they're in their own class
yet they get a bad rap
those tiny bright suns of
gardens and grass

they give so much
it's really not fair

to make such fun
of the clothes that they wear

clothes that are cheery
and chase away dreary

they're truly a prize
for both stomach and eyes

they offer their leaves
for a salad
it's really true, this is valid

their heads of yellow
made into a brew
can make you quite mellow
and satisfy you

if that's not enough
to give them their due
beauty and charm
sustenance too
giving their all for
a drink and a dish

give breeze
to their fluffy white seeds
they'll grant you a wish

Stacks of letters
saying "no"

rejection can be
such a blow

most every writer
has some

even Dr. Seuss
though he had a chum

that's how the book
expressed it

when they said
who would have
guessed it

he'd pleaded
to so many

said maybe
ten or twenty

supposed to make
for less regrets

bid you continue
in your
attempts

but

then they drop the boom
bring you back your gloom

they go on to say
in these very terms

he bumped into a "chum"
who worked
for a publishing firm

Every time
I think I'll stop

I'm not getting
through to you

Every time
I think it's useless

that I'm talking
till I'm blue

Every time
I bite my tongue

and want my song
unsung

Every time
I think that I'm insane

I open up
and words fall out again

if not to
make you pause
to catch your breath
or sigh

if not to
bring deep pleasure
a vivid scene
of sea or sky

if not to
open doors
where
your heart has never gone

if not to
to bring the colors
that brighten every dawn

if not to
flirt with music
on the dancing floor

if not all
this and more
then
what's a "meta-phor"?

where have all the poems gone
can't find them anywhere
where have all the poems gone
have they vaporized to air

where have all the poems gone
will no one help me look
where have all the poems gone
are they in some long closed book

where have all the poems gone
they're dying now some say
where have all the poems gone
why could they not stay

where have all the poems gone
gone to ashes
every one
where have all the poems gone
will they return when day is done

will words rise from the ashes
blow and swirl in wind
will they dance to joyous music
tingling beneath our skin

will they gather in a circle
will they place themselves just so
will they strike a chord in every heart
making poems
standing toe-to-toe

where have all the poems gone
flown off like traveling swan
where have all the poems gone
perhaps they're waltzing
with the dawn

You can learn a lot
from a Facebook page
just from the pictures shown

what things a person collects
what kinds of things they own

their likes and dislikes
vacations that they've taken

how many kids
how many pets
even what time they awaken

but mostly I like to notice
how many "selfies" there are

sometimes it's quite amazing
you'd think they were
some kind of star

headshots would be another
good name
for those poses oh so hammy

smiling, grinning, grimacing
goofy, questioning, campy

those infamous pictures
on Facebook
shots showing a craving
that everyone look!

I feel I have to be
bigger than life
flinging myself into
the arms of the world
with total abandon

Lest I be swallowed up
by unnoticed detail
****** into the eye
of the storm
that place of no happening
ringed by my frenzy

I have to be the one
who supplies enthusiasm
who lights candles
decorates
tries to make packages
pretty
with curly ribbons
fancy paper
maybe even sparkles

The frou-frou stuff

If I didn't
what then?


For holidays
we'd eat
at a naked table
(and I don't mean
picnic fare)
our food on paper plates
without
a single eyebrow
raised

it's tough to be
outnumbered
"outgunned"
by testosterone

though over the years
I've toned down
the frou-frou just a bit
I smile
do what I can
and live my life
like the Little Red Hen

I want to be subtle
adroit
mysterious
instead my thoughts
thrash about
for all the world to see
like worn sheets
blowing
in the wind
clumsy and drab

what I write sounds insipid
no mystique
no complexity

I call to my Muse
she does not come

what would it take to bribe her
I'll sell my soul to her
does she not know this

I'll give her my heart
doesn't she know
it's already hers

others have steadfast muses
who walk with them
who dream for them
then
guiding their hands
recall those dreams

my muse doesn't dream anymore
not at night
not in the day

my mind is dull and bare
a dust-bowl farm
nothing grows
winds removing
layer
          after
                     layer

my heart and soul arid
like parched
white
desert bones
lying lonely
on expanse
of
graveyard

where nothing moves
save tumbleweed
brittle
and empty

where barbed
sentinels
hoard
the moisture
within
tough
impenetrable
skin


will there come
a rainy season

will there?

