A place for poems and pics
she has shrugged off her
dusty old life
an always-be-prepared life
a big purse-sun hat-umbrella
kind of life
her steady reliable self
is hanging from a hook
near the back door and
she has run off to
play with the Leviathan
the mocking bird sings
in imitation only
where is her own song
I flung my frail poetic words
up to the flaming star, the sun
letters rained down, rejected, shunned
scattered like storm-tossed twigs, undone
but birds and bees have salvaged them
reclaimed, renewed, turned into song
the air around me shimmers, hums
with hymn of fantasy begun
( I used the word sun and got the binary code 01110011)
bleached stones tumbled like
dominoes across a cool back
country stream
sunlight filtered through olive
green leaves making needle-
point patterns on gravel roads
bleating sounds of sheep on
a distant hillside and men fishing
downstream, laughing at not so
funny jokes like music humming
around in the breeze
fool-proof stress relief
I am left behind
I am a shell – an
essence of what I
once was
I am no longer a
pillow for the blonde
haired boy’s head
I miss the laughter, the
tears, the tiny sounds he
emitted in his sleep
He left me to be
vandalized by small
terrorists who followed him
With eyes missing and one
ear dangling
I am left behind
diva chefs
fixer upping
good vs evil
rock star wanna be
auctions
hoarding
selling
lawyers dealing
mystery
beauties & beasties
canned laughing
news & views
weather or not
channel surfing
turn off
read a book
Hum a tune today
a simple sound that
starts deep inside, then
rises up rushing past
cords, plucking them along
the way, bouncing around
in cavities and tickling lips
as it sneaks out into
the open
no need to be a seated
Memnon or wait for
the rising sun to strike
all
alone
or in a crowd
hum a little tune today
She ponders the
reflection in her
mirror a change-
ling had replaced
the face that greeted
her every morning
How had the fairies
insinuated this graying,
wrinkled being
behind the glass
sun and moon conspire
to cover earth with a dark
cloak eclipsing light
The the clock hides its
face with pointing
hands so it will not
be witness to the
secret time when
everything is
probable and
nothing is real
It holds its breath
ticking, tocking as
quietly as possible
trying to avoid the
stares of fading
phantasms hiding
in the shadows
rhymeswithbug 