She patienly waits for the
opus of birdsong, the
laughter of sunshine, the
curious wonders in
her backyard –
but is tolerant of rain
—————-
my six words are –
patient, curious, tolerant
laughter, birdsong, sunshine
A place for poems and pics
It’s not about winning –
although that’s nice too –
it’s about following rules,
being helpful to neighbors who
can’t hear, can’t see, or can’t understand
It’s hopeful anticipation,
statring over, having a
lucky number,
lucky rabbit’s foot,
lucky socks
It’s about community and
friendships – losing but not
giving up
It’s diversion, escape,
fun

santa riding a surf board
beach volley ball played on new years day
flightless birds and
animals with pockets
gold mines and cattle ranches
a giant rock – uluru
skies coated with stars
deserts and oceans
desolate and civilized
I’ve seen it all – on a screen
and someday I may touch, smell, taste it too
———————

Ten
Ten digits
They loll on the end
of my work-worn hands
Sometimes they seem to
prance in the air when
I’m excited
Pointed in wrathful fury
they intimidate no one
They remind me of
important to-dos with
sticky notes posted on
the fridge
They dig deep in the
black earth to provide
me with beans and beets
and squash and do battle
with slugs and beetles
They shade my eyes from
the shattering sunlight
Just for fun they deal cards-
seven each- in a hotly
contested game of UNO
And as the day turns to night
they curl up under my
pillow as I drift of to sleep
Ten
Ten poking digits
My fingers
I planted a garden
filled with white
petunias
Their beauty was
a balm to a troubled
soul
When I left that garden
my heart ached so now
I take them with me
————-

Who piled these stones
one upon the other with
such precision to
honor a king
Un-named men worked
their lives away to
feed the hubris of a Pharaoh
Did families mourn their
deaths – perishing under
unrelenting rays of the sun
Is this pyramid more a
tribute to detremined workers
than the diety
———
Chasing the crepsular rays
of the dying day
Hoping to make time
stand still – to arrest
the advent of the night
Running from the grip
of that Cimmerian shade
As daylight sings its swan-
song she mourns the things
that could have been
—————