Not Too Late

From Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol

Not Too Late

This time of year
the darkest of days
memories and dreams
times of contemplation
not too late
meanings
look back look ahead

like
Ebenezer Scrooge who glimpses
ghosts of
Christmas past present future
reflects on his life
and

makes changes
not too late
because
today can transform future
and today is all
we are ever given

so while there is time
and while I still breathe
there is now and
I can act and hope
it is not too late
to make a difference.

This is shared with the last dVerse Open Link of the year & also the last Poets United Poetry Pantry of the year.

Christmas Joy

Christmas Joy

Oh come all ye faithful

christmas is here

joy to the world

the lord is come

away in the manger

jesus is born

in a stable today

holy holy holy

on christmas eve

god is love

this silent night

signs from above

hark the herald angels sing

a great and mighty wonder

deck the halls

for jesus is born

on christmas eve

joy to the world.

This is written using the names of many Christmas hymns for Susan's "music" challenge at Poets United Midweek Motif.  This is a most musical time of year.

Joy

Joy

Look at the faces of children
smiling this time of year
and you will see joy.

Smell the Christmas cookies
baked this time of year
how can anyone not smile?

Taste the holiday eggnog
only this time of year
and you will be rewarded.

Hear the jingle bells
ring on Santa's sleigh
and isn't that Rudolph?

Think of the birth of the babe
celebrated this time of year
and this is true  joy.

This is written for Poetry Jam, where the prompt is to write a poem of joy.

Fresh Bread

Fresh Bread

Freshly baked bread 

delights the palate

warms the heart

lifts the spirit

one bite at a time

a reminder that

someone cares.

In baking is joy

a gift given

a gift received

a gift savored

simple meaningful

unmistakeable

love.

This is written for dVerse Poetics, where Grace's prompt is "Bread."

Midnight Meeting

Midnight Meeting

Yesterday I met Cinderella
she sat beside me on the train
that led from there to here
but not too far from nowhere

She was wearing a lovely ball gown
& both glass slippers on her feet
but her hair was tangled
and her body smelled of sweat.

I heard her slur into her smartphone
"I'm sorry I'm late, you see I met a man
who had the most wonderful long nose
but I will be home soon."

You see Cinderella hadn't married
the boring Prince Charming after all, but
Godmother let her keep the gown and shoes
to wear when she escaped hearth for town.

And right before Cinderella left the train
she turned to me, looking a bit sad, and said
"You know I could've fallen for that guy....
I loved his nose, but how he stank of bourbon!"

This writing (ha, I won't call it a poem) is in response to Bjorn Rudberg's  Midnight Woodwork, which he wrote in response to Claudia's prompt over at dVerse MTB.   I doubt it will make much sense unless you read Bjorn's.  Smiles.  If you haven't read his, start there.

The Quiet

The Quiet

The quiet of falling snow
on a solemn winter night

The quiet after an argument
when no one admits wrong

The quiet in a hospice room
when death is at the door

The quiet of a family
gathered around a Christmas tree

The quiet of young lovers
walking hand in hand

The quiet of loneliness
Stillness the only sound

The quiet of a dreamer
finding meaning in the moon

The quiet in a graveyard
the memorial stones do not speak

The quiet in a country church
candles lit for Christmas Eve

The quiet of life and death
when all we can do is listen.

This poem is written for Poetry Jam, where the prompt this week is "Quiet."  Also shared with Poetry Pantry!

Chicago at Christmas

One of Macy's (formerly Marshall Fields) Holiday Store Windows

Chicago at Christmas

Wind howls

crowds hustle

peer at decorated windows

return to childhood

escape the cares of today

then walk by Tiffany's 

to dream dream dream

what one could buy

if only......

if only one could climb the Willis Tower

imagine the view if you were Superman
and could fly

if only there was a mink to wear

to proudly strut the Magnificent Mile

to Water Tower Place and its glitz

if only Giordano's pizza wasn't fattening

if only the Chicago Fire hadn't happened

but then there would be no Field Museum

or Chicago Museum of Art

there are trade-offs in life
out of something bad comes good
one can't go back in time
while riding the Ferris Wheel at Navy Pier

take the John Hancock elevator
up up up 95 floors 

eat overlooking the Windy City

remember the dress code

but savor the beautiful view
Chicago at Christmas.

