There was a fanciful maid
who joined the Easter Parade
about whom if I could
a poem I would pen
then again
a whimsical sonnet
with an egg or two
and chicks but a few
on her favourite Easter bonnet
She, in her Easter bonnet
Standing beneath the shade,
Alongside gentlemen in top hats
To view an Easter parade
Church bells ring distantly
Showy, white lilies sway,
Waving to sweet daffodils
On this springtime holiday
Baskets with chocolate rabbits
Jelly beans and colored eggs,
Are carried by happy children
Running by on pudgy legs
A whirl of pastel colors
Meant to delight the eye,
Like the first time seeing
A robin or a butterfly
Joyous music fills the air and
Easter dinner is on the way,
Ham and pineapple wait at home
To round out this special day!
Easter egg hunt for little ones
In green grass under yellow sun
Laughs that grab hearts red sonnet
Bow ties brown eyes and pink bonnet
So cute toddler who picks up a rock
Doesn’t want the emerald egg on top
Another girl seems to fuchsia fear
Easter Bunny with floppy brown ears
Every one excited taking peach photos
Easter memories as valuable as gold
Behold the busy bumblebee
Gathering pollen and nectar, his treasure.
He transports it home
To be stored in a comb
For his queen to dine on at her leisure.
How doth the humble bumblebee
Manage all that he does without stumbling?
He toils night and day,
Earning minimum pay,
Her commands he'll obey without grumbling.
Wherefore's he called a "bumble bee"?
Throughout all that rough and rowdy tumbling
Industriousness is no quirk,
There's no task he will shirk,
So, don't smirk, he is anything but "bumbling".
In a thriving hive of buzzin' bees
Will reside several dozen cousin bees,
All of whom are humble bees,
And very busy bumblebees,
Knee-deep in bees' activities
And apian proclivities
That show their main necessity
If just to bee or not to bee.
Leon Joseph Bonnat
a French professor of art
teacher of the great& the good
some of whom you probably would...still know
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ki7rptpm85M
Lilacs and daffodils seasonal thrills
spilling on the lawn lots of sunshine and light
beaming from a window I hold still
breathing in April, I no longer feel the chill
roses and daisies joyful gardeners dig
waiting for colors of spring to win big
tiny birds chirp while passing the twig
bonnet smiles and kisses for each sprig
marigolds and violets scented like heaven
springtime blooms in a hothouse of seven
nurtured irrigations from a moistened glen
just feed them love and never say, when
albeit time for grooming and wild flowers too,
I know its that time when everything grows anew.
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
Contest Name: Breath of Spring
March 1, 2021
On an 8 X 10 glossy
you are wearing your
straw bonnet,
smiling with the afternoon sun,
secret thoughts are locked
away within your mind,
given a lifetime sentence
by a disability which is the
keeper of the key,
unwilling to unlock the prison door
that frees you from the
silence of nothingness.
Your eyes the color of
blue forget-me-nots stare
at the world hollowed from drugs
controlling years of seizures,
your smile is your voice,
expressing a few minutes of peace.
Dedicated to the memory of my daughter, Beth.
Millions of stories sleeping still,
a pollinators chosen thrill.
Enraptured in the splendorous,
I realize nature’s generous.
Mind pensive of those gone before,
who walking these trails by the score,
laid eyes upon blue bonnet stream;
tranquility of Gaia’s dreams.
with eyes of spirit I scan Earth’s breast,
where centuries of history rests.
I sense those waters winding their way;
intrinsic mysteries portrayed.
Water collects as it travels;
imagination unravels.
Wide mouth bass in the creek so deep
Hidden by blue bonnets who are bristling awake
A luxurious moment on a pretty spring day not asleep
Sun warming up Texas in country lazy sake.
A lone fox watches from trees which hide her from view.
Understanding the danger if we get close to her kits.
Taking them deeper into the forest, in silence anew.
Whisking them away in small silent increment bits.
Indian fossils are lying at the bottom of this creek.
A beautiful piece of petrified wood under this vegetation fuzz.
Just waiting for a young’un to glimpse a small peek
Anticipating a young cowboy’s whoop as he does.
The fishermen inch their way through the pretty blue flowers.
With fishing poles and bologna sandwiches for a fine lunch.
They do not know about the bass, but feel magical powers
Wafting off this gorgeous area; it is God’s country, is their hunch.
dispersion of pretty petals springing from a toddler's bonnet
3/30/2019
Picture #3
I see the garden erupt in an Edwardian funeral,
I see nodding leilandii boil
into a plumed-horse procession,
fuchsia a parade of red-cassocked priests.
I see the window and street beyond, contract
with macular degeneration.
The unrecognised visitors are
sudden, they change suddenly.
Tear streaked children descent
and ascent the stairs, robed in blue and rose,
but they do not accuse me, or humiliate me,
jeer or seek to seduce me.
In the garden I breathe the gasp of last year's leaves
I find a handkerchief in mid-air
as the afternoon pours itself
through a thousand gutters and down-pipes
a sky-coloured handkerchief, spotted orange.
I understand dementia's brother has crept into my optical tract,
while memory fills the dark with fantasy patterns:
a man walks toward me, smiling:
he wears a dressing gown, he needs a shave;
a man of similar demeanour to how I might appear,
if reflected in a window against a darkening afternoon.
Granny’s bonnet
Frilly satin material,
The good old days
How fashion has changed,
And today’s people live,
Their fragrances linger on,
As we gaze upon Aquilegia
With sweetness,
And great pleasure
Pretty purple velvet,
Beauty smiling,
Nature flowering,
Our ancestors live on,
Through her spirit
They bloom every day,
In our hearts,
Reminding us,
Their just a breeze away.
Transporting memories,
Into different realms.
Wendy Jae
At the Tartan Bonnet
next to the Smithy’s stall,
a picture labelled monster
is hanging on the wall.
The photograph is fuzzy,
looks like a bunch of tyres,
held to a piece of deadwood
by nails and string, or wires.
The locals say that tourists
are gullible, rich fools,
that no sign has been noted
by scientific tools.
The view over the water
is really rather good;
another compensation
is finest ale and food.
But of a Friday evening,
a face at the back door;
she sups her twenty gallons
and swims away once more.
On an 8 X 10 glossy,
you are wearing your
straw bonnet,
smiling with the afternoon sun,
secret thoughts are locked
away within your mind,
given a life-time sentence
by a disability which is the
keeper of the key,
unwilling to open the prison door
which frees you from the
silence of nothingness,
your eyes the color of
blue forget-me-nots stare
at the world hollowed from drugs
controlling years of seizures,
your smile is your voice,
expressing a few minutes of peace.
April 5, 2018
_____________________________________________________________
Dedicated to the memory of my Daughter, Beth Carol Morrison
It's Halloween, that spooky time of year,
when scary monsters prowl the streets all night.
The costumes sometimes give us such a fright -
our heads with trepidation fill with fear,
but light the candles then they disappear.
Young children's faces shining with delight,
lit up by pumpkin lantern's glowing light;
with bags of candy kids run off and cheer.
Some teenage children take it all too far
and play their tricks when they don't get a treat.
I find smashed eggs upon my house and car,
then I use language I should not repeat!
Next year I'll have my front door just ajar
and wear a white face pack and old bed sheet.
10~23~15
Italian Sonnet - abbaabba cdcdcd
Contest: Mad as a Hornet
Sponsor: John Lawless
Entered into Halloween Contest
Sponsored by Nayda Ivette Negron
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