It is the small things that matter most
Your heart sings fresh buttered toast
Family brings together a Sunday roast
Smitten a handwritten letter in the post
Jaunts or saunters down Britain’s coast
Snow balls glisten child’s mitten the host
Don’t be a Scrooge listen to every ghost
Best bet to forget regret but don’t boast
Entranced by happenstance engrossed
In the hub of a pub toast with mein host
Your flotilla through strife of life will coast
If don’t let get pushed from pillar to post
As God damn it our planet will soon roast
Foremost and utmost remember to toast
Little treasures that every day does boast
Teeny weeny pleasures our own outpost
Just make sure you are regularly dosed
With those small things that matter most
Winter
Miracle Man
10/22/2024
Soon our trees
will lose their clothes,
Also old Jack frost
will nip our nose.
A strong north wind
will become the norm,
Bringing with it
our first snow storm.
A new white blanket
will be aground,
Drifts like pillows
will also be found.
Roads will be slick
for our Dr. jaunts,
Thoughts of winter
bring back the haunts.
Little shelves in quiet minds
Hold unimagined worlds.
Night-time spurs their playtime jaunts.
By dawn, a tale reshelves.
At times, these tales may reappear
To flirt with daytime ponder.
If thoughts of ponder dare to shift,
A soul may act on a wonder.
And Fortune, guide a happy soul,
Who wears the wonder born
Of ponderings from shelf-life jaunts.
They’re rare as a unicorn.
Rockstar status known decades ago,
Imagined greatness you alone,
Infused lines to inspire yet unordained,
Dark recesses breathing life unexplained,
A lord born of chance to pursue chosen prose,
Wound about poisonous flesh the desire,
Youth requitted and melancholic haunts,
Playing redemption to political jaunts,
Life bright burning a fever too extreme...
An affectatious arsonist announced,
“Big buildings’ burning brilliance brightens best!”
casually cites conflagration counts,
darkly deals destruction, designer-dressed.
Extinguishing each edifice enflamed,
first-rate forensic findings frequent failed.
Grievous, grim goings, ‘geniously gamed;
Hurried happenings, hastily high-tailed.
Incendiary incidents ignite
jewel-filled junkets, jazzed jalopy jaunts.
Kindling’s kittling kiss: knave’s known kryptonite,
Lapping, leaping licks, luscious, lit lavants.
Madness! Marauding mercilessly more,
Nefarious, nursing next novel noir.
—————
kittle - birth, excitement
lavant - old English, stream
Kelogb 10 (6-7-6)
For Emmanuel Adédayò Òjéládé.
When for all the long lines,
Eyes don't catch up the design
Of all I had combined
And in little shy glance,
The eyes travel in spry trance;
For few minds read perchance,
To get the all heart sort.
In minutes, glance would abort--
Flying off lines assort...
Denied expectant fuel,
Which could turn out rare jewel,
That can make pen go cruel...
Hiring you manager:
Who jaunts words a voyager,
To turn astrologer.
Here is the chance per luck,
That gets mere glance chucked,
Which Kelogb speaks and muck.
Thank you real good, dear bard.
For the honor with regard,
That grace to play my card.
With deep touch of mind blows;
In simple and awesome flows,
Perking what make muse glows.
Young and old have acquired,
What sets many minds on fire--
Operating heart's desire...
Till takes shall turn mantra--
Early morning aurora,
Becomes the great Torah.
I married myself,
The female version,
With quirks and misgivings,
Sacred cows and aversions,
And yet, we are different,
Not completely consistent,
And our familiar bad habits,
Are way too persistent,
She brings to me honor,
A dignified shake-up,
Amidst scattered and voluminous,
Containers of make-up,
Her life is straightforward,
Though far from the norm,
With setbacks she caused,
Or induced others to form,
But, she knows who she is,
Certain times, what she wants,
With a dose of dramatic,
And emotional jaunts,
She's so bright, it's scary,
Which makes me succumb,
To notions of applying herself,
Makes me numb,
Because her passion, she has it,
For beauty, among others,
If only she'd want them,
I'd dictate her druthers,
As a mom, she's in charge,
My role is assumption,
Which is needed, considering,
The triple combustion,
And yet, like myself,
She clatters for solitude,
To balance her life,
That exists at high altitude,
So, as I live as I do,
I can rest with much ease,
That, like I, there's a woman,
Who's so darn hard to please,
But of course, who else would,
Handle, deal and excel,
In a life with a man,
Who's from heaven and hell.
(6/22/00)
Three A M
August 15, 2020
By Tom
I have an identity only when I’m awake,
in slumber, i journey as an unknown.
My jaunts sometime end long before daybreak,
when dreams fall prey to the ringing phone.
Melancholy quiescent isn’t draping my morning,
weather is active as the new dawn breaks.