This poem is written for dVerse Poetics where the prompt this week is "City Song."  Write a city poem, and join us.

Very large Chicago Christmas Tree 

View of Chicago from 95th floor of John Hancock Building

Preparation

Preparation

Today we light the second Advent candle
as we wait for His miraculous birth.

Seems so long ago this happened
that the message often gets lost
as we buy elaborate presents
to put under our decorated trees.

When we bake cookies for holiday parties.
preparation is far from our minds;
instead we worry about cards unwritten
or what to have for the holiday meal.

Today we light the second Advent candle
and I hope and pray my heart will prepare.


This poem is for Poets United Poetry Pantry.

The second Advent candle is the 'candle of preparation,'
I want to concentrate this coming week on 'readiness.'
It is so easy to forget about important things.

The Day That Lives in Infamy

The Arizona Memorial - Oahu

The Day That Lives in Infamy

December 7, 1941
the day that lives in infamy
20 American naval vessels destroyed

200 American airplanes destroyed
2000 soldiers and sailors killed
and another 1000 wounded

Though World War II had gone on
for two years before Pearl Harbor
America had not joined the war

But now 'the sleeping giant' was awakened
and there was no going back
and the US fought on until 1945

I've been at Pearl Harbor three times
I have visited the Arizona Memorial
And all is silent...lest we forget.

Some of those who died on the Arizona

The American flag flies on the Arizona Memorial

This poem is written for Poets' United Midweek Motif where Susan prompts us, among other things, to consider 'the date that will live in infamy.'   I write this poem......lest we forget.

Hand

Hand

She held his hand so tight that night
did not know it was the final time.

She waved from the window as he left
did not know it would be her last view.

She wrote him a love letter with her hand
did not know it would not reach him.

She wished she had not withdrawn her hand
but never thought he would leave that day.

She wiped her eyes with her shaking hand
wondered how she'd live without him.

This poem is written for Poetry Jam where the prompt is hands.

Win or Lose

Win or Lose

Who wins and who loses
depends on who keeps score
depends on what's at stake
depends on who's playing
and how much we care.

Some think winning is everything
but I wonder oftentimes
just why do we keep track
and why can't we all win
each of us  in our own way?

I've always disliked competitions
would rather withdraw from the game
but life often doesn't allow us
to leave a game before the clock
finally runs out of  time.

Who wins and who loses
and is there ever a tie
what's life about anyway
and who keeps the score
do we ever wonder why?

This poem is written for Tuesday's dVerse Poetics
where the prompt is 'winners' or 'losers' or 'winners
and losers.'

Advent

Advent

Every year we relive once again

the story learned  long ago

each year the meaning deepens

of the story we never outgrow

The advent wreath burns brightly

as we wait once more for a birth

first the candle of hope

as we contemplate peace on earth

then the candle of preparation

as we ready ourselves for the child

followed by the candle of joy

of God and man reconciled

and next the candle of love

to the world God sent his Son

the last candle is the Christ Candle

celebration of new life has begun

each year the meaning deepens

of the story we never outgrow

every year we relive again

the story learned long ago.

This poem is written for the November dVerse Open Link.
Also shared with Poets United Poetry Pantry.

Thankful

Thankful

I am thankful for the life I have
without it who would I be?

I am thankful for mind and heart
without them what would I know?

I am thankful for the love I have
without it where is the light?

I am thankful for family and friends
without them who is there?

I am thankful for the earth and sky
without them where would I live?

I am thankful for dreams and plans
without them what is worth while?

I am thankful for words and songs
without them what would I enjoy?

I am thankful for God and His plan
without them what would matter?

