I’m an idiot; I keep bending
my feather-tipped thumb
like lumber; not limber
this knuckle bone nail
painted cheap-pink; thinks
only of ink in bottomless pit
push, press, plunk; put on
the old brace to restrain
but don’t you know; the sucker
will escape ‘cause the writer
just can’t give it a rest; useless
to try - won’t cut it off, right?!
Write!
.
.
.
.
.
.
catching a fish is easy
getting the hook out of the mouth not so much
I feel guilty
wondering how much pain they are in
feeling sad
while at the same time
wanting to cut their head off
so those fish eyes will stop accusing me
I am hungry I think
my body shakes with blubbery laughter
now I want sugar
she cries happy tears
getting what she was after in the first place
Delicate are those hands in the still of dark,
the ones wrapped on my thumb
Each finger, every quiver a babe's nudge
of christened life in our dwellings --
Embracing, reaching, assuring:
While gazing at my own hands
I find mine quite unlike yours-
Mine are extensions of work and rough toil:
But yours are soft and finespun in
all shades of light ,
Ever nimble, pink, through break of morn
Warm as sunrise awakening.
Here, I rub your tiny fist against mine;
Sure as tender rain, this heart knows--
You are my first born, my halfway bridge
While your grip rests on mine...safe, adored.
I had a dream the other night
that had me smiling with delight:
A couple with their backs to me
were taking vows of holy matrimony.
My delight turned to suspicion, for lo!
for the minister presiding was Waldo
Emerson? Then the couple in solemn tone
said “I do” pledging their love to each alone,
as they turned to face the congregation
applauding with joyous acclamation.
That’s when I recognized the bride
as none other than Amheart’s pride
Emily Dickinson, the eccentric
poet-spinster, the groom the pseudo rustic
Henry David Thoreau, of Walden Pond!
But even the best of unions are not beyond
the paranormal. And when he took her
to his self-built “mansion”,on seeing it
she grew pale and pleaded loudly in a fit:
Take me back to my father’s house this night
there’ll be no wild nights in this shack tonight!
Hide and Seek
Boju- Boju
Playing life's game
Suited with the right face
Hide and Seek
Bojo boju
A game of subtle pretense
doing it life's way
clothed the right way
A mask for every season
A man for all reasons
See the masquerade at play
A New York pedestrian
filed a class action law suit
against all highrise dwelling pigeons
calling them a health hazard
and a public nuissance.
To his outrage the jury found
the pigeons not guilty on both
counts, arguing they were not
accountable for incontinence
much less negligence, whereas
the pedestrian had a bird’s brain
for not wearing a hat, or was too
cheap to buy an umbrella.
It’s hard to believe but true:
doctors do make mistakes;
but on the whole they’re few.
And yet it demonstrates
what we should all expect,
that doctors aren’t perfect.
As for your surgeon’s removal
of what he mistook as a double
tumor growing in the area
of your groin, your falsetto
whining sounds like a soprano
practicing a new aria.
.
there were thuh time
lover
when
i only cared for your
speak's soft
lock'd tuh mine
i can't say that now
though
'tiz still thuh
treat
be thuh rest uv that
stuff
'low yourn
neck
yuh give'd me
i
i've
been busy
learn'nin how
tuh git yuh tuh
whisper
more
"Oh learning's a
good thing edvard"
')
Beneath the stars, a glittery haze,
A cosmic queen in her celestial daze.
She told me, "Darling, can't you tell?
This is just your fabulous destiny, spelled!"
She pulled out cards, all shimmery and bright,
And whispered secrets, bathed in moonlit light.
"The stars align, the moon's a rosy hue,"
(I just wanted to find my favorite shoe!)
"The Darkside of Aquarius, honey, calls,
Prepare for shopping sprees and velvet falls!
Your spirit, sweetie, is quite entwined,"
(With a perfectly matched handbag I can't find!)
She spoke of eras, crushes, and such strife,
As I just hoped for a drama-free life.
"A spiritual and sparkly, fated art!"
(I'd rather scroll through TikTok, bless my heart!)
I checked my phone, a little sigh,
And caught a twinkle in her eye.
"You'll find your truth; you'll feel the glow!"
"Okay, but can we get some froyo, though?"
The prophecy, a grand design,
Turned out to be just a good time.
The Darkside of Aquarius? Pfft!
Just my bestie suggesting a spontaneous road trip!
This....
isn't just Beef Chuck Roast
With Peppers and Onions
And Sweet Potatoes, and Tzatziki Sauce.
It's a Big Bowl of Nostalgia.
It's a Bowl of Self Love.
It's a Bowl of My Mama's Voice
whispering, "Not too much salt, Shu Shu."
And Then
"If its one thing my girls can do...
they can cook."
It's a Big Bowl of Ancestral Pride.
It's a Bowl of History....
Inaccurately Passed Down
BUT THEN
Accurately Researched & Recorded.
It's a Bowl of Abundance....
It's a Flavored Bowl of Favor,
with a Heaping Helping of Grace.
It's.... a Blessing.
In the nursery rhyme Humpty Dumpty
Who or What he is is still a mystery.
Some think he may in fact be an egg
though the rhyme hints at no such knowledge.
And yet he’s always depicted as one
and always with legs, whereas eggs have none?
And how did he get to be on a wall
from which eventually he has a great fall?
And who are all the king’s horses and men
unable to piece him back together again?
A task that would have proved impossible
given his fall’s impact on so fragile a shell.
Hens quite naturally find all such speculation
futile fodder for brainy egghead cogitation.
What all hens know and vouch is that no eggs
have ever walked out of their rears on legs.
.
eve singz tuh me
in front uv thuh crowdz
ya know
well
our neighbors huddle 'round
thuh bathroom window
when eve showerz
,)
Old men dwell on living well
They still aspire although they tire
Spry or stiff they live as if
They won't collapse or soon expire
Like it or not they've made their lot
And learned to live with what they've got
But in their mind they know their kind
Won't come again so they remind
All those around what they could do
When the world was younger... and they were, too
But I think this kind of kind revision
Is most likely just another loss of vision
chili for breakfast
more chili for lunch
I am a patterned eater
Specific Types of Light Poems
Read wonderful light poetry on the following sub-topics:
bright, candle, christmas, dark, darkness, funeral, inspirational, love, red, science,
and more.
Definition | What is Light in Poetry?
Poems Related to Light
bright, luminous, rich, shiny, sunny, burnished, clear, flashing, fluorescent, glossy, glowing, polished, shining, ablaze, aglow, brilliant,