But things can change, absence of warning,
and as the sun rises, all of nature awakes.
Rain Shadow of the Heart
Standing under my umbrella
with rain kisses.
On our hearts and faces, they
did amply fall.
Whatever happened to that you
and me, after all?
The dinners we so joyfully and
laughingly cooked.
Those enchanting times in bed,
when I looked in your eyes and
not a word need be said.
Our jaunts in Lincoln Park, oh!
Your tenderest hand in mine.
Now, it was time to let go.
For the last time, I embraced you.
The rain still falling on my heart
And face though.
The joy of my life, my soul's echo.
I, still see your rain shadow.
Imagine your voice in wet whispers,
Saying..."I love you, so."
October 28, 2019
Have you not seen the keeper of my dreams?
The moon of wishes combs her chestnut hair,
And bounding from the brightest of its beams,
She casts her net of stardust through the air ...
(To weave our thoughts, meandering, with care).
Have you not known the magic of her haunts,
A misty realm where longings can come true?
Like spindrift through the ocean of her jaunts,
You'll float her waking shores on midnight blue,
(Come morn, the sweetened ache of her adieu).
~ 1st Place ~ in the "English Quintain" Poetry Contest, Janice Canerdy, Judge & Sponsor.
They laugh and chat throughout each day and night -
much reminiscing, future jaunts to plan,
and what they'd do to put the planet right.
Yes, they will travel - surely they still can!
Adventures many years ago at sea,
relived, exaggerated, lied about...
Oh, what it was back then, so young and free,
to know you'd make it back, without a doubt.
Then tearful, sober thoughts of wrecks they'd seen:
their friends reduced to driftwood on the shore -
but they have memories of who they'd been,
recall their greatness, though they are no more.
A pair of boats, oblivion awaits;
yet, as they rot, they dream of better fates...
For Sara's Choices sonnet contest, inspired by Picture 1 Old Friends
The unbelievable did happen
Much to everyone's dismay
Dragons, Dragonflies and Huffle-Winks
Lost to Republicans Election Day
They blamed it on Russians
Faked reports of collusion
Spent huge amounts of money
Nothing came of their delusionmo
Officially elected
To fix what was a mess
Republicans got busy
And ignored all the rest
Vast historical changes
Less welfare in years
Countries praising the USA
Music to Trump's ears
Deep-stated shananigans
Started coming back to haunt
They had accused Republicans
Of their own criminal jaunts
It was evident to all
Huffle-Winks, Dragons and Dragonflies
That Republicans were still winning
Despite innuendos and lies
The moral of this story...
Exactly what you would think
Dragons, Dragonflies and Huffle-Winks
Are becoming extinct
May 17, 2018
Dragon, Dragonflies, Huffle-Winks Contest bu Carin Krutsinger
N/A
The butterflies have gone on their migratory jaunts
flying south to warmer more conducive haunts
and as the flower blooms begin to lessen
few remain in their singular essence
and some hold on and linger a little longer here
keeping a butterfly or two in danger endeared;
they are lost from the cluster of blended sails
of yellow, orange and black swallowtails.
Soon the cold will drop down dreary icy gray
and the lost will find too late they've stayed.
Autumn slides in fast on sparrows wings
chilling the once flowered summer scenes;
the butterfly that clung to feathered milkweed seed
will regret the hesitation of its inner need
as chilling winds and rain storm flows
hold it hostage within its throws.
The lost butterfly is easily detained
frozen in place by icy rain.
When the tick at last loud enough that my clock did knock
I got a dog
I saved and I readied and I searched with my gut
And I found you
You most spectacular mutt
You taught me
You changed me
In a way brought me up
Such a challenging intelligent self possessed pup
I was in awe
Adored you so daily
Absorbing each moment of every walk
How you glowed in the moonlight of our late at night jaunts
And sat with me watching what was there to watch
You were there with me when my life fell apart
I thought too often about you
About me
Without you
That too soon inevitable death do we part
Spent too much time worried about a pain in my heart
When the time came
You were noble
I was by your side
Adopting my next dog
Three days after you died
17.03.09
Composed for Someone or Something Replaceable contest
Wolves congregate on nightly prowls;
claiming the rights of kith and kin.
And hail Luna with baying howls;
closing ranks as the wails begin.
A pocked-faced moon beams down with joy
as wolves pay homage without pause.
And each harmonic they employ
rises from massive upturned jaws.
In their charcoal coats, dappled grey,
it's as if they weren't even there.
And concealed from the eyes of prey;
they stock the night with little care.
Praising the moon to no avail;
they fail to convince Her to stay.
But, slinking through the forest trail,
familiar odors guide their way.
With late-night jaunts through Glen and Glade,
these stealthy creatures shadow black.
And taking stock of all surveyed;
families form a hunting pack.
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