Some days
are like spinning tires on gravel.
The doing is there,
but the moving is not.
Photo credit: Nick Cowie.
Outdoors, Seven Flights Up
Listening for city warblers,
red cardinals perched on cement ledges,
impatient jays clinging to limbs.
Ears cringe at raucus horns,
cherry red vehicles rush
nowhere fast, just out of view.
Grey skies meld into buildings,
perfectly perpendicular
floor upon floor upon stack
upon stack upon stacks.
Right angles everywhere.
My lawn chair, an oxymoron
on this outdoor slab,
seven floors up, walls on three sides.
Eyes close so memory can recall
morning Kiskadee songs at dawn,
Bermuda’s blue upon blue horizon
where shimmering waters touch the sky.
Written for Open Link Night at dVerse Poets’ Pub.
A Step Through Time
Ah youth
tis so hard to say goodbye.
Twirl the rope instead of jump
avoid the puddles instead of stomp.
Piggy bank replaced by credit card,
stiff joints and aging spots.
The antidote is children’s laughter,
hugs and kisses, daring do,
dragons, dollies and make-believe.
Clocks turn magically backwards,
surround sounds of silliness
in gramma’s visits to Neverland .
Written for dVerse Poets’ Pub: Abhra tending bar asks us to write a poem about a temporary goodbye. Just back from a family visit — and a return to my writing — I thought this appropriate! Various photos of me and grandkids — they do keep me young! 🙂
Wed to What?
They lived a merry-go-round life
senses dulled by blurred vision
maniacal calliope music
mired in manufactured grooves.
She rode the blue horse
its mane gilded in gold
hands cold on metal pole
forever spinning forward.
He rode two steeds behind
eyes wild with lust
chasing her round and round
never gaining ground.
Desperately out of synch
his up to her down
so close, but always out of reach.
Gold ring dangling in neon lights
they rode on and on and on.
Just sayin’
Age defines shelf space.
Bran cereal and oatmeal
prominently front
hot sauce gathers dust in back
during salt and pepper years.
Written in the tanka form — tongue in cheek, food for thought so to speak! Happy weekend all.
It’s in the Doing
Once,
I wished
on a star.
Another time
a four leaf clover.
Eyes squeezed shut, breath held tight
twenty-one birthday candles
blown out from one huge sucked in puff.
But I’ve come to learn as I grow old,
it’s not in the wishing that dreams come true.
Written for dVerse Poet’s Pub. Today, Victoria asks us to write an etheree, shaped by syllabic lines from 1 to 10. First line 1 syllable, second line 2 syllables, third line 3 syllables etc. up to the tenth line of 10 syllables. Quite fun to do!
Did you know?
Long before Orwell’s 1984
big brother watching you
drones and satellite stations,
there were pigeons in the sky.
Cameras upon their chests,
they reported fowl news
to those who knew.
Jobs stolen,
usurped by technocrats,
they simply gather now
where cracked corn is tossed.
And when they do take flight,
their only sign of rebellion
is the occasional shit upon your head.
Written in response to Miz Quickly‘s posting of the following article from The Public Domain Review: Dr Julius Neubronner’s Miniature Pigeon Camera
In 1908 Dr Julius Neubronner patented a miniature pigeon camera activated by a timing mechanism. The invention brought him international notability after he presented it at international expositions in Dresden, Frankfurt and Paris in 1909–1911. Spectators in Dresden could watch the arrival of the camera-equipped carrier pigeons, and the photos were immediately developed and turned into postcards which could be purchased. Photos from same article. Hope I gave you a smile with this! 🙂
Why hast thou forsaken me?
…and Namrah spread his wings as I clung tightly to his undulating spine. He took me to the place last inhabited by my kind.
He landed on dry encrusted earth; trails of criss-crossed steel nearby. His massive head nodded to the open door and he watched as I ventured in. Rows and rows of emptiness. Benches of once polished oak, gathering the dust of ages. A transport station. Hope long since depleted.
Tears streamed from my eyes as I sought Namrah’s fold. With a keening guttural dirge, his one tear joined mine. And he lifted me, soaring, into the clouds.
Word Count: 100. Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers. Rochelle is the master of flash fiction (a story of 100 words or less) and challenges writers each week with a photo, posted on Wednesdays. Photo credit: J Hardy Carroll. Stop by and see some of the tales garnered from this photo!
For a friend…
Passionate quilter,
tiny stitches galore
cacophony of color.
Love migrates
from fingers to cloth.
Character sketch written for dVerse Poets’ Pub. Photo credit: Jonathan M
Helen
Unpredictable.
Lightning flashes,
hot licks that seared your soul.
Rosary beads tucked in drawer
near lace-edged handkerchiefs
and candy wrappers.
Pinochle, canasta
she held the deck,
played war occasionally.
A one-man woman she
danced to big band sounds.
Buried sister, son
two birthdays apart,
hers not theirs.
Gone these many years,
she still pops in and out
unpredictably.
Walt is hosting dVerse Poets’ Pub today, asking us to write about a character.
She was indeed.
lillian the home poet 