This is written for the prompt GRATITUDE at Poets United Midweek Motif and dVerse MTB where we are writing poems about THANKFULNESS.

To Be a Good Dog

Sweet Tulip, one of my dogs

To Be a Good Dog

If you want to be a good dog
let your owner think she is boss
even though you know the truth

sprawl on her lap lovingly
to decorate her dark clothes
with beautiful white hair

woof vehemently when phone rings
to let her know if she wants to talk
she must step into another room

claim the human bed as yours
even though you have four
comfortable beds on the floor

sit on her lap when she eats
to helpfully catch any tidbit
that might accidentally fall

bark from your sofa perch
to deter distant potential intruders
wandering deer a block away

eat sleep guard walk play
in equal measure every day
and you will be a good dog.

This poem is written for Poetry Jam, where the prompt this week is to write a "how to" poem!

A Turkey Tale

A Turkey Tale

This time of year I think
it would be nice to read
about the Thanksgiving turkey
who escaped certain death
and became an aristocrat
who  began his own kingdom
where turkeys were the nobles
and men had to hide or run
to escape the sharp blade
wielded by the executioner
turning the tables so to speak

or should I say so to cluck!


Just a little playful nonsense for Anthony's prompt at dVerse Poetics!
And happy Thanksgiving to all who are celebrating this week;
and may each of you escape the blade.  Smiles.

Culture?

Culture?

Celebrities gambol confidently
    dance boldly
    bow wildly
    smile hopefully.

Judges watch intently
   beam knowingly
   frown intently
   clap noncommittally.

Audience roots shamelessly
   screams relentlessly
   applauds tirelessly
   always hopefully.
 
Week after week
   year after year
   America never tires
   Dancing With the Stars.


This was written for Bjorn's prompt at Meeting the Bar.  The subject is defamiliarization as defined by Viktor Shklovsy.  One technique of making the familiar 'new' is to take something ordinary and not mention what it is until the very end.

Incidentally, this is a program I do not watch (as TV competitions basically bore me), though I have in the past.....notably when Donald Driver (now retired Green Bay Packer) danced & - by the way - won. Smiles!

Who I Am

Who I Am

My wings are aligned
as I fly toward the sky
I cherish life as it is
do not look far ahead
nor too far back
I learn each day
there is more to learn
I smile because...why not?

I sleep well, eat well,
find moments to pray
and laugh and love
life and truth balanced
with fate and I hope
for what I wish
but take what I get
I smile because...why not?

And at the end of the day
I say thank you
for blessings of life
and those who care
beyond the moment
satisfied that all
is as it should be
I smile because...why not?

This is written for Brian's prompt at Poetry Jam this week.  The prompt is "Who are you?"

Zipper

Zipper

Angry zipper

with mind of its own

does not co-operate

in cold winter weather

will not join forces 

will not associate

with its identical twin

stubbornly it sneers

jeers, prevents

sabotages, resists

will not be coupled

separate though equal

aloof.

This poem is written for dVerse Poetics, where the prompt was  to work with a noun (mine is 'zipper') and an adjective describing an emotion (mine is 'angry') and come up with a poem which does not include any abstract nouns.

Painting Winter

Chicago - Lake Michigan view

Painting Winter

I paint with blues and silvers
as the wind continues to blow
icicles hang heavy beneath winter sun
greens and yellows play hide and seek
overcome by grays and browns
busy squirrels scurry everywhere
hands and face frostbitten gray.

In this day with cloud-filled sky
my brush strokes are as wispy
as the abundant winter clouds
and icicles fade out of sight
before the black of night
as I paint a bright red bow
to provide a needed glow.

It is not easy to paint winter
with frozen fingers and toes.

I am sharing this with Poets United Poetry Pantry.  I got the idea by reading Victoria Slotto's prompt for dVerse MTB....where her prompt was to write a poem that uses something related to an art technique as a metaphor to deliver a message.  I wasn't able to write my poem in time, but will share it with PU.