will springs refill
the well?

rainbows and rain
smudged windows on trains
singing and playing
dancing and swaying

forests, woodlands green and lush
passionate scenes that can make one blush

sighing and moaning
forgiving, atoning
heartbreak and sadness
sweetness and gladness

musical notes falling like leaves
swirling round and round autumn trees

seasons and changes
and wide-open ranges
smiles and laughter
the here and the after

skies cloudy, skies clear
tiny sailboats seen from the pier

ocean breeze, crashing waves
undersea caverns and caves
flying and falling
creeping and crawling

creatures that swim in the deep
ones that awake while we sleep

dreaming and hoping
struggling and coping
sun, moon and stars
lands that are far

nightmares, ungodly fears
cold blood, hot sweat, unstoppable tears

lightning and thunder
the above and the under
soaring and hovering
healing, recovering

creeks, lakes and seas
dark prisons without any keys

chains and locks
deep rivers, smooth rocks
reality, fantasy
wanting to flee

we write it all down
we write it all here
it makes us feel better
it makes us feel freer

I've seen it now
mentioned twice
by poets in their lines

somehow I must have
missed
this mission that was assigned

I guess I wasn't quite
paying enough
attention

boy! I sure hope
I don't end up
in detention

I must have fallen asleep
in class

whoops!

better behave
cause
this way I'll never pass

I just found out
about
April's poem a day

oh well, too late now
perhaps I'll try it in May

I keep reading
lovely tributes
to grandparents
especially
to grandma
it seems

I smile
sometimes
a tear
then a tug
remembering wishes
remembering dreams


I remember
kids at school
"headed to grandma's"
at the end of
school days

going to see her
going to play

I remember
my yearning
when
hearing about
the cookies she made

the stories she told
the hugs she gave

It might be
grandma
or nanny
or gran

they rang
in my ears
as I wished for
my own to listen
and understand

those names my lips
wanted badly
to form

my tongue to
taste
cookies
fresh and warm

my arms wanted
to hug her
tight

as she hugged me
back just right

my fingers ached to
brush
fine silver hair

as I'd rock
there in her chair

to tenderly stroke it
away from soft eyes

perhaps
as blue
as blue as the skies

my heart wanted
to say
I love you
grandma
I love you, I do
and
one day
I'll write a poem
just for you

orb weaver
spinner of dreams
creator of gossamer
your fragile web is
deceptively strong

drops of dew gather
like strands of precious gems
while you reap the harvest
of unsuspecting prey
like ripe fallen fruit

enchanting snare
captivating tangle
microcosm of life

I've heard the Ides of March
can be a deathly curse

but now the Ides of April near us
with uncle's fingers in one's purse.

works out fine
if you get some back
you're hurriedly
filling out
those pesky forms
and rushing out
to mail them
that's what
it's all about

but if you know
you're gonna owe
it's quite a different story
and
you're just not in a hurry
it's yours for now
though no cash cow
but
you drag your feet a little
before sending in
your confounded
tax remittal

What gives
with the asterisk?

Does anyone
know?

is it broken for good

or did it just stub its toe?

I remember feeling
so good
when I learned
how to use it

I didn't use it
much
I didn't
abuse it

It seems to work sometimes
but never for me

is there something I'm missing
does it charge a fee?

Oh, never mind
I found out the issue
it doesn't compete well
if other "marks" are there too

pretentious nonsense

interesting that
the word bears
a resemblance
to the more modern
word "blog"
for which it is not
the root

so if you want your blog
to have a pretentious air
why not spell it
differently
and say what it really is

we strip our souls
bare to the world,
leaving few secrets
unfurled.

