A place for poems and pics
I wonder
if the moon dreads the sun rise
when the party’s over and
the stars take off their
dancing shoes
moonbeams pack up
their instruments until
the next gig
the silky black curtain
is lifted and
daytime sun gives a
solo performance
there is no room for a
leftover moon
I used to think luxury
was long bubble baths
with candles and music
but after children I know
that luxury is a two hour
nap time
I used to think luxury
was champagne and caviar
but after children I know
that luxury is no spilled milk
at dinner
I used to think luxury
was an elegant silk suit
but after children I know
that luxury is khaki pants
without stains
I used to think luxury
was a stroll in the moonlight
but after children I know
that luxury is shoes without mud
after a walk
I used to think luxury
was the peacefulness of silence
but after children I know
that luxury is the joyfulness of
children giggling
chickadee and sparrow
sent out the invitations
to owl and hawk and nuthatch
the perfect combination
blue jay was included too
she’s really quite precocious
magpie was excluded since
his manners are atrocious
the mourning moon
reminds me to let go
to start anew
pack up the useless
have a garage sale
maybe someone else
can take my irrational
fear of failure and fold
it into origami cranes
——
Tonight there is a full moon, the last full moon before the winter solstice.It is sometimes called the Mourning Moon- a reminder to let go of unnecessary possessions, emotions, attachments
——-
alone beneath the moon’s glow
stars like dust motes in the sky
the only sounds, cricket’s chirp,
croak of frogs so deep, so low
—–
Paloma introduced a form called The Twenty-Eight at B&Ps Shadorma & Beyond
Four lines of seven syllables each with lines one and four rhyming created by J Lapis
No one goes there any more
It used to be the best playground
with swings and sandboxes and
a box hockey game
The slides were shiny metal
and in the heat of summer
you could feel the burn on your
bare legs the whole way to the
bottom and after a rain you would
land in a muddy puddle
Now it is an empty lot, abandoned
for the newer, safer playground
across town that grownups drive
the kids to watching as they swing
on swings with safety harnesses
and slide down slides that stay
cool to the touch, landing on
a soft rubber surface, or climb
on engineered walls with rules
posted at the bottom
Maybe, someday, kids can
be kids again
play in the mud, swing higher
and higher, pumping their legs,
climb to the top of a rock pile
and proclaim themselves
rulers of the world
—–
this poem was prompted by Imagined by Bjorn – Time Travel
does the rose feel regret
that its perfume is so sweet
is the thorn remorseful
over its sting
will the rooster hang its head
in shame for waking you
can a weed excuse itself
for invading your garden
does the deer hide,
shamefaced, after eating your tomatoes
is a caterpillar contrite
for nibbling the cabbage leaves
nature does not apologize
for its wonder
and are you not, as you are
sweet, twisted, noisy, quiet
part of that wonder
with no apology autumn frost
settles on the last petunia
struggling to survive
what is this thing
that sings in the darkness
that flings itself around
my heart like a golden
ring that dulls the sting
of careless words and
spiteful acts that wings
itself around this globe
to bring us face to face
to cling together linger
in the pale light of faith
mingle with a universe
alive with promise
sacred stones
reaching heavenward
pilgrim prayers
rhymeswithbug 