August 30, 2016 dVerse/Words That Rhyme

Words That Rhyme

rhymes             i have few                          they are scarce as morning dew

sometimes       without warning                 they appear from nowhere

settle in            follow me through the day       begin with bacon and eggs

which do not rhyme                   but go together               like a rhyme

i check the time         work until lunch                        a satisfactory munch

then back to work until four           i finish up                  and close the door

i am awkward with rhythms      most of the time        i try to avoid them

find them distracting             instead my focus                   is on the theme

what i want to say          what is on my mind        written down in the nick of time

August 30, 2016

August 25, 2016 dVerse Open Link Night / Grey

Grey

today is grey                                      overcast                      rainy

a day without sunshine                    a day in may              a day of grey

a dove is grey                                                calling for morning...mourning...     

a mouse is grey                                             as he sits in the shadows

                                                                                    of the house

many birds are grey                                     sometimes hard to tell apart

grey is the color of my                      true love’s eyes

grey is often the shadow                              of brightly colored things

 songs can be grey

a mood can be grey

a memory can be grey

grey holds everything                                  only holds it a little lighter

Note:  I selected this poem blindly.  I first posted it on May 23, 2014, the day after my Son's last birthday, still alive, but sick.  I was just beginning to know the meaning of my greatest pain.

August 14, 2016 The Sunday Whirl, Sunday's Whirligig, Poets United Poets Pantry/ When I was Dead

When I was Dead

my casket lays in view      the shoreline is as it always has been      teeming with life

i am but a corpse now        i've always wondered                   what would that be like

the casket rough-hewn       made by hand                          white sails again a blue sky

wearing my best italian shoes     a sunsuit just right for travel          my death is recent

all is new to me          i don't know what is expected         i stand apart from the others

the brook babbles               dashing over rocks                                 clashing in its' bed

on its' way to the sea     everyone seems to be going somewhere      pushing and shoving

i'll be staying right here        my journey over                                    i met the challenge

as best i could                       no more typos                               no more misspelled words

as i have received no instructions      i will stand silent      trusting in time all will be clear

the chips remain on the table         the game over                                 my mood dour

laying in the sun                             i am toasted                                    roasted

i never liked tanning                       i turn over                                       stretch

exhale                                              rays burn i rest                  on the crook of my arm

my death was not the result of a bullet                    instead it was the slimy thing i ate

August 14, 2016

August 7, 2016 The Sunday Whirl -- Sunday's Whirligig -- Poets United/ Forgotten Contents

Forgotten Contents

a long time ago       in a far away place where              yesterday is tomorrow

tomorrow could be any day      and today never comes          wishes are made

on the wings of fireflies      sparkle all night long      put away for safe keeping

holes punched in the lid       and the lid put on tight            ...contents forgotten

you point to a place high on the mountain            you tell me timber grows there

we watch for the smoke to rise      to fill a summer day           blue skies turn gray

you chew a sprig of mint    twist it between your fingers     hold it under your nose

the smell of mint holds all your memories of other days... in far away places

flames leap up          shouts heard all around                  fire burns the forest

home for many          caught with no escape       sometimes man can contain the fire

sometimes he can't    sometimes even he cannot escape          we are told fire can be good 

                                                                                               for the forest

but surely it cannot be good for those burned to a crisp... in far away places

to sin is an archery term         meaning to miss the mark            and who doesn't miss it

sometimes we become irascible      but what is the point        it could be just child's play

aim for the target             and just as easily the arrow seems to have a mind of its' own

its' own trajectory           misses the target completely                but hits something else

in the park                   in a far away place                         on sunday morning

dogs play with frisbees               the old oak trees provide shade from the summer sun

friends lay on the grass        lovers with hands intwined             the scene a painting

visit the museum         thrill to see old favorites       remember the contents long forgotten

August 7, 2016

August 6, 2016 dVerse-- Bird Songs on the Mesa

Bird Songs on the Mesa

i don't feed the birds any more      not since Issa came to live with us      a killer he is

so i don't encourage the birds   i miss the song of the towee   outstanding among his class

the magpies are more of a chatter      and perhaps the tiny finches   do sing in the garden

so softly their song unheard       when we did feed the birds      and had no cat between us

the neighbor cat rilley         would sneak over the fence and hide under the juniper

all the while his excitement dripped from his lips    a wild one is he       jump on the fence

looks like a wild kabuki dancer  his fur flashing this way and that   his golden eyes glitter

when the flycatchers return in the spring    their song seems more like a cry

that breaks the silence over the sage         sometimes i hear an unfamiliar song

 and race to the window but often i cannot spot the singer       still i know he is there

 unidentified  there are not many birds on the mesa        perhaps it is just too lonely here

August 6, 2016