If I Could Dream

Dreamer - Orest Klipensky (public domain)

If I Could Dream

If I could dream tomorrow
I would dream of being with you
for an eternity and a day
I would spend it with you.

If I could dream tomorrow
I would live each day as today
for an eternity and a day
I would live each day as today.

If I could dream tomorrow
I would adventure with you
for an eternity and a day
I would do things with you.

If I could dream tomorrow
I would live each day as today
for an eternity and a day
I would live each day as today.

If I could dream tomorrow
I would grow old with you
for an eternity and a day
I would sit by the fire with you.

If I could dream tomorrow
I would live each day as today
for an eternity and a day
I would live each day as today.

In my dreams will always be you.

This is written for Poetry Jam - where the prompt is dream.
This is also shared with November 23 Poetry Pantry!

Best Forgotten

Best Forgotten

There are things that are best forgotten
       goals unmet
       dreams turned sour
       friendships lost
       deeds undone.
     
There are things that are best forgotten
        angry words
        information withheld
        lies told
        untruths spread.
     
There are things that are best forgotten
        hours wasted
        praise withheld
        money squandered
        prayers unsaid.
 
There are things that are best forgotten
        poems not written
        novels unpublished
        songs not sung
        music unplayed.

There are things that are best forgotten
         but I hope you will
         always remember me.

This is written for Poets United Poetry Pantry.
     
     

Deadman Contemplates Fairness

Deadman Contemplates Fairness

When Deadman looked back at his life
he realized how much was unfair.

He was born into a family with means
had been given an Ivy League education.

At university he was introduced to and married
a beautiful and rich Ivy League wife.

His parents moved in an elite social circle
thus after university he procured a fine job.

The silver spoon in his mouth was a blessing
and his opportunities were always abundant.

When Deadman was diagnosed with brain cancer
he was given only months to live before he'd die.

His means and his connections meant nothing
and he came to terms with death in little time.

When Deadman looked back at his life
he realized how much was unfair.


I have often thought about the unfairness of life.  Why is it that some are born into families that can give someone every opportunity and advantage & some born into families who are poverty-stricken? Why is it that some people develop fatal diseases at a young age & some live a lifetime of 80 to 100 years?  This is shared with dVerse MTB where we are writing about "fair."

Campfire Memories

Campfire Memories

Hypnotized by crackling flames
we sat around campfire
shared cheap wine and stories
someone played a guitar, we sang
accompanied by Lake Michigan waves.

Life was good then and simple
at least as I reminisce now
details long forgotten
time was endless, dream-filled
future an open door.

We sat until late at night
stars many, moon bright
conversation slowed, stilled
topics exhausted, flames receded
we retired to tents at last to sleep.

This is written for Poets United Midweek Motif - where the prompt is 'bonfire.'

Dead Man Drops Pebbles

Dead Man Drops Pebbles

On the other side of the great divide,
the dead man drops pebbles
in order to remember

      the father who abused him
      the mother who neglected him
      the teacher who failed him
      the army buddy who deserted him
      the wife who cheated on him
      the son who stole from him
      the boss who fired him
      the friend who lied to him

On the other side of the great divide
this dead man then picks up pebbles
in order to forget

      the father who abused him
      the mother who neglected him
      the teacher who failed him
      the army buddy who deserted him
      the wife who cheated on him
      the son who stole from him
      the boss who fired him
      the friend who lied to him

On the other side of the great divide
the dead man lay one pebble
for the dog who had loved him

And the dead man sits before it
and the dead man cries.

This poem was written for Poetry Jam where the prompt is "pebbles" and is submitted as an additional poem for dVerse Poetics where we are writing 'dead man poetry.'

   
   

The Dead Man Wondered

The Dead Man Wondered

The dead man wondered

what he could have done

where he could have traveled

what he could have said

who he could have touched

who he might have loved

who he might have blessed

what he could have given

who he could have helped

what he could have begun

what might have been

if only he had known

he would die.

This is written for dVerse Poetics, where Grace has us writing 'dead man' poetry.

