Sunset
It will be dark soon. The winter Sun,
stretching its weaken rays toward Earth,
will fall once again into the sea.
She sits where the ocean meets the land,
her toes touching the wet sand,
silently waiting for the last gasp of the Sun.
Category: quadrille
Soul Sounds
Soul Sounds
My soul thrilled to the music of birds
and buzzing bees that lived in the
backyard garden, but this landlocked
soul did not know true music until it
felt the rhythm of ocean moving in the
darkness and heard waves crashing on the beach
—
Groundhog Day in Pennsylvania
Groundhog Day in Pennsylvania
Crowds gathered, wearing puffy jackets,
wooly hats – braving snowfall to
await the great prediction
Silence fell as night waned
and light streaked the horizon
A collective prayer rose up for an end to winter’s icy grip –
a prayer there would be no shadow
Quadrille #168
Poor Little Poem
Poor Little Poem
This poem’s not feeling very bold
In fact it feels a little cold
Its edges have begun to fold
Its ink is fading, truth be told
The muse has hassled and cajoled
But its ideas seem worn and old
Unrolled
Paroled
Retold
And unsold
–
Candied
d’Verse Poets Pub – Quadrille #166. “I Like Candy”
Candied
I’ve been candied
A hard shell has been poured
over my soft center, protecting it
from constant poking and prodding
Hiding in the creamy sweetness
of my heart is a tiny morsel of
hardness, waiting to defend it from
any who reach too deeply
In Celebration of Green Beans
In Celebration of Green Beans
We planted rows of beans.
Surrounded them with fencing – the kind
to keep rabbits from nibbling on the tender
shoots. We watered, weeded, cheered
when their white flowers were pollinated by bees.
Now we are holding a celebration in honor of
fresh green beans.
Forever
Forever
I will not have a tombstone –
when I die
A piece of rock to mark
the place where my bones sleep
My soul will not lie down beside those bones
It will soar freely among the clouds,
and stay forever at your side
Spinning Seasons
Spinning Seasons
Like a Merry-go-Round ride this old
blue planet spins round and round –
tilting now and then just to add a
touch of seasoning, a smidge of reasoning
far enough away from the flame
of that burning star that we feel its spicy heat
Bragging Rights
Bragging Rights
This poem’s been dragged and bagged
and now it’s lagging behind – trying to
flag down some scallawag staggering
by, wagging an extra word or two
that it needs to snag if it’s ever
going to be able to brag about itself
properly, on paper
Dee brings out the silly in me
A Salty Tear
A Salty Tear
Like a clown, this poem paints
on a happy face and goes serenely
about its day cooking, cleaning, caring.
All the while there is a small salty
tear waiting at the corner of its eye –
waiting to be released when
no one can see.
rhymeswithbug 