Poetry Here (Mostly)

Posts tagged ‘poem’

April Morning 2022


Blank as an empty wall

hard to picture much at all;

digging into mind’s coffer,

just this or that to offer.

Sunnier than yesterday,

that sky clouded over gray.

First, I’ll solve today’s Wordle,

postpones my bigger hurdle.

In blue chair I sit upright

looking out for lines to write.

Despite glass not so clean,

leafing tree appears serene.

Tranquil surge of springing life

counterbalances world strife;

purple petals on porch floor,

blooms unfold to flower more.

Christmastime in New York


Lumberjacks trolling Oneonta 
chose a mighty Norwegian spruce,
serrated, metal teeth sheared
trunk from its aged earthy roots.

Despite the horrendous buzz
and thrum of tottering vibration, 
a timid, tiny owl stayed hidden
inside needled ramification.

Scared, secluded bird, a saw-whet,
swaying like a silver feathered bell
through Timber thundered crash
and transport in conifer that fell.

She and tree traveled together 
to Rockefeller Center; one got
decorated, other, discovered;
both were soon photographed a lot. 

Media posted “Rocky” staring,
pupils ringed by narrow iris gold. 
Cute little owl in turtle-neck wrap,
inspired ornament now being sold.  

Dehydrated, hungry and afraid, 
arrived unfit and unable to try.
In rehab, owl recuperated,
set loose, she decided to fly.

At dusk, caregivers let bird go, 
saw her take off from Saugerties,
200 miles from owl’s old home,
and Manhattan’s famous tree.

Will the owl head to Oneonta, 
I wonder if mate or mother care;
is it possible they miss and seek
her in a tree no longer there?

Taking Its Course


Every day more sick, more dead
corroborate corona dread.

Proactively we separate,
then passive and alone we wait.

Staying home protects all people,
not just old or somewhat feeble.

As the sun rises right on cue,
through window view a spread of blue.

Nary a cloud floats in the sky,
hope silver lining soon stops by.

Such is life as quintessential
member of the non-essential.

Pandemonium


Green, red-headed parrots
wildly party downtown.
Their sociable squawk-talk
an unrestrained clamor.
But they do remain mum,
about where they came from.

https://www.10news.com/lifestyle/exploring-san-diego/how-the-wild-parrots-of-san-diego-arrived-in-americas-finest-city

Shear Disaster


Trees

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.

 

 

Monkeyshines


Pink Monkey-1

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.

Day Care


IMG_0104

Babies,

at first, protest

the interruption

of maternal continuity,

wail for the usual embrace.

Parents,

pent up, or weeping,

trade offspring

for bundles of guilt:

Even if they trust us,

Even if they need a break,

Even if they have no choice.

On the Way to Palm Springs


pexels-photo-227691

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.

 

Not A Pen Pal (Day 9: apostrophe, meaning 2nd person)


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.

Repetitive Pleasures (Day Eight, Epistrophe)


Night crept out

window’s mouth,

scented breeze

singing trees,

early morn

coffee warm,

again.

Grabbed a cup,

toast popped up.

paper news,

ink-black views,

daily chores,

then outdoors,

again,

again.

Walked with dog,

ravens called,

flowery scene,

southwest green,

season brings

near same thing,

again,

again,

again.

Evening mixed

dinner fix,

greet, speak, eat,

watched TV,

minutes gone,

day moved on,

again,

again,

again,

again.

 

 

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