Game Plan

Game Plan

The game continued on
after she thought it was over
she thought all the cards were played
that there was no winner or loser
tired of the game she moved on.

Unexpectedly he pulled a card
the jack he had hidden to trump her
snapped it boldly onto the table
proclaimed "I win, no rematch,
from now on you're dead to me."

As she reeled from the unforseen blow
he calmly gathered up all the spoils
opened the door and told her to go.
And she left with nothing except
the queen of clubs up her sleeve.



This is written for Poets United Poetry Pantry 
& is a fictional piece. The queen of clubs is
the highest trump in the card game sheepshead.
All jacks are lower trump cards than queens in
sheepshead.  Perhaps that will help those who
are not familiar with the game.

Inspired by Claudia's Poem

Inspired by Claudia's Poem

Inspired by her poem I wonder
if I met someone in person first
without knowing their poetry
would I judge them by appearance
rather than who they were inside
and would the other judge me
the same and would we walk away?

Which is the better way to know
which is the better way to see
to know how someone dresses or smiles
the way they walk or talk or laugh
the color of hair or skin
or to know how someone feels about autumn
what makes their heart sing or cry?

I am not sure I'd like to ask others
what was their first impression of me
as I would be afraid what they would say
and I wonder if others fear too that their
appearances would be judged harsher
than the reality of the poetic words
that express who they are when exteriors
are invisible but not their open hearts.

For dVerse Meeting the Bar - "The Things We See."

These lines of Claudia's poem caused me to reflect:

          “first time you walked through these company doors” he says

          “i was impressed.

         you wore a black suit, brown boots, still can see it

          hair cut really short, you were very straight-forward,

          professional &–“

          “–did i seem unfriendly?”

          “no” he grins “just very organized//effective–“

          flaShbaCk– last week– it is strange

          if someone tells you how they saw you

          years back&

I wondered what would be the difference between how people would be thought about -- if they saw someone in 'real life' first or if they saw someone in 'blogosphere life' first.  And I wondered which is the better way to really know and be known.  What do you think?

All Saints Day

All Saints Day

Light a candle for those who have died
for loved ones who have gone before
we all travel the same path
and sometimes I like to think
that those who have gone before
may light candles for us too
on the other side of the great divide.

This poem is posted for Poets United Midweek Motif.
where the prompt is Halloween or Celebrating the Dead.
I celebrate All Saints Day this week.  Sunday we will
light candles for deceased loved ones and place them in 
a cross of sand.  We believe we are all saints.

Broken

Broken

you can't fix another's brokenness
you have to live with it
accept it
forgive it
   or move on.

you face a broken dream
square in the face
think you cannot move beyond
but you must
   or wither.

you break an arm, a toy
a vase or a promise
they can be repaired or replaced
but a broken spirit
   not easily.

This is written for Poetry Jam for the prompt "broken."

Private Eddie Slovik

Private Eddie Slovik
(1920 - 1945)

Drafted into the United States army in 1944,
he never wanted to be a rifleman as he hated guns
but he was detached to join the army fighting in France
and enroute stated he wasn't cut out for combat

Slovik told his company commander that
he was too scared to serve in the front lines
and asked to be reassigned to a rear unit
but Slovik was sent to a rifle platoon

The next day Slovik deserted from infantry
and he wrote a note confessing to desertion
which his superiors urged him to tear up
and return to his unit but he would not

Slovik's hope was to be court martialed
and was convinced he'd receive only jail time
Tried on 11 November, 1944, where he was
found guilty and sentenced to death.

Slovik appealed in writing to General Eisenhower
but Eisenhower confirmed the order
noting that it was important to have this example
to discourage further dissertions in France.

Private Eddie Slovik died by firing squad
January 31, 1945, at 24 years of age.
His last words to the attending priest were
"Father, I'll pray you don't follow me too soon."

This is written for dVerse Poetics, where we are prompted this Tuesday to write 'war poetry.'

