Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon
ordered marinara with parmesan.
When he finished up his plate,
he burped and hopped a southbound freight.
Writing history can be a crime,
when you insist that it must rhyme.
Jack on a rainy day,went on his toes
To show his bravery to friends and foes
He sang,danced,hopped,jumped and smiled
He slipped hard,though rarely styled
With back upside and downside with flat nose
A PRAISED FREIGHT RIDE ps
Lost, I hopped a freight.
Travelling in faith and hope,
I found God’s station:-
The blur was green or maybe grey
That past his turgid senses flashed.
The skin would burst soon anyway,
All his tastes and visions smashed.
Grey or green, most perplexing, yes.
The membrane full, his senses stretched.
To smash the wall would cause a mess,
He'll look and search, with nothing fetched.
Green or grey, but could be blue,
Now the cover will surely burst.
An idea, but what to argue?
Must determine the colour first.
Grey or green, did he see a pink?
There's something missed or maybe hopped.
It's now he teeters on the brink.
Be careful now, it could have popped.
"O, joy", he cries, he's found it out,
Not pure and single colours seen.
The pressure's gone, a welcome spout,
He's stemmed again what should've been.
She hopped aboard a moonbeam out of town;
in mirthful glee, she caught it on the run.
Then doppler shifting right,
she fixed her eyes upon the sun,
launched like a rocket to infinity:
weightless, carefree, sans all amenities.
Her new life had begun;
her all, her everything was He who wore the crown.
Popping out from under time's ruffled sun
a regally vested, chit-chatty Robin.
Cheerily navigating the lemon lime grass.
Perhaps looking for a beetle or crumb.
He daintily hip-hopped into my ring
on legs of beige twigs and lute strings.
Gently tilting a Tiffany-kissed beak.
Offering a daisy chain of silvery peeps.
I thought him just another avian busker
hustling up a mate and something to eat.
I'd little to offer and vigorously apologized.
He just glanced toward his robin egg sky.
Then offered me, in pastels, a Basho haiku.
I volleyed back with crayon-streaked senryu.
Before gliding off to sweet memory land,
he gifted an orange gem from his regal vest.
I considered this day to be impeccably blessed
by Lord Robin of the lemon-lime grass.
A True Story
The little frog hopped on a
slippery stone,
He sat in the sun all
completely alone,
Then splashed in the water to
find his way home.
Five little frogs hopped
down to the lake,
To see what a splash their
webbed feet could make.
The biggest from jumped
With a terrible bound,
And scattered the lily pads
all way around.
While the rest swam away
without making a sound.
I asked myself when I was young,
why does a frog have a sticky tongue?
I eyed pancake lily pad beyonds
where frogs hopped maple syrup ponds.
The answer then was in my reach.
I ate my breakfast. Now, I teach.
frog wanted an invite to the Halloween party up on the hill
Kept asking to go, but was told no by the host, Mr. McGill
Frogs are not welcome, he said, I am sure you understand
I am a frog-bigot in this far-fetched fantasy land
frog did not understand, but thought he could sneak in
He borrowed a witch’s hat, as the party was about to begin
Hopped up there and sat on some books, wearing a grin.
What are you? Someone asked. He said, “I’m a librarian!”
red cardinal landed in my hair
he got his feet tangled up in there
a beautician had to cut him out
upon his escape he hopped about
We have some wood ticks in there too she said
this embarrassed me, my face turned red
Do you want me to cut those varmints out too?
Yes, I agreed. Please do, please do!
To live a thousand lives through the eyes of others
A gift that often goes forgotten
The soul of another
Person that is not me
Or you or she
The tallest giraffe or the smallest bee
The shoes of a neighbor can walk forever
You’d never know the distance until
Much much later
Is the moment where we sit down and ponder
If I had those shoes might i have wandered
As far as the original owner did go
Or would I have stopped, hopped to and fro
You can never truly ever know
If the person beside you
has climbed a mountain in the same shoes of the one you confide in
The soles might be gone, the shoelaces
All dirty for they have donned these shoes
For years upon years
You would know that if you only opened up your ears
To hear and to listen or maybe to feel
The contents of their person
That may be like you
Or not at all
Maybe the wall in your thinking
Is a simple diversion
Your shoes are too new, too shiny
To see through the bubble in which you exist
To live a thousand lives through the eyes of others
Is a gift that sits in the back of our mind
If only we spared a thought to remind
A squirrel who once was all-day hustle-run
discovered spring had hung a swing nearby.
He eyed it first as something strange and fun,
then hopped aboard to give the breeze a try.
The branches rocked him in a gentle arc,
a cradle made of sunlight, leaves, and ease.
He closed his eyes, forgetting he was stark
addicted to the rush of busy trees.
Soon all his twitchy habits slipped away~
the frantic stash, the darting here and there.
He let the swing decide the pace of the day,
a mellow rhythm floating through the air.
And now he’s learned what wiser creatures know:
Sometimes, you simply sway and let life slow.
My hair is thick
I could hide rats in it
maybe even a monkey
or two
I doubt if I could get another appointment with my hairdresser
if I allowed inhabitants though
especially if they hopped out during a shampoo
I can imagine them sliding down her hands
to take a swirl in her stainless-steel sink
Willows waving in the window frame.
Six cheerful mice dancing on the door.
I’ve changed my sweater to the same;
It’s gray as the daytime clouds outdoor.
Deciduously delicate as lace, ne’er still.
Dependent on limbs, movement with wind.
Inside the poet’s space, her spouse sawmill.
Does he dream of the zigzag step incline
Or a lovely walk to church on Easter Sunday?
Does he trace the smiles and shadows of sun
And the rising of our Savior; celebration heyday
As we praise shoulder to shoulder as one?
The willows wiggle like children on the pews;
Dressed in Spring green, sunny yellow, sky blue.
Like branches, the mothers hold them in the queue,
Though little bodies, hats and ties are all askew.
The poet’s husband’s hopped up in time,
Forgotten what was on his mind, in sleep.
The writer’s rat-a-tat-tat must quit her rhyme
And ask her tree for help with counting sheep.
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