A place for poems and pics
MacIntosh
It’s an old tree, standing in my yard –
not ancient like the Sequoias, or
statuesque like the Redwoods, just
a squat little apple tree being the best
tree it can. I can imagine it wiggling its
roots in the rich soil, like the child playing
In the sandbox under its shady umbrella,
Deer come to graze on the bounty of
late summer and Robins build delicate,
twiggy nests in its branches, and I’m sure
I can hear it humming lullabies in the night.
Book Sounds
Listen to
…. the slight whisper of a page being turned
late at night after everyone is asleep
…. the sharp rustle of paper as a page is
rapidly turned in anticipation
…. the final satisfying whoosh of the last page
turned, a book closed
Inside a Book
My bookshelves are filled with
sweet dreams of many poets.
The content of each book is
the beating of a writer’s heart,
pumping with inky fervor,
guiding me into a world where
we will meet soul to soul.
A place where one thought is doubled
and my muse finds another that suits
its tender essence
About What Counts
He sits at the kitchen window counting
birds at the feeder. He used to know the name
of each one, their breeding habits, their migration
patterns. A large shadow passes overhead, scattering
the little birds like the memories that elude him. People
and places he no longer recalls, strangers in photographs.
Only the feelings remain.
Surely they must count for something.
Of Courage and Joy
No one tells you how courageous you must be to grow old
The oldest are often the bravest
No one tells you how many times a heart can be broken or
How many times it can heal
No one tells you your body will fight against you and
Vigilance will become your watch word
No one tells you about how much love a human heart can hold
And still have room for more
No one tells you that joy comes in the form of chickadees
And children’s laughter
Yet, when they tell you that the best is yet to come
You do not believe
A Question of Abundance
The crocus and daffodils are blooming
and there is an abundance of small white
flowers in the herb garden – unwanted weeds
that I will have to pull, if it ever stops raining
On my front porch I found a small yellow
butterfly, a sign that the weather is finally
turning warmer and a reminder that my
abundant weeds are its abundant food source
Weeding can wait
A Song in the Storm
A small, clear voice sang out
amid the storm of men at war –
a movie song, a moving song.
A call to peaceful action, a voice
to calm the fears of children everywhere.
A song that children sing from homes,
and schools – from street corners and bunkers.
A voice heard by nations and people
unlike her own, yet understood by all.
A child with the wisdom that children possess,
a wisdom that is lost in the foolishness of growing up
Of Poem and Nonsense
This poem is tied up in (k)nots trying to
make sense of the letters swirling around
it – Syllables that won’t keep time, tripping
over metered clown feet – Phrases
of the moon lined up and made to
stan(d)za in groups of four or maybe two
What’s a poem to do when there is no
rhyme or season to its form? When it finds
itself trickling away into an inky stain on paper ?
Wrapped Up
She tried to catch up, match
up with those trending, mending
rending things until she was wrung dry
She tried to tweet sweet nothing
into space and time until her chirping dried up
She tried not to give up, live up to
some made up expectations that weren’t her
own until her muse was filled up with nonsense
Then she grabbed up some paper and some
deep blue ink and wrapped herself tightly
into the safety of her own mixed up poem
Synthetic Smells
They sell smells boxed and bottled,
ready for noses unused to nature.
Lavender and rose petals packaged
in plastic – manufactured smells
from a laboratory by people in
white coats and hair nets who
work under artificial lights and
breath artificial air. I long to walk
with them in my garden, to share
the warm yellow light of the sun,
and let them brush their hands
across lavender and sage until
they find the smell of peace.
rhymeswithbug 