Although over 21,000 American soldiers were given various sentences for desertion during World War II, including 49 death sentences, Slovik was the only soldier whose death sentence was actually carried out.  The poem shares only bare bones details, but here are three articles which talk about Eddie Slovik in more detail, if anyone is interested:

Cowards: The Execution of Private Slovik

History Channel: The Execution of Eddie Slovik is Authorized

Wikipedia: Eddie Slovik

What Price Beauty?

Lautrec woman at her toilette 1889

What Price Beauty?

Department store cosmetics sellers scare me

with caked wrinkle-free faces, penciled eyebrows

and smiles with augmented red lips,

their bright eyes enhanced by tattooed eyeliner

as they envision commission dollar signs.

Predators, they stand in the aisles 

in search of yet another victim to make over

to take away all semblance of who you are

to become someone new, beautiful, artificial

someone even you may not recognize at all.

Products to remove wrinkles, dark marks, blemishes,

eyelids colored, lips in your chosen shade of red,

as au natural is not good enough

too plain, flawed, blemished, age showing

and what horrors to be judged by that.

After all it is cheaper than plastic surgery,

less painful than face lifts, eye lifts, neck lifts

what's a few dollars for beauty

what's a few dollars to buy youth

what's a few dollars to lose oneself ---

even though you must be sure to buy

the right products to wash all off at night!

This is written for dVerse Open Link.  Also shared with Sunday's Poets United Poetry Pantry.

Collections

Collections

I used to collect things
pennies in blue folders
quarters with state symbols
first day of issue stamps
sheet blocks and full sheets
beer mugs and coffee cups
cowboy boots and flag attire
CD's and poetry books
but now I collect nothing...

and only wonder........
who will want my stamps.

This was written for dVerse Meeting the Bar, where we are writing list poems.

Playing Cards

Playing Cards

Thanksgiving meant card games
when relatives gathered
two card tables set up after dinner

Kings in the corner, royal rummy,
later on sheepshead, then bridge
family togetherness young to old

Friendly competition, a few laughs
ginger ale the beverage served
peanuts to munch on

These days long gone now
but I still can picture the scene
though the older generation is gone

I still see the faces smiling
hear laughter, shuffling of cards
the movement of the chairs

I miss Thanksgiving card games.


This poem is written for Poetry Jam, where the prompt is childhood toys and games;
and it is also written for Poets United Midweek Motif where the prompt is to write about a day!

What's New?

What's New?

What is considered newsworthy
only lasts for a limited time:
two hundred Nigerian school girls
covered daily until ISIS beheadings
compelled the media to move on.

And the death of Robin Williams
was splashed all over Facebook
to be surpassed by the death
of Joan Rivers since Kardashian
happenings were out of view.

Three people contract ebola
and half of each news broadcast
is devoted to details,  speculations
while contentious talking heads debate
what went wrong and what next.

In time, will we become immune
to real horrific news of the world
unless something happens to affect
the safety of our backyard or if
a bulletin interrupts Sunday football?

As I yawn through contentious  debates
doze through news of yet another royal birth,
smile over Pope Francis' recent proclamations,
and scan Facebook articles before sleep,
I wonder what what will make news tomorrow.

This is my poem for dVerse Poetics, where it is my week to prompt, and I am
prompting people to write a poem related to news!

Apple Time

Apple Time

I always welcome apple time

the hues and flavors of the fruit

each first crisp bite is so sublime

it's sweet as sugar, sour as lime

as autumn shifts to wintertime

for zest there is no substitute

I always welcome apple time

the hues and flavors of the fruit.

Each year the orchards overflow

so many genuses abound

with gala, fuji, ginger gold

delicious, cortland, cameo

such flavors I will never outgrow

so many treasures to be found

this year the orchards overflow

so many genuses abound.

This poem in triolet form is written for Poets United Poetry Pantry. 

Autumn

Autumn

Autumn trees in rich tones
always show off their wares
aglow with warm beauty
anticipation reigns
as winter approaches
allure of color fades
and warm glow dims.

