Going with the Flow

In the splendor of a poet’s pen
a poem lies in waiting.
The words spill from ink
infused with vision.

Some will write a smile
that lights the page
and some will write
to quell some inner rage,

Some will write to share
a deeper thought
and some will fill the page
with endless rant.

Poems are like people
in all sizes and all shapes.
Some prefer the classic
while some seek only new.

The best of all the poems
and the happiest people too
are those content
to do just what they do.

First Day of Summer

A magic flute, a silver note,
a robin on the wing;
everything is celebrating
summer     and I
am one with them.

My eyes see only art,
the weed, the vine, the bloom,
the supple Maple tree,
Each is a maestro
in its proclivity to dance, or sing,
or merely be.

Though I,
wan mortal that I am,
stand paler
by their beauty, Today
I am at once the wing-ed bird
and the graceful tree.

How I'll Cure the World

I will write the demons,
the silent screams and tears,
the groundless, and not so groundless, fears
accumulated like mismatched luggage.

No fancy suit bag here,
just battered baggage
scarred and damaged,

the ugly rumblings of griffins
and goblins, the predators
with twirled mustaches,
vile breathed and detached.

I will write the shadows
that smother the sun,
the smog and the pollution,
the pestilence of intimidation,
the bias of discrimination,

I will write the smack, the crack,
the booze, the pills, the pain,
the insane refrain that does not dwindle.

I will write it all
then crunch it up
into a vulgar ball
and burn it.

Country Wisdom

There are some things you live your whole life
without knowing, some facts that nobody cares
that you lack. Of course, if you’d be a farmer, 
you must know  a mule from a horse.

If you should be asked to write for Farm Journal
it is important to know that the fruit of the corn
is known as a kernel;  chickens gathered to eat
said fruit are rightfully called a flock.

A bullock (or ox if you choose) has never
been noted for curls. That mentioned, two bullocks
are oxen, single one out it’s an ox. Furthermore,
if it’s a cow, it’s always a girl.

A sow  (as in cow)is a hog that’s had babies,
before that she was a pig, and even prior, in a time
somewhat remote, that pig was known as a shoat.
Then as now, in good times  and worse,  
you can’t turn a sow’s ear into a silk purse.

 

This New Day

On May 16, 2019May 16, 2019 By smzangIn 1, Poetry, sarah zang, smzang4 Comments

           

..begun with birdsong and dew;
and a  newspaper that’s  a smear
of condensation and sensationalism
(soon only the scandal sheets
will survive.)

Each day
marks the end of something…
flexibility, dexterity, temerity…
the probability that today it might be
the end of war and world hunger
is a jump even on this optimistic morning
when May and the sun conspire for perfection
but the possibility is there.

Hungry souls
sense what they never know.
Somewhere inside
all of us live alone.  Breathe deeply
as if consciousness expands
with the lungs.  Take that first sip
of dawn and with it a hit of reality…
This day will be what we make it.

Quotable Quotes

You can complain because roses have thorns or you can rejoice because thorns have roses. ~Ziggy

Tomorrow is yet to be. Today is the miracle. Unknown
In acceptance, there is peace. 1 Timothy 2:15

Worry is like a rocking chair, it gives you something to do, but it doesn’t get you anywhere. Glenn Turner

Sometimes your joy is the source of your smile, but sometimes your smile can be the source of your joy. –
Thich Nhat Hanh

The willow knows what the storm does not: that the power to endure harm outlives the power to inflict it.    Unknown

When you get to the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on. Franklin D. Roosevelt.

Patience is the key to paradise.  Turkish Proverb

Goldfish and Sinusitis

Belly up
is not how it’s supposed to look,
is it?  Eyes glazed, sightless…
What will I tell her?

That nothing is permanent,
that life brings disappointments
even when a goldfish
is the object of affection?

Sparkles has lost his sheen.
Already those opalescent scales
have dulled pale and pasty;
even the special light bulb

cannot make it right.
I will not tell her, not yet.
Instead I make the rounds…
19 pet stores in a 30 mile radius;

surely one will have a double.
Yes!  Sparkles  lives  again.
After all, it is Spring,
a time for miracles
and sinusitis.

When they Crucified my Lord

April Is the Cruelest Month*

         * the title is a line from The Wasteland by TS Eliot

To Bryant's Fountain

“…shall the veins that feed thy constant stream  be choked in middle earth, and flow no more forever, that the water-plants along thy channel perish, and the bird in vain alight to drink?”  (from The Fountain by William Cullen Bryant)

What feelings has a fountain stilled
by overgrowth of moss and twigs?
Your silenced waters trod to dust
by the endless marching years.

