EIGHT BEAUTIFUL LINES
Filled with peachy pleasure in parsley pastures
I eye eagle elegantly elevate in elongated flight
warriors wonder wisely about rising Sun
whispering wondrous worldly wishes across
abiding angelic appled air spun
elves and fairies pirouette in royal ribbons blue
with mystics maypoling as kittens mew
a mistletoe mist of fat figs feasting true !
Categories:
appled, beautiful, color, earth, imagery,
Form: Alliteration
THE YEARLY DOZEN
The slow worry of bright empty January,
Lies here under snow-ridden
Cold-fingered February on a frozen levee,
Endures embattled days with
March’s gales around the gables;
April’s gala fields of daffodils,
And a doubtful vision that may be
Green May’s glory of grass,
With flowering, butterflied June,
Before July’s shimmering mirage
Fills the buzzing song
Of busy August’s hot cities cursed;
While golden September lies all around,
Appled October dozes with baskets heavy,
Stacked in barns by Cinderella
November, maidservant of December -
Silver December dappling all the ground
With dark sparkling glass dash.
Categories:
appled, seasons,
Form: Imagism
I don’t remember
much about the day the deer jumped
the fence and broke its neck.
Late summer and I inhaled
the plump morning air—red
apples, brown
sugar and grass, my
pudgy feet padding the damp
linoleum squares
where sunlit streams flooded gol-
den through the yawning kitchen window.
And out that window, just beyond
the five-foot chain link line,
an antlered buck
lay, his great head twisted
toward an ‘appled’ sky.
Then my mother
a steam kettle whist-
ling “look away! look away!” “look away!”
and my father’s whispers
thick curtains closing
on the jagged red light rising.
Categories:
appled, death, life,
Form: Narrative
When I find time to meditate
to write a line or share a verse,
upon the vine or on the grape,
to concentrate upon the dirt,
surrendering this lovely grape
tenderly nurtured on the vine
in vintages of earthy brew
delightful, deliciously grown,
this mortal milk of mother earth.
Yet, blank this paper facing me
and blank the face, this paper sees.
Sees this poet's blank paper dreams.
Pen and ink, my bridge to paper,
this bridge to cross, my destiny.
This cross I bear, a word my key.
The new key I seek all of the time.
A time lined with appled orchards,
on a hill lined with grape filled vines.
Categories:
appled, funnytime,
Form: Free verse