A place for poems and pics
One Last Chance
This poem has one last chance
to play the game, make a name
for itself. It (day)dreams of fame and
glory, the hero of a story staring
moon and muses. It refuses to give up –
turns up, tuned up and ready to poem
It’s running out of time, maybe you could
spare a rhyme – a little rosemary and thyme
But don’t worry my dear, there’s
always tomorrow
Just Out of Sight
This poem has seen it all
Trends the come and go – waiting
around the bend to return in
a slim disguise that can not
fool this poem
Long hair, short hair, no hair, facial hair
Wide pants, narrow pants, no pants
streaking across a field
Spikey heels, flat soles, flip flops that
used to be thongs, but now that is
something entirely different
Pop beads, love beads, crystal beads
Moon rocks, pop rocks, pet rocks,
Rock ‘n Roll
This poem has watched it all come and go,
but it won’t stop looking until
it sees peace
About What Counts – a remix
He counts the birds of many hues
The names of most, he doesn’t know,
but they must count for something too.
His favorites are the noisy blues,
the yellows putting on a show.
He counts the birds of many hues,
this window gives a perfect view.
The black one – oh, it’s just a crow,
but they must count for something too.
He still remembers quite a few
it’s memories that do not flow.
He counts the birds of many hues
until they’re gone, all but a few,
and like them memories have flown,
but they must count for something too.
He sees a face and wonders who,
should he remember them – but no.
He counts the birds of many hues,
and they must count for something too.
A Reply From Narcissus in the Laundromat
When I stumbled into the laundromat I saw
you fluffing and folding and was instantly smitten.
People think I’m vain, egotistical even, but
every time I looked in a mirror or caught my reflection
in a window I was looking for you. I was daring to hope
that someone like you might be following me. Suddenly,
there you were, so I went from machine to machine trying
to glimpse your face because I was afraid to look into your eyes
in case there was no love reflected back.
* from Day 5 at NaPoWriMo
Not a Morning Person
Morning starts with the raucous music of birds,
like a choir with too many sopranos.
I rouse myself from sheets tangled as if
I survived a shipwreck during the night and
stumble awkwardly down stairs that seem to
descend into the center of the Earth.
Only the whistle of the tea kettle, like a siren
call to a sailor, keeps me on course to the
kitchen and your smiling face – a beacon
into the safe harbor of your arms.
When Moon and Stars Conspire
Black night canvas a
conspiracy of moon and stars
lures me from complacency
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
Pondering My Fate
I am the only one of the bunch left.
I sit alone on top of the refrigerator
waiting for someone to look up,
to see me here and think, “Oh
there’s still a banana!” Maybe
they will slice me and smother me
in ice cream and chocolate sauce.
Maybe they will cuddle me up between
two slices of bread slathered in peanut butter,
or lovingly slice me into a bowl of warm oatmeal.
Maybe someone will grab me on the way out
the door, on their way to yoga or soccer practice.
My freckles are just starting to show. I am the perfect
specimen, slightly curved, firm yellow skin, soft buttery
insides – just what the doctor ordered.
I know my days are numbered, here on the fridge.The longer
I go unnoticed, the more likely I have been forgotten and I will
slowly rot, until someone notices the smell. Then, I must join the
soggy tomatoes, the stinky potatoes, the furry grapes –
unfortunates destined for the compost pile.
rhymeswithbug 