Flies in Disguise
They dress up like a bee
around each tiny flower of
the Lamb’s Ear in my garden.
They seem fierce in their quest
to chase others away.
Some would back away, keep
their distance, but I know
they are just wee flies
Zoom on over to d’Verse Poets Pub for some quadrille poems, if you dare
When he retires
he’ll shed his button down shirt,
shrug off his buttoned up life.
Stop chasing goals and start
chasing dreams, shift his vision.
He’ll rock out to his own tunes,
write the future in a song,
hug the life he always imagined.
Mish has us shifting around in the Pub today.
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.
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
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
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
d’Verse Poets Pub – Quadrille #166. “I Like Candy”
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
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.
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
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