Garden Magic
Deep in each small seed
A mystery lies buried
Only sun and rain
Can create the magic spell
That will free the hidden prize
A red tomato
Or a yellow sunflower
Captured in a shell
Waiting to at last uncurl
To the gardener’s delight
Art 101
Art 101
I join the group scattered around
the classroom, standing behind wooden easels,
brushes and paints laid out in perfect order.
A room full of adults with nothing else to do
at ten o’clock on a Thursday morning.
We are supposed to paint a rooster
following the step-by-step instructions of
the artist at the front of the room. A blank canvas
gazes back at me and I fantasize about turning
out a rooster-like creature, in bright blues and
greens, with bold eyebrows like Frida Kahlo,
challenging the rest of the class to imagine a
world where different is normal.
Get set . . .
Pondering Things at 2A.M.
Pondering Things at 2 A.M.
There is something magical
about the contrast of black and white.
Something silent that makes you “feel”
rather than “see”.
Light and shadow.
Contrast and highlights.
Like in photography,
piano keys,
snow on bare tree limbs,
stars in a night sky,
…. and Oreos
Shhhhhhh…….Quiet, Please!
Let’s Stay Home
Let’s skip the trip,
stay near to all that’s dear –
brew tea and
bake a chocolate cake.
Let’s write a poem and read the book
that we’ve been waiting for.
Let’s let the candle burn until we hear
finches sing of Springs return
Quadrille #240: Fill, Zip, Trip
Snowflakes
Snowflakes
We got a feeble amount of snow, overnight.
Not enough to make a snowman or even
a respectable snowball. It is trying valiantly
to cover the grass and the sidewalk, yet
only manages to look like powdered sugar
on a homemade apple cake. Children don’t
even bother to put on snowsuits – they know
there will be no sledding, today. But if you look
carefully, you will see the intricate patterns of
those scattered flakes and marvel at their sparkle,
like magic diamonds strewn across the yard.
Poetics: New Year Snow
Buried in Lies
Buried in Lies
She tried not to lie, but the words tumbled so easily from her lips. She made promises she knew she would never keep. And she was sure no one would ever know.
It began when she was three, all three-year-olds lie, don’t they? It was just a little lie about a cookie. She really wanted that cookie, and everyone thought she was just so cute.
The lies got bigger as she got older, money missing from her mother’s purse, homework “lost” on the bus, her best friend’s misplaced earrings.
Now she would tell the biggest lie of all when she tells herself that those lies never hurt anyone. Here, lying in a satin lined coffin, with no one to mourn her death or shed a tear, alone with only a lifetime of lies for company, she whispered, “Bury me with the lies I told.”
Dverse Prosery Monday — Bury Me
Anatomy Lesson
Anatomy Lesson
Who knew a beating heart
could make such a rumpus –
that flowing blood could
create swishing
noises as it moves
from one chamber to another,
gently closing the flap behind it.
I listen, waiting to hear
hope, love, joy, echoing
back to me.
These Times
These Times
I roll my eyes and clench my fists –
watch the news until I can endure no more.
Truth has abandoned society and
left us with madness.
It is the worst of times.
Then the hoot of a barred owl in the woods
calls me to leave it all behind, to
sit outside, to bathe in moonbeams
and breath deeply.
It is the best of times.
New Rules for Writing Poetry
New Rules for Writing Poetry
Go to a library
Find an old book
The well- read kind with
a tattered cover and dog- eared pages
Gently shake it over a blank sheet of paper
until it has no more words to give
Spread the loose word evenly
Fold the paper into a crane and let it fly away
Wait
When the crane returns open it and read its poem aloud
Turn it into a small boat
Set it adrift on the current of dreams encircling the universe
Tell Me
Tell Me
Don’t tell me about your new car
with its fancy dashboard and back up camera.
Don’t tell me about your latest trip to
some foreign country with beaches and sunshine.
Don’t tell me how long you waited in the drive-thru
line for your morning latte.
Tell me instead about birdsong in the morning,
the male goldfinches singing their hearts
out, dressed in their brightest yellow feathers.
Tell me about the row of orange and pink
Zinnias, planted especially for bees and butterflies.
Tell me how much you care about this old planet
with all its light and darkness, its joys and sorrows.
Tell me the stories of its creation and the hope for its future.
Tell me love stories about you and me.
—
Day 22 of Poem a Day at Writer’s Digest
rhymeswithbug 