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