I think I may have
an aboulia
maybe even
aboulomania

but I'll give this a
pirouette
with panache

unless I come down
with
asthenia

I'll set up a balize
to guide my figurative
calamus

as words debouch
from
my thalamus

words that have been
in the eccaleobion
for a time
aeonian

it won't make much sense
as these things seldom do
a blague is a blague is a blague
completely
all the way through

why does *****
sound and look
so much more
refined
than its
American cousin?

how can one little letter
"e"
make such a difference?

after all
it is silent
doesn't speak up
in defense of the word

just sits at the end
all perky
and quirky

though it does
impact
its fellow vowel
as if it has some
magical power

wonder who exactly
made up the silly rules
[rhetorical!]

I once was told
during a discussion
of the difference
in some of the "rules"
between here and 'cross the pond

by a very brilliant man,
a genius, they say
who happened to be a Brit
[Americanized]

I was told

"English
is just
a made-up
language."

And I had to wonder
did the others
fall from the clouds?
wash up from the sea?
just appear out of nowhere?

so now I wonder should I change the title
since I have two things here
oh, wait I guess that's three things
that
I wonder

save your tears
for those who cannot
cry for themselves

save your tears
for meaningful things

for birds of flight
who have lost their wings

for the baby seal
dark eyes eternally deep
who trusting man
feels his heavy club
before eternal sleep

don't cry for your own
misfortune
or pain

think of trees
showered with acid rain

save your tears
for things that
affect everyone

save your tears
for
meaningful things

like fewer song birds
to sing

cry for waters filled
with man's trash
for landfills
and sewage
and sooty ash

don't cry because
your possessions are few

or because
someone
doesn't care for you

cry for the rivers
cry for the sky
cry for the child
who doesn't know
why
his earth is covered
with concrete and steel

cry for the birds
cry for the trees

cry for diminishing numbers
of bees

cry till the world has
no more fears

cry till the salt
is gone
from your tears

cry till the water
that runs
from your eyes
becomes
a new river
clear and wide

let it pour through
mountains
proud and tall

let it rush
to the ocean
mother of all

may she embrace
the rain from
your eyes
water of a being
loving and wise

save your tears
for meaningful things
save your tears
for birds without wings

save your tears

there are some
who seem not to  
"get it"

they don't like the way
that you
said it

some who only want
plain ol'
talk

anything else
they tend to mock

they want no
one to poetically speak
no color
no sparkle
or mystique

they are the poetry  
bashers and crashers

they **** all the magic out
I think it's too bad
they don't understand
I think that it truly is sad

Oh my, that seems heavy
that chip there on your shoulder
why, it's the size of Texas
such a gigantamus boulder!

Friend, lay your burden down
let go of what's bothering you
no need to lug it around
your shoulder might get black and blue

Yes, lay it down, walk away
you needn't try to be Atlas
your feet are made of clay
so lay down that boulder in Dallas.

they're taking down the trees
you know
I hope the creatures
have a place to go

I hope the birds
can all escape
and find another
nesting place

I hope the possums,
squirrels,
raccoons
find a new space
very soon

I worry that the turtles
moving slow
will not have
time enough to go

they're taking down the trees
you see
the reason seems
so strange to me

they're building homes
of brick and lumber
large amounts of funds
encumbered

concrete so the cars
can park
and bright lights
to keep away the dark

each of these homes
will have a place
called living room -
living space

but living it won't really be
it will not grow or breathe

it will not gently move
and sway
in breezes
on a summer day

they're taking down the trees
you know
I hope the creatures
have a place to go

they fell the trees
without a trace
soon there'll be
no living space

it slices the sky
into candy-colored ribbons
enticing some
to
search for a *** of gold
others
just
to
stand and
gaze
in awe

my cat is a huntress
buoyant and free

the outdoors beckons
she follows

sometimes she roams
exploring the yard and the woods

other times she sits
in wait of something

anything that moves

a gray-brown field mouse
a lime-green grasshopper

it might be a moth
powdery winged and light
or it might only be a leaf
d
  r
    i
      f
     t
     i
       n
           g
caressed by the breeze

it doesn't matter
she's just as intense

her sleek and slender body
consumes the sun's glow
her dappled fur shimmers
tail moving ever so slightly

