the back of my hands are spotted
with brownish red splotches and dashes
they are as wrinkly as a Chinese dog
blue veins are popping up in ugliness
so this is why old women wear gloves!
the same reason they wear scarves around their turkey necks
I was never prepared to get this old
did not realize it was a possibility
until I began wearing my grandmother’s hands
white and brownish-red
so beautiful two tone! what
a great afternoon!!
When We Know A Cool Apple Cider Would Be Nice
Brownish red hues emitted from angry red skies
Such depths of emotions sometimes are born from lies
Much as rattle-snake rings it tails before it bites
Poor country boy sang, save me, just before he dies
And there was no angel to save him that black-night
As wild river turns and floods the new founded town
The town throng asked who is wrong and who is right
All the hero gave them was a tormented frown
The storm smiling idlily, at first hides its face
Then it gave forth rampant lightning and heavy blows
When all was over we had such a torn up place
We knew that old man Satan had played his show.
Asking ourselves if the pain is worth the damn price.
When we know, a cool apple cider would be nice.
Robert J. Lindley, Sonnet
April 5th 1974
Note
Sometimes we know that making the decision is much harder than the actual fight will be.
Morning shines
solar gold in the freshness
of the dawn...
Noon, the sun at its high,
caressing the landscape
with igneous joy...
The evening melancholy
brownish red
creates an impasse between nostalgia
and the beauty...
Then night shading
enables the sun hide in an alcove
unrevealed of the heavenly mystery...
No laments are heard, no tiredness...
The sleepless night
receives all phenomena in its arms
conceding time to remake
its flows...
Cardinals swoop in
Snatching tiny crunchy stars
Up in their beaks
Those little brownish red stars
Must be tasty I think
But I am not going to try them
Robin appears next
Gives me a careful scolding
Snatches one up and gives me her tail.
The cat and I look at each other.
It’s your foot I tell her
Goading her.
Shark makes his way
Toward a fat blue jay
Who has just flown in for a bit of kibble.
A robin sits
fat and puffed eyeing the leaves
scattered in the melting flow
amidst the winter waning snow.
She pecks upon the ground
until some savory sustenance is found,
be it seed or bug or worm
hidden life that exists after the storm.
Skipping quickly along the open earth
she freely shares her space
with dove, sparrow and tiny wren
as squirrels pursue each other in a chase.
Lingering in the warmth
of the bright and glowing sun,
she flies up into the holly tree
and picks every berry that she sees.
Her breast so brownish red in spring
is faded hues of white and umber
giving into the chill of winter slumber
but determination lies within her wings.
She is the harbinger of seasons change
despite the snow, the barrenness of the land
her appearence is not strange
only promises drawn by a greater hand.
Matthew 6:26
Look at the birds in the sky. They don't sow seed or harvest grain or gather crops into barns. Yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Aren't you worth much more than they are?
The leaves are down and now are dead.
What once was green, now brownish red.
The spirit lives beyond the season.
Even beyond a world of treason.
It's only natural to live and die.
But in between, we still must try.
To find a reason to carry on.
To make a difference before we're gone.
When promises of childhood dreams.
Get lost inside the clouds moon beams.
You're never old enough to say.
It doesn't matter, it's just grey.
It's time now for your soul to soar.
To understand that's what it's for.
Recall a time when innocence won.
Now that we've seen the setting sun.
HEART OF RUST
Today is another day.
My heart is turning brownish-red.
I walked away with nothing to say.
My words are now all rusted.
Without regretting yesterday.
I hide behind the face of the dead.
My world has turn upside down.
Suddenly my body is heartless.
My memories drip like water into the ground.
My blood swirls making my veins useless.
The stale oxygen leaves my body with no sound.
Pouring rain decaying my stubborn heart's illness.
Living in a forever color of dusk to dawn.
My heart continues the cascade with dust..
Reversing the feelings wishing they where gone.
I'm lost in this sickness, of no trust
Storing my heart in a forever pawn.
In hopes that no one ever removes the rust.
By; p.d...
.p.s., I know these poem does not follow the rules... Lol..but I had an old rusted poem..laying around....
For kids
Nothing beats peanut butter
So says Skippy
So says Jiff
It can nourish
(Ah yes
But it can kill)
With kids can cause a large degree of happiness
Nothing beats peanut butter
Always a jar on the counter
"Simply GREAT for you kids
Sticks to the ribs!" says mom
Can't you see that inevitable smear of jelly just above the lip
While with agile tongue he slathers stuff around a quick-sand mouth
It's on his chin
On his shirt
In the sink
Spoons and knives alive with it
On the floor
On the rug
He's left a brownish-red hand print on the front door
Home from school
It is the one thing he can count on
What?
Empty?
In the cupboard
Quick!
There's more
He's on a chair
On tip of his toes
Well!
Whataya know
COOKIES!