I walked out this morningto a rustle in the treetopslight wind from the northspiralling the last maplesearthward in unison,a carpet from abovedescending around mehouse buildingfor the queen beeas she prepares to sleepunder the white blanketjust ahead. ml’25 (we have snow in the forecast for Sunday) (original image from pixabay.com)
Poetry
I have been writing poetry since the 2nd grade. Why stop now?
Poetry
Angels On Her Fingertips
Angels on her fingertips,dancing lightlyas she weavesthe deep rumbleand soprano pipefor a waiting worldsmiling with joyas one braidbobs in perfectsyncopationto the rhythmsin her soul……Anna Lapwood ml’25 (If you haven’t heard Anna Lapwood I highly recommend a visit to Anna Lapwood at Youtube!)
Poetry
Delicious surrender
Delicious surrenderlike morphine – sweet and softnumb flowing in gentle riversto push away the pain of thoughtlike the ratty Winnie the Poohthey gave you at sixto chase the bogeymanyou held on tighttil Michelle in the ninth gradethrew him from a passing carcartwheeling over the medianinto the oncoming trafficyou laughed and
Poetry
Whalesong
Mighty songbird of the searolling languid in the wavesone flipper highto serenadefamily deep below. How sad to thinkin our stupiditythe only whalesongour children will hearis on Youtube. ml’25 Yesterday a whale watching tour boat, loaded with camera toting tourists guaranteed a ‘sighting’, rammed a humpback at high speed in the
Poetry
Leaving Something Behind
We are travellerssome lightwith a backpacksome burdenedwith flashy luggagewas it from Winners?but at every stopalong the waywe leavesomething behinda baseball mitton the bleachersa cellphonetucked in the seatof the departure loungetokens of our beingin that place and timetreasures for othersor cargofor the dumpsterwe forget the tokensat the next turnbut rememberthe smiles
Poetry
Even The Stones Cry
Intelligencea burden not carriedby many in the streetswith MAGA flagsand ill-hidden bigotryflashed like a badgeof honour, or something,our times are not shockingto those who reador have read and watchedwith bated breathhoping against hopethat the mirrorheld up in front of uswould not showwhat we always knewlurked beneath the skin,we sigh in