Author Archives: Andrea R Huelsenbeck

About Andrea R Huelsenbeck

Andrea R Huelsenbeck is a wife, a mother of five and a former elementary general music teacher. A freelance writer in the 1990s, her nonfiction articles and book reviews appeared in Raising Arizona Kids, Christian Library Journal, and other publications. She is currently working on a young adult mystical fantasy novel and a mystery.

NaPoWriMo2021 Day Seven

NaPoWriMo2021 Day Seven

Today’s prompt is to write a poem in either the shadorma or Fib form. I chose the Fib.

The Fibonacci sequence is a series of numbers which advances as the sum of the previous two numbers, starting with 0, and 1.

The Fibonacci Sequence: 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55…

The Fib poem is a six-line form. Its syllable count is based off the Fibonacci sequence of 1/1/2/3/5/8. Once I understood this form, I knew my subject had to be my middle daughter, who teaches high school math and has a Fibonacci spiral tattooed on her shoulder.


a leader
you amaze me with your knowledge

and scientific
limitless, multifaceted

and compassionate
you advocate for your students

a joy
my precious daughter
I love you with my heart and soul

Flower of the Day: Emu


More Flowers of the Day.

Wordless Wednesday: Mystery Plant

Mystery plant

NaPoWriMo Day Six


Today’s prompt is Go to a book you love. Find a short line that strikes you. Make that line the title of your poem. Write a poem inspired by the line. Then, after you’ve finished, change the title completely.

The line I selected is:

The sun hovered near the horizon in a final kiss before sinking ever lower. ~ from End of the Road by Karen Michelle Nut.

The Final Kiss

a busy but uneventful day ends
a fatigued me watches the sparse clouds turn golden and pink and red
against the violet sky

as the sun sinks lower
a sliver of moon appears
Venus (or is it an airplane) shines like a beacon

a swarm of stars like fireflies
twinkle across the fading purple of the heavens
and the corona lingers against the horizon 
delivering a good-night kiss
before sliding out of sight


April is Jazz Appreciation Month


And what better way to celebrate than to listen to some great jazz music.

Dick Cavett interviewing Oscar Peterson:

The Robert Glasper Trio:

The great Ella Fitzgerald scatting:

John Batiste:

Bobby McFerrin and Chick Corea:

Miles Davis (and is it my imagination or is that Carlos Santana playing guitar?):

Andrea Motis, Joan Chamorro Quintet, and Scott Hamilton:

Duke Ellington:

Ahmad Jamal:

Dave Brubeck:

NaPoWriMo2021 Day 5


The official prompt for the day wasn’t working for me, so I chose to use the one from Writer’s Digest, The First (blank).

The First Time I Ever Laid Eyes on You

I couldn’t not notice you
in your Andean striped bell-bottoms
and floral shirt
and your long sideburns

when we went around the room
introducing ourselves
you said you were Greg
and you were gregarious

your laugh was infectious

afterward, some of us planned to meet
at Friendly’s for an ice cream cone
you invited me to come with you
I’d just gotten my first car 
and wanted to drive myself
but you insisted 

your car’s passenger side door didn’t latch
so you tied it to the steering wheel with a length of rope
and told me I had to sit right next to you
on the bench seat so I wouldn’t fall out

not the most auspicious of beginnings
but within two years we were married
and we remain so 47 years later


Monday Morning Wisdom #304

Monday Morning Wisdom #304

“Writing is always a process of discovery—I never know the end, or even the events on the next page, until they happen. There’s a constant interplay between the imagining and shaping of the story.”
~Kim Edwards

NaPoWriMo2021 Day Four


Today’s prompt is to “select a photograph from the perpetually disconcerting @SpaceLiminalBot, and write a poem inspired by one of these odd, in-transition spaces.” This is the photo I chose:



When Tumbleweeds Took Over the Town

Where do I go from here?
How can I navigate the barrier
That separates me from the mountain?

The obstacle is taller and wider than I.
I can’t see its boundary.
Does it stretch for feet, or miles?

Who will free the houses’ inhabitants?
Are they forever trapped?
Are they doomed to perish?

Will the trash cans ever be emptied?
Or when the truck comes, 
will it be forced to back out,
beeping warnings to ears that can no longer hear?

Must we wait for these thorny balls of twigs 
to crumble like cathedrals made from toothpicks?
Is this how it ends, humanity smothered by dead vegetation?


Happy Easter


I just had to share how pretty my neighbor’s yard looks:


From the Creator’s Heart #301