This is written for dVerse Poets Pub Meeting the Bar where we are writing the Pleiades form & also submitted to Poets United Midweek Motif where the prompt is Trees.

Unexpected

Unexpected

More than fifteen hundred people died that day
when the Titanic sank on its maiden voyage
and one hundred twenty one of them
are buried at Fairview Cemetery in Halifax
more than any other cemetery in the world
including the unknown child whose gravestone
still collects things given by those who pass.

We never know when our lives will be cut short
when our own bodies will be placed in graves
perhaps it is best we do not know these things
while we live it is best for us to dance as did
those on the Titanic who were unaware of fate
were on the maiden voyage of a luxury ship
and were having the best time of their lives.

I took these photos when I was at the Fairview Cemetery in Halifax, Nova Scotia.  The poem is shared with Laurie's prompt (graveyard) at Poetry Jam.

The Forest, a Symphony

The Forest, a Symphony

The forest, a symphony,

squirrels chatter, doves coo, crows caw,

silence interrupted by thunder,

patter of rain, pounding, boom,

triangles, cymbals, harpsichord, 

strings, horns, percussion

harmony blending into dissonance.

Major key changes to minor key,

Interdependence, tones work together,

animals reside among plants, 

musicians with their instruments,

symbiosis, a natural progression 

of growth understood without words.

The symphony, a forest,

ebb and flow, beginning and end,

Cyclic repetition of meditation,

Enriching, dense, lush

depth below the surface,

richness to be studied but never mastered

movement, giver, enricher of life.

This is written for dVerse Poetics, where Anthony is having us write about "music."  I may not be as prompt as usual in visiting you this time, but be assured that if you visit me I will find my way to you.  Smiles!

To a Young Squirrel

To a Young Squirrel

I see you there at rest in hollow tree

you have carved out a perfect sacred space

you peer intently deep into my soul  

I reflect on you as you ponder me.

I feel your innocence and your fear

you are so young and tiny in the world

I wish I could assure you with my touch

that I am just a peaceful visitor here.

You will encounter cold winter in this land

in a while your world will be overspread with snow

I hope your tree will be a warm refuge

and will aid you to harsh wind withstand.

I see you there at rest in hollow tree

your outside world is much smaller than mine

and yet I wish to linger and watch you play

as you scurry up and down the tree so free.

As I reflect on you as you ponder me

I find a kindred spirit framed by hole in tree.

This is shared with Sunday's Poetry Pantry.

As you may notice, Gabriella & I challenged each other to write a squirrel poem.

Farm Market Reflections

Farm Market Reflections

In the aisles that sell autumn vegetables
red apples compete with aubergines
where dreams make that possible.

The toothless man in the red sweater
captures ripe tomatoes before they escape
into the sky with a murder of crows

And red peppers chase cucumbers
rotting silently from the inside
without even a noiseless scream

What then would a red potato do
with all those sensuous green beans
who flirt with cauliflower in their bins?

What will happen when markets close
and vegetables sleep in covered baskets
and wait for one more crisp autumn day?

Where will the blemished apples hide
and who will heed the tomatoes' cries
when they are pitched into darkness?

For Meeting the Bar on Thursday Bjorn challenges us to write a poem with no meaning at all.  Ha, this is as close as I can come to something without meaning.

Unheard Scream

Unheard Scream

Where are the cures for Alzheimers, cancer, Parkinsons, multiple sclerosis, ALS, diabetes, and more? Despite trained researchers, money, and time the keys to unlock their devastating mysteries remain elusive.

                              Green changes to brown
                              joy fades to melancholy
                              sun obscured by clouds

Humankind has discovered a way to explore space, send a man to the moon, a rocket to Mars, a way to store information in the cloud.  Why can they not cure people on this earth who endure diseases that steal their minds and debilitate, then destroy their bodies and bring pain and suffering to everyone in their midst?

                             Trapped outside locked door
                             we rage and beat with bruised hands
                             futilely we scream.

This sort-of haibun is written for Poets United Midweek Motif, where the prompt is 'exploration.'