It must have been Calliope, I suppose who filled my head with a poem of prose…  


Something was weighing heavy on mind that night as I fell into bed.  Can anyone relate? 


Are there any men who really know their women?

Do they actually digest what they’re saying and participate intimately in conversations?

Do they respect their dreams with admiration and savor their anecdotes

Or do they interrupt mid-sentence, missing the punchline

So they can retreat to their caves

emerging only to eat or satisfy their carnal needs

Then disappear again while the women clean the kitchen or change the sheets


Are there any men who are truly romantic?

Do they occasionally put aside hotrods and remotes to sweep gals off their feet?

Do they execute the desires their women have been requesting all along

Or are her words a waste of breath that dissipate before reaching his ear?

It should have been so easy

They’ve had the key to the treasure map this whole time

If only they had listened

♥Chele Smith Walsky

Jan 4, 2016


Featured post

Where’s my math muse?

I’m taking a Stats class this summer. For 30 days. I’m crazy! Math isn’t even my thing. But it’s required for my major, and it’s the young go-to professor who’ll break it down into digestible bites, which happens to be the only Stats course he’s teaching this summer, or ever again.

The two-week Speech class proceeding Stats was exhausting but a breeze because it involved writing. A lot of it!  Four speeches to craft and a famous one to analyze, keeping rhetorics in mind (and I discovered a treasure trove of these Greek word nuggets to play with!), heightened language, voice projection, and all while trying not to peek at our notes.  We learned a lot of tips to calm nerves–did you know the speech isn’t about the speaker, but the audience? Once I realized this I was able to get the qualms out of my head and into theirs by starting off with a question.  

We were there as a requirement and to improve our presentation skills but it never occurred to me that speech class would become a wonderful writing workshop.  It was in my wheelhouse, as The Voice coaches like to put it.

Statistics on the other hand…Where’s Cady Heron when I need her? Seriously, the class was about to start and the usually overplayed movie, “Mean Girls”, was nowhere to be found. Not on Netflix nor in Walmart’s endless DVD bin.  

 I have this lucky ritual before such a course. I channel my inner math goddess to pump up my confidence.  I wish I was one of those girls who’s great with numbers.  What empowerment! I’m not as bad as I think. I just have a Dory memory when it comes to equations and formulas. Once I’m retaught,  I can do it. I just wish it stuck. Now the class is half over…and still no North Shore Mathletes in sight.  I just know as soon as I go all the way to Target (assuming they have it), it’ll pop up on MTV or something.  I’ll just have to cave and order it from Xfinity On Demand. For the final for sure! 

Maybe I should switch modes and inhale the girl power in “Hidden Figures” instead. If only I grew up knowing about the female brains behind NASA. Then maybe in the 70s and early 80s, I wouldn’t have heard the soar-squelching phrase, “Girls aren’t good at math.”  Why did I believe it? I let it clip my wings. Imagine the possibilities….it would have been a whole game changer.  Maybe I could’ve been Cady Heron.

An excerpt from the Pearly Gates Phone Company, a collection of spiritual nonfiction short stories and poems


She lies beautiful in death

murmuring their song

til nothing’s left

she glows


The aura kisses her lips

as she evaporates, pristine

an ethereal being

spinning her soul into cotton candy wisps

yet she glows,

her halo


 ♥Chele Smith Walsky

  Feb 2017

In memory of Aunt Bobbie

In the final hours,

she was truly beautiful


*From the Pearly Gates Phone Company,

coming soon this summer



Behind Frenemy Lines Quiz

 The Quiz link follows a sneak peek at Chapter One: 

Chocolate casualties in heart-shaped boxes collided as she elbowed her way through the crowded deli, reaching for the dispenser at the same time as the handsome stranger. A zap zinged her finger, and she withdrew her hand suddenly. Had the machine malfunctioned or was it the derma-transmitter she’d just embedded near his thumb?

“Ladies first.”

“Thank you,” she blushed, looking up at his height, embarrassed the reflection in his specs caught her slumming in sweats while he was freshly spruced in a suit and Old Spice. No fair either that she felt the mesmerizing pull into those Baryshnikov baby blues! Getting lost in that ceil sea, time stood still.

“Allow me.” The whir of the receipt reeled her back in as he retrieved her ticket, then punched his own.

“Ah, my lucky number,” she sang, holding up twenty-two, just to say something. 

“Michael Jordan’s—twenty-three!” He flashed his placeholder with a smile. She must have looked blank because he continued, “Not a basketball fan, I take it.”

Her burgundy ponytail flopped like a fish when she shook her head.

He was riveted by an odd scar below the nape of her neck. A cigar burn or bullet wound, he wasn’t sure. “C’mon, you’re wearing the Wizards! Surely you’ve heard about the best player of all time—Chicago Bulls, retired, opened steak houses, unretired to play here in the capital. Space Jam movie with Bugs Bunny…”

Laughing at all the absurd references, she clutched her tattered tee. “This old thing? I’m not much into sorcery, and I certainly hope he didn’t use those bulls for steak. I recently moved here from Europe.”

“Ah, that explains it! I was beginning to think you were from outer space.”

“Maybe I’ll rent it. I’m watching movies to brush up on culture and all your interesting phrases.”

“I think you’ll like if you’re a fan of Looney Tunes.”

“I think the French skunk is cute. Or… maybe it’s because love stinks.” Her voice trailed off, and her shy smile practically dented the can of sardines in her basket. She felt off game flirting with him but what choice did she have when he was her latest mark.

“Good one,” he hooted, eyeing the swinging Cupids above their heads. “Unless you’ve been jilted?” She squirmed at his sympathetic scrutiny, so he changed the subject. “Your English is fine, though.  Where do you hail from?”

Just then the butcher bellowed her number, lucky indeed.


How well do you know secret agents Lee and Galaxy? Buy the book (amazon.com) available for Kindle and paperback, devour the pages, then click the link to take the quiz at quizbean, below.  (It takes several moments to load so no worries. When the login pops up, make a quick username and password to enter.)

Behind Frenemy Lines Quiz

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