Ever-optimistic
for fun and games
one may dream
of peaches and cream
and tho' the primrose path
may razz our berries
life ain't always a bed of roses
or just a bowl of cherries
for the latter comes with stones
as has the former prickles
we must pick and choose
which way our fancy tickles
This garden’s neglected, the grass grew too tall
The bushes and plants look half-dried
Cracked slabs lay uneven, the dog’s water bowl
Is covered with leaves and dead flies
Front door’s off the latch, windows wide open
No photos in frames on the mantelpiece
A phone on the table must’ve been broken
Unlikely it held fingerprints
Wormwood and ivy have grown way too large
Almost conceal the brick walls
Everything seems like completely discharged
Unavailable to any calls
Was it the other day I saw you there?
When was the last time we met?
Tomorrow can’t come, cause it’s busy somewhere
No time for tea can be set.
petals rest in a small porcelain bowl,
their faded colors holding
the last warm whisper
of summer’s breath
like a prayer released
from the hush of a chapel
their fragrance drifts upward~
a sweetness rising
toward unseen grace.
I sense the Holy Spirit
moving through the softened petals,
turning what has fallen
into something still glowing.
potpourri—a symbol of how God gathers
the small, the broken, the dried~
and breathes a lingering fragrance
into them.
Two little water bowls wouldn't do anymore
for Cosmo is big and drinks much more
than the small dogs did and Sassy does
so a new water bowl I was thinking of
It's silver steel trough more than a bowl
for four gallons of water it does hold
Cosmo chews almost everything
the water bowls his mouth they clean
debris of bits of that and this
the water bowl his drinking was a mess
Maybe I can skim the water clean
after he drinks from a bowl size supreme
He's still a puppy at 80 pounds
big lovable dog whose more the clown
The water bowl now should do the trick
not refilling the small ones after water he licks
Cosmo and Sassy my doggy team they be
if I spoil them it's because they spoil me.
An earthy palette
of hues,
blue-greens, and
muted tones of melancholia
safflower oil imparts a
blue period
colors made from
our terrestrial
fruit of flora
reflecting
depth of destitution
giving or receiving
the act of charity?
The girl lifts
their spirits
with humble offerings
collective souls
connect completely
moods moving,
welcoming warmth
of the broth soup’s
steamy ardent aroma,
awakening the dormant
and pitiful perils prolonged
sense of taste
A choice expounding
in what is seen
and unseen,
an elder’s mindful
symbiosis, steaming
savory clouds
of translucent
silvery solvents
from a slumped stance,
vigor spent
In the green fields of Punjab,
A dark creature stands—
A breathing mountain of dusk,
Yet gentle as a dove.
Through the long silence of day,
On weeds and dry, ordinary grass,
She gathers the unnoticed,
And turns it into a quiet miracle.
Between veins of red and brown,
A pale river begins to move—
Drawn from the dust of herbage,
A secret the earth cannot speak.
Where no light enters,
Something stirs without a sound;
Foliage becomes a silver flow,
Clay ripens into white gold.
Like moonlight poured into a bowl,
Like mercy falling unseen,
It arrives—pure, unannounced—
A gift no eye can fully hold.
What hand shapes this hidden alchemy?
What silence writes this tender law?
The buffalo knows, yet does not speak—
She stands, humble in her giving,
While man forgets the miracle,
And grows loud.
My toilet bowl Muse, how splendid thou art!
Unlike the Bard, who had no time to poop,
I pen rhymes, metaphors, and rhythms that fart.
His sonnets, the best ever, did not droop
in force or beauty. Rather, they endure
for ever, and live alongside his plays.
My sonnets, albeit, like inspired manure,
excrete in the most personal, human ways.
But, as with Shakespeare, Pope, or Lord Byron,
divine afflatus, like their excrement,
smells like scent—but my droppings of bronze and iron,
like cow dung, are solid and more feculent.
O, toilet bowl Muse! Thou art my Tenth Muse:
when you breathe on me my bowels still won't refuse.
Tonight my tummy will smile,
Over my tongue it will go.
May I have more?
Another bowl for me.
Two will fill me up,
On this winter's night.
Soup warms me up on a cold night,
Or on a rainy day.
Under my soup the crackers dive,
Pretending to hide from me.
Life challenges once I got old
Such balances as do as you’re told
Really ironic to me
How much I pee
A goal not to miss toilet bowl
Steaming.
I could go to work in a work car, work clothes, work shoes…
Or just simmer like pajama pants.
When I’m getting ready.
Soup.
That’s what time is.
Something that’s not horrible, but it’s awkward, and hiding in shoes.
Globs of stuff like prayers, that I’ll make it! Yes!
Slippery, laughing soup.
I have a work car, clothes, shoes.
But instead I stayed home to scoop up whatever cold broth is in me.
Leftover like all the fridge magnets I tore down.
It’s all soup and getting ready for work.
Lips falling off into the bowl.
Already slimy with my slobber.
Steam hitting me over and over.
I don’t think this is how you get into heaven.
But maybe I can get to work on time.
So might as well pile my body and willingness into this car.
And those work shoes are ruined already for no reason.
There’s a million things in a prayer soup.
Not much excuse anymore.
I’m a soup.
I’m not too good to become microwave slop.
Steaming.
From here to there
and everywhere,
the poets write
we take delight,
from creative minds
in poems we find
of every kind.
A souper's treat,
as we compete
for your attention.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The kickoff hangs like a question mark~
sudden death rules apply.
Fourth down, and the play clock’s ticking
while the blitz crashes in, unblinking.
A Hail Mary arcs through the frozen dark,
a spiraling gamble against the sky.
The end zone waits, arms wide or stark~
did it catch? The crowd holds its reply…
Little Jack Horner
was put in the corner
for eating her curds and whey
what else was little miss Muffet to do
as he had stolen the bowl so she pulled it away
and said, 'What a bad boy are you!'
I’m just like the last fruit in a bowl of fruit.
Now it’s just a bowl of me.
Magical thinking works like a toaster.
Just pops like it hurts and it might if it catches on fire with my mind.
Good riddance to people who know my number and I wish they would never call me.
I wish “good riddance” actually got rid of things, it actually collects more intrusive thoughts.
I’m just like the last fruit fly who pretends to hate fruit.
I’m still buzzing around, you know?
Alone but it’s not random.
Random like people who live near me.
That would have been friends in the other time line.
I’m really different from a fly somehow.
I like coffee and I usually can’t climb the ceilings.
But when I see myself.
I’m just a bowl of me.
Tonight sick Santa had to take off,
he has a bad case of whooping cough.
The reindeers are acting weird,
all are hungry and dog-eared.
Home for a hot bowl of beef stroganoff.
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