Deracinate – Friday’s Word of the Day


Today’s word of the day at deracinate is a new one for me even though I am very familiar with the concept of being deracinated.

Deracinated means: to pull up by the roots; uproot; extirpate; eradicate, to force (people) from their homeland to a new or foreign location, to isolate or alienate (a person) from a native or customary culture or environment, o liberate or be liberated from a culture or its norms.

It originated in the 1590’s from the French word, déraciner, “to pluck up by the roots”,  from Old French desraciner, “uproot, dig out, pull up by the root”, which which is linked to the Latin des- and racine, “root”, from the Late Latin, radicina, a diminutive of the Latin word, radix “root”.

Whether we’re talking about plants deracinated by the roots from the ground or people deracinated from their homeland, it is an unsettling word. Its very tone and tenor sounds harsh when I say it out loud. One can’t help but feel empathy for the deracinated. No one likes to be plucked from the roots and “liberated”, unless, of course, it is their idea in the first place. However we find ourselves plucked, there is a certain element of the unknown lurking in the shadows.

Even liberated, a synonym of deracinated, is a tricky word. I remember the first time I learned of a colleague’s firing. The management explained that “so and so” had been liberated from said company to pursue new opportunities. It almost made me feel hopeful and happy for my former co-worker. Liberated did not adequately describe the reality of the situation. No income, no benefits, unemployed. That does not sound liberating to me. but deracinated? Oh yeah…that’s the word for it. It’s a good word. An honest word. Deracinated is not a thing I’m eager to experience. It smacks of change after all, and who likes change? But it’ not necessarily a bad thing. Some people choose to deracinate themselves. And in that case, it is very liberating. At any rate, it is a word I am glad to know. For now, I’ve plopped it into a few haiku. Have a great Friday.


diversity’s extolled,
peace kept, deracinated
by don’t ask don’t tell

by war and terrorism
they’ve no place called home

beautiful roses
deracinated from beds
wilt in sterile urns

expats are expert
at deracination to


Essence 23


the orange fool went mad
now he’s a tool for Vlad


A little photoshop fun for Jane Dougherty’s Daily Essence Poem Challenge Day 23. What can I say? I needed a bit of comic relief from the madness of Washington. The bad news is assaulting us with dizzying rapidity these days. And if you know me, I could not let the month pass without poking at least once at the Orange Fool in Chief. One can wax poetic about the weather only so much. I hope it has the intended smile from you that I’m hoping for. I had fun creating it. Peace and perseverance y’all. It will be over soon, one way or the other, hopefully with no casualties, save the reputations of the complicit. Fortunately, we still have term limits.


Countin’ Sheep

Now I know you like countin’ on the likes of me, but I gotta warn ya’

If I was countin’ on me I would never be able to sleep at night ’cause I’m a follower, I tell ya’; can’t think fer m’self and I’m liable to lead ya’ somewheres ya’ might not want to go…if ya’ foller what I’m sayin’.

But if it’s nightmares yer lookin’ fer, then I’m yer sheep; jus’ don’t say I didn’t warn ya’.


A Three Line Tale prompted by the photo above by Sam Carter via Unsplash. Thanks Sonya for hosting!

The Treasure of Black Hills

It all started when Mamie Mitchell found a crude map under the floor board in the parlor of her family home place. After she delivered it to the authorities, word spread. Fortune hunters descended on Black Hills hoping to find treasure buried by a notorious gang led by Bart McMaster. He had frequented the place, once a brothel owned by Mamie’s great-grandmother, Sadie. After a heist, Bart hid the map only hours before the gang was gunned down.

But Mamie knew that the treasure was long gone. Miss Sadie and her girls never needed for anything. Bart saw to that.


100 words for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers Flash Fiction Challenge prompted by the photo above by © Björn Rudberg.

Essence #22

weighed down, bent to breaking
Nol’s crown plucked for raking


Day 22 of Jane Dougherty’s Essence Poem Challenge. I haven’t meant for it to be a running weather report, but the weather has been noteworthy, and I am happy for the diversion from the disaster that is our government these days.

Yesterday, of course you know, we had a snow event. It was pretty, did not cause any traffic issues…but, it was a bit too heavy for our trees. There were reports of downed branches and public works crews on overtime cleaning up the debris. This morning as I looked out to assess the melting snow in my own back yard, my heart sank when I discovered that my beautiful young magnolia tree suffered the loss of several branches. It has only been a few seasons now that she has bloomed for me, and last summer a bird took up residence in her foliage to nest her young. I do hope we do not lose her. But trees are resilient, aren’t they? Like us, I’m thinking. Even when they suffer a break, they press their roots deep and hang on. We have another storm coming this weekend. I’m hoping the meteorologists have it wrong. (‘Nol’ is a nickname for Magnolia.)

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