Green, red-headed parrots
wildly party downtown.
Their sociable squawk-talk
an unrestrained clamor.
But they do remain mum,
about where they came from.
Posts tagged ‘poem’
Green, red-headed parrots
I woke to aromatic scent
still scolding my garden clothes,
a dress-up outfit I had worn
like a kid who pretends to be
a doctor, a sailor, a pilot,
a firefighter, or just grownup.
Yesterday, I clipped the rosemary
that looked to be related
to Rapunzel and Diana Ross.
At first I styled with caution,
then, crazily, I cut random stalks,
piles of fragrant fringes fell.
An over-zealous barber,
I felt compelled to keep cropping.
Bush parted in an Alfalfa do.
Poor topiary Little Rascal,
its stubborn points of cowlick
still try to stand up to my mischief.
Blameless bush do not despair,
for folklore prizes your memory.
You can repair if you recall
that grand old-style impression,
so symmetrical and profuse,
like a Jackie Kennedy bouffant.
Chimps should give poetry a go,
for, no doubt, they’d know how to toe
a rhyme and make a stanza screech.
Their poetry would bare sharp teeth,
fling coconuts and just for fun,
smack lips and stick out tongues.
From their creative exhibitions,
we might overcome our inhibitions,
and on our own simian lines we’d swing.
at first, protest
of maternal continuity,
wail for the usual embrace.
pent up, or weeping,
for bundles of guilt:
Even if they trust us,
Even if they need a break,
Even if they have no choice.
He drove while I directed
my phone to remember
the contrast of winter summits
against the flourish of mild-weather
fields, lavishly green as Irish
scenes portrayed in technicolor,
or waiting room magazines.
I kept shooting as we passed
signs of spring, which wet winters
sometimes bring to meadows
and hills that summer fire
fries, but now in this season,
sunny-side yellow profusely
blooms California-wild poppies.
Before the Sonora Desert,
and busy city oasis,
he impulsively pulled over
nearby a quaint, woolly scene,
for photographs, however,
the flock boldly baahed at us
and made me feel quite sheepish.
My poem got trapped in a Pen.
“Please, Pen, begin to write again.”
Snobby as a Fountain, Pen clicked,
“Your rhyme’s not worthy of my ink.”
“Release my words on paper here,
it’s not your job to judge or jeer.”
“Stanzas neither worthy nor sage,
I won’t allow upon a page.”
“You’re so old fashioned and cruel,
soon, you’ll be a dry fossilized tool.”
With that, I snapped on Pen’s cap,
and moved blank notebook from my lap.
Pen’s critique sounded much muter,
when I turned on my computer.
But, I feel somewhat frustrated,
poem’s still hidden and hated.
Night crept out
Grabbed a cup,
toast popped up.
Walked with dog,
near same thing,
greet, speak, eat,
day moved on,