she crouches
then arches
goes in for the ****
but

it's only a shadow beneath
eager paws

undaunted
unflustered
she returns to her post

and
watching
you know
it's not the capture
that matters
it's the quest
that's important
and keeps her
unfettered

he doesn't seem
to mind
the shower

in fact, it seems
he glories
in the contrast
that his splendid feathers form
against the bleak
and somber sky

the drizzle
merely gives him
greater luster
a glistening
that
shows off
the one bright spot

in the dreary
winter rain

Let this shiny ruby
of an apple
be as sweet as sugar cane

as soothing to the soul
as warm relaxing rain

as divinely decadent

as imported chocolat

(then again
even a Nestle's bar
would hit the spot)

And this yogurt
this plain and simple
"treat"
may it be
as creamy on my tongue

as indulgent

as cheesecake from New York

or just the bakery down the street

let all my healthful choices
my stomach
fully sate

and for heaven's sake

this time

let me

lose

some

weight!

must be plaid in there
in the cobwebbed little corners
of my mind
maybe paisley
pieces of a crazy quilt
on the washing line
being blown by gusty winds
whipped about
flapping wildly

one stroke
my fingers dance
in silliness
the pattern
crossing
left and right
colors mixing
circling 'round
forming no true
patterns

like stains from a paintbrush
splashed on canvas

no straight lines

splotches
swerves
circles
figure eights

when that
jitterbug
is ended

the dance card
fills
gently with a waltz

in prescribed
timing
rhythmic
patterns
made the same
for years

when the custom
of the final
bow is done

to the dance floor
my mind will drift once more

who knows
what pattern
will evolve
while it moves
its colors
to its
current tune

perhaps spangles and beads
under
spinning orbs
of light

or simply
black and white
two colors
forming a silhouette
of a two step

dancing
slow

futility
stupidity

incivility
hostility

ignobility
scurrility

­instability
destructibility

servility
vulnerability

thumping chest virility
irresponsibility

insensibility
winning, an impossibility

disability
morbidity

sadly inevitability

~war~

Beloved new child
love incarnate
your spirit brings great bliss
with smile so endearing
eyes full of life
cheeks as soft as a kiss

May you always know
how much you are loved
and how much is within
your reach

Sweet be your dreams
few be your storms
with rainbows following each

May music and song
abide in your heart
a dance ever at your toes

May you know harmony
contentment and love
and may you stay
eternally young

I saw a walkway
a walkway
to sunrise
first time
it appeared
I ignored it

If you pass it by once
you might miss the chance
I said to my stubborn
mind as we passed

But my mind would not listen

through the sands by the shore
we kept on
the sands that gather and drift
into mounded bulwarks  
that try to control
and contain
the sorrowful
crash
of life's waves

the sands that fall
in a steady stream
silently
cyphering
siphoning
days

inside
a figure eight
made of glass


continued through surf,
tides high and tides low
undercurrents
pulling us down
losing our step
then righting again
till steadied
upon solid ground

along concrete highways,
back roads and byways
grassways and passways
through brambles crossed
and twisted
hopelessly
tangled

lost
in utter despair

tired after all the rambling and roving
my mind stops

seeks the walkway again

finding it brings no relief
it leads the other way 'round
no longer to sunrise,
no longer to dawn
but to sunset,
evening
then
darkness instead

Day
what a hard time I have
letting you leave
your sprawling arms have
embraced me
your sweet warmth
has lulled me
your soulful cries
have torn my heart
and filled me with desire

Day
what a hard time I have
letting you leave
as night comes
with its own illusions
darkness folding
in upon my weary mind
brings soft and silent dreams
to fill the empty space
where I find cool and sweet repose

Yet
what a hard time
I have
Day
letting you leave

Early Bird

at 4 am, your middle of the night,
may I quietly begin my days

let me plan ahead with coffee
ground the night before,
no lights to shine upon your face

may I be inspired to tasks
that keep the still quiescent space

let my footsteps lightly fall
that you may slumber still
let me move with silent grace

and when your time of rising comes
I'll greet you with fresh coffee
as we exchange a smile and loving gaze

