A place for poems and pics
the faithful come each week
standing in line for a bit of
bread and a taste of wine
there are no ushers or priests
no service or offering
at the old Saint John the Baptist
church only hostesses and waiters
who seat you and take your order
you sip from a cup and
commune with fellow travelers
I think The Baptist
would approve
the flower does not send
invitations to bumbles
or bright swallowtails
and yet they come each morning
to breakfast on her nectar
there was a place on
the way to work – in the
days when I worked –
a country back road that
twisted and curved
a place where the trees
reached across the asphalt
to hold hands above me
a place where the sun
shone through the leaves
and made a lace pattern
for me to drive over
a place where time felt
like it had slowed down,
had taken a deep breath
where peace flowed through
the open windows and wrapped
me in its arms
—————-
he asks your name
and when you say it
he writes down what he hears
you are forever known by
a name not your own
butterfly follows
the scent and hue of flowers
feast on zinnia
I am a dabbler in the garden
a mere novice in the mysterious
art of coaxing flowers and
vegetables to push their heads
out of the dark earth
still a student of the spells
and brews and potions
I tinker with trowels and spades
as any tenderfoot would and
petition the garden gods to
one day bestow on me the title
Expert
———-
sleeping kitten dreams
morning nap on back of chair
my eyes slowly close
small spotted lady
works all day in the garden
then flies away home
This poem is a spinning globe
This poem is a raindrop on a leaf
This poem is a book
–
This poem spins the world we know
making us all a little dizzy
This poem defines each country
with colors that blur together
as it spins, creating a new world
This poem is a colorful globe
–
This poem is a raindrop that sits on
a leaf waiting for the sun to embrace it
to lift it into the sky, send it away
and let it fall again in field or forest
This poem is a patient raindrop
–
This poem is a book of words
trapped between covers until opened
by some lover who sets them free
carries them like a bouquet
and bestows them on friends and strangers
This poem is a bouquet of words
–
This poem is a globe of many colors
This poem is a traveling raindrop
This poem is a book of flowers
————–
Boomerang Poem form challenge by Hannah
inside out berry
you wear your seeds on your sleeve
ripe for the picking
rhymeswithbug 