The twisting thicket pushes hard
against your stony face; leafy
lances penetrate your walls. Wrens
pass without a pause to rest.

What history lies sleeping, deep
within your heart…unreachable
through the thorns and tangled ivy?
What native brave slaked his thirst

with your cold water, ere it turned
red with conquered’s blood or stain
of  autumn rust? But you, storm splashed
soon washed crystal clear again.

For years wheat fields stood by your side
and children tossed their pennies in
to make a wish come true, ruddy cheeks
glistening with sun and youth.

Then, when the farmer’s time was done,
the sportsman hunted and wandered
through September’s noon, but even
hunters hang up their muskets.

The brave surrendered native land;
the child has grown into a man
and all the men have been called home.
Now you alone remain here.

We pass by and pause to wonder
what dreams hide in a fountain’s heart
when the water has departed
and the ancient tears have dried.

Tolkien's Middle Ear

 

 

O, Tolkien, did you think
of Middle Ear
and all that happens there?
The trysts between the malleus,
incus, stapes and the brain, the ring --
you know the one
that drives a man insane --
a trilogy of senses intertwined.

What did you know
of the Eustachian tube?

Will you map it for us with your worthy pen?

Perhaps invoke a tuning fork
so we will better understand why in March
when snow still frosts the ground,
we hear a robin sing
and join hands
to welcome Sprng.

Pearls and Platitudes

Good men are not made by law,
Nor wise men made by books,
Beauty is an attribute
That's sometimes matched
with looks.
Love is such a lovely thing,
It makes the time fly by,
But it’s a sad song that we sing
When it's time
that makes love fly.

 

 

 

Getting it Done

February’s last hurrah —
wind rattles through bare limbs.
Birds fluff their feathers
and sing a glad song.

Spring is on its way…
Mother Nature seems to be saying,
Stop labeling me!

There are no compartments
to contain me, not even
on calendar pages.

In a monologue
without fences
she blows cold breath.
The meadow waits for April,

Bees wait for flowers,
Back streets bask in neon.
Fake mystics practice levitation
without success

and then there’s poets,
pen in hand they whistle
and write the sun.

Inspired by Chagall

Synesthesia

          Mist veiled sky and seawall,
          an expanse of ocean, gray
          as the fading sight
          of soaring wings.
          The tourists have gone home.

          White sand as hard as rock
          beneath booted feet
          lines  winter's frozen shore
          and yet
          August voices resound.

          Tang of salt scent escapes
          the ice, recalls sunny days
          of summer fun
          as sounds of laughter
          ring  in memory's  ears.

Overnight Success

 

 

They asked me for a poem.
I’ve been waiting for years
on stone benches;
suddenly
I am afraid.
Life is full of contradictions.
I roll down hillsides
trying to catch butterflies.
Some would say
it happens to the best of us.

One of these days
when Spring blossoms
fall to a hard rain, 
when the parking lot
is full of gulls
and the grass is crushed
by growing pains,  I’ll take pen
in hand and write a poem
about jello. Maybe then
they’ll understand.

 

 

 

~

Places I Have Been

     In the morning when the dew
     is frosting on the lawn
     before the day has had its way
        with dawn and fragile dreams

     we speak of traffic and the sunrise
     as we hold tight to memories
                        of faces seldom seen
     and the sky becomes an ocean
     and the day becomes a sigh
     and the morning sun keeps rising
               'til it reaches noonday high

     and the song becomes a melody
     that rambles through my mind
     of faces that are seldom seen
               and hearts that intertwine.

The Best Is Yet to Be

Shallow the worries that well within
When fondest dreams are foolish whims,
Gray the skies and dark horizon
When wasted days come to an end.

Brighter the light of lessons learned
When inner thoughts are outward turned,
When bother seems to overwhelm
A feeble captain is at the helm.

With shoulders squared and jaw line set,
The best of all is coming yet.
Smiling eyes and glad hearts that sing
Will take away that awful sting

Of blinding tears and deep regret.
The best of all is coming yet.


 

Gone Missing

The wind blows warm,
The wind blows cold,
Summer comes and Summer goes
and the tides keep rolling in.

Little Jenny had a vision
or maybe it was just suspicion,
A bit of hell, a bit of heaven and
she was somewhere in between.

People with their fishhook hands
pulled at her with their demands,
Jenny tried so hard to understand
that's just how people are.

Caught up in their silly games,
the cake was left out in the rain
and Jenny's heart was filled with pain.
After all, she was just a little girl.

In this life I'll never know
what broke the straw
and made Jenny go, I only know
that Jenny doesn't live here anymore.

The wind blows warm,
The wind blows cold,
Summer comes and Summer goes
but Jenny doesn't live here anymore.

Memories

Echoes of a Rose