Night Owl
at 9 pm when your dream time comes
may I quietly conclude my days

let me retreat within
turning down the sound
and lowering all the shades

may I find pursuits as
softly hushed as evening grays

let me move about in calm
that you may find repose
let me move in soundless ways

and when my time to sleep grows near
I'll gently join you in your dreams
as out our window velvet moonlight plays

like a sigh of contentment
the mist rises and hovers
over the ridges and peaks

slipping silently along
softening edges to a blur
giving an ethereal feeling
to an already heavenly sight

we pass between bright pink
rows of bursting Redbud trees
cheerfully waving us on
scattered patches of golden
wildflowers
saluting us on the hillsides

all of which makes the rain
less dreary
and the broken white line
less tiresome

"There's the little girl with green hair!"

She Runs
She Hides
She Cries

Aunt Mary Lou's visit...
Every time!
She weighed 300 pounds
the "fight" wasn't fair.

~Looking back would love to ask why?
Is it fun to make a little child cry?~

"Orange hair
orange freckles
and your eyes, too."

"No they're not! Stop it!
That just is not true."

She Runs
She Hides
She Cries

Big sisters time and again!
Big sisters jerking her chain!

~Later years..."Didn't you know we were just jealous?" says one.
Oh, she should know that, but you didn't know better,
it was okay when you would make fun??
even though you were older,
ganged up on her, too
making her cry
making her blue?~

So I ask...

Is it any wonder redheads are feisty?
Well, this one sure is!
Feisty and fiery, proud of it, too
Look out, her sharp tongue
could decimate you
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
No, not really. She's soft as a kitten
mooshy like most of the stuff she has written
BUT
if it's needed the feisty comes out
she will use it plus fiery to muster some clout
SO
Do not, whatever you do,
do not give her crap
I'm warning you
do not make this Ginger Snap!

As the conversation slides
into naked silence
swollen memories
throb within her mind

stripped of feeling
she is compelled to dance
one ghostly sacrament
before granting
her velvet promise

later
alone
lost in empty benediction
she washes away
the aftertaste
to heal her soul

before Morpheus
weaves
his golden fantasies
silky
soft
delicious
in the hazy shadows of sleep

where
like a delicate spider
on the surface of a pool
her mind
hovering in placid desire
forgets
tomorrow's void

There is so much
silence
between the
words

pain weaves
the two
together

the rain of teardrops
making the silence grow

mingled like weeds
choking
out the roses who
even with their thorny barbs
cannot curb
the covert ways

silence gouges
into the words

so much silence
choking
out the words

until all that's left is the
silence

"Even rocks crack I tell you"

their fragile insides exposed
no longer strong
no longer firm

like barren clouds they split
spilling their dusty tears
unnoticed
freeing them
yet not

forming smaller prisons
that hold their tears
and wait
for infinity
to be the dust
of stars again

Through the gray fog
of sub-conscious
she seeks the laughter
shared by others
soft eyes full
of questions and desire

With the deepening
Autumn shadows
Winter hovers
in her mind
bitter and sodden
burying all the once warm places
with its icy cover

As endless afternoons
stretch out
in front of her
she reaches
for something
to hold on to

Her slender fingers
cling
to a book
with no substance
just words upon a page

while her fragile mind
weaves a tangled
web
to catch
the scattered elusive thoughts

But the web is empty
its silken threads broken
no longer able to hold onto
eternity

Drinking yesterday's coffee, I watch
the East sky's blush
the black of night dwindling slowly
as if soaked up by the dark outlines
of the trees

like their limbs
entwined and crisscrossed
my mind is cluttered
with the night's dreams
dreams that won't be sorted
won't be grasped
won't even be remembered

fresh coffee doesn't help
it only makes my brain more wakeful
more gnawing

outside the blush is fading
blue emerges

releasing their darkness
the trees
disentangle themselves

like the unknown dreams
I have no idea what the point
of it all is

and the day goes on
without me