Poetry Here (Mostly)

Posts tagged ‘poem’

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.

 

 

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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.

 

 

Day 7: Found Poetry from “The Daffodils”


Stretched lake breeze,

ten thousand trees,

continuous bay,

milky waves,

lonely twinkle,

solitude hills,

daffodils pensive,

golden thoughts.

 

——

The Daffodils

William Wordsworth, 1770 – 1850

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A Poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

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