A place for poems and pics
We Come Once More
We come, once more, to this
thankful
season. A time of introspection for
poets
whose cups spill over with syllables of love,
with souls
filled to the brim with joy and sadness, and hearts
that beat
out the rhythm of life and death
with truth.
The Squirrel Forest
She laughs at the squirrel running
back and forth across her yard
frantically burying acorns in random
places. Will it ever remember
each spot so it can return in barren
winter to dig up that morsel?
She knows that in the spring
she will be pulling saplings from
her flower beds, left overs from
some hidden bounty. As she watches,
she wanders if it might have been squirrels
that planted the forest at the edge of her yard.
Changing Wind
The wind came blowing through
the trees today, making the leaves
shiver in fear. It was a changed wind,
colder, more sinister. The clouds were
rudely pushed aside by this bully wind and
I heard it whisper through my window,
“Ready or not, here I come.”
Smoke Signals
Puffs of white clouds drift
slowly past like cosmic
smoke signals, carrying
messages that I do not
understand. I wish for words
that I can see written across
the sky, or a whisper from deep
inside the biggest cloud that
I can hear. I watch them scurry
away, pushed by the wind, the
way they’ve always done and
I think they are trying to tell me
the world is still turning and
all will be well.
A Goodbye Hymn
High overhead the wild geese fly
their honking fades into the air,
a threnody, a sad goodbye
to lakes and ponds that don’t reply,
mallards and coots no longer there.
High overhead the wild geese fly
away from cold wind’s chilling sigh.
They sing a chorus of despair
a threnody, a sad goodbye.
I wave my arms, somehow I try
to call them back, but unaware,
high overhead the wild geese fly.
They call each other, pair to pair,
a melody exquisite, rare,
a threnody, a sad goodbye.
I’ll miss them, strutting smartly by –
their songs like penitential prayer,
as overhead the wild geese fly,
a threnody, a sad goodbye
Spider’s Web
I leave the abandoned spider’s web,
empty and lifeless, in the corner of the back porch
an offering for the goldfinches and humming birds, which
they will use as the glue that holds their small nests together,
a shield against wind and rain when eggs hatch – protection
from harm until the hatchlings fledge
instead, I sit in a pool of morning sun and ponder love,
the spider’s web that holds a family together – safe and secure
Migration Story
They fly in a V formation, a skein
of Canada Geese, honking
joyfully as they arrive back at the
lakes and ponds where they were born.
Landing on the water, as if on water skis,
they trundle together onto land making
soft sounds in a language of their own.
They make me think of a superfluity of nuns
in their black wimples, reciting prayers
of gratitude for a safe migration.
Spring Again
Next week it will be Spring
again
the crocus and daffodils that waited beside the
tulips
for the slanting sun rays to warm the earth
will bloom
and dull winter birds will put on their best feathers
looking
for mates and building nests, never doubting miracles
like hope
Day 9 of Poetic Asides PAD – write a love or anti-love poem (or both)
–
Early Bird & Me – a Villanelle
He loves to rise before the sun
While moon and stars are still at play
My night of dreaming not yet done
He, wide awake, his day begun
My eyes are closed – please go away
He loves to rise before the sun
He thinks that I am not much fun
Because in bed I tend to stay
While moon and stars are still at play
He doesn’t know, I sometimes run
Through starlight, under moonbeams lay
He loves to rise before the sun
When moon is tired, stars twinkling done
My moon’s a shining yellow drum
He loves to rise before the sun
Before birdsong is even sung
And I dream on in my own way
He loves to rise before the sun
While moon and stars are still at play
Day 8 of Poetic Asides PAD – write a lucky number poem
–
7 or maybe 3
I always thought my lucky
Number should be 7
It is, after all, the date of
My birth – what could be luckier
But I have begun to reconsider 7
All straight lines with an elbow
That pokes out rather rudely
I feel drawn to 3 – softly curved
With numerical love handles
Its name a whisper that reminds
Me of ‘thee’, and I begin to count
The ways
rhymeswithbug 