At the beach half-clad girls pranced around.
Husbands ogled. Their irate wives frowned.
When the guys fell asleep,
they got buried neck-deep
in the sand. Wives then couldn’t be found!
Although the stems of daffodils
Have pushed up through the ground
And tiny buds on branches,
Here and there, can now be found…
Along the road are little mounds
Of dazzling white snow,
Perhaps from when the plow came through,
But I don’t really know.
They serve as a reminder that,
Though it indeed is spring,
We’re never sure what weather
Mother Nature might just bring.
Someone spoke to me of the amazing mounds built
by ants and how they best dispose of them. I spoke of how from under the ground without a sound, they astound. And
I spoke of the rapidity with which they constructed
their mounds but added, "I have no desire to
dispose of them". I regularly encounter them
along the driveway and near my mailbox, but
I see no reason that the ants and I cannot
co-exist because we both have our God-given
purpose; and it appears that their purposes
do not infringe upon mine.
120124PS
Curves valleys mounds and folds
A sweeping landscape we choose to travel
And enjoy to linger for a time
Whenever we can
To us and our companion
To the High peak of satisfaction
And release mounting tension
In the pleasant valley below
A much-needed vacation
Then it's back to work
Again.
A memory of years long past
A haunt some called a sacred place
‘Twas here a daughter learned to race
She’d start off slow and finish fast
Those afterburners on full blast
Around those mounds, a place to base
a memory
My grandchild, from the same mold cast
Now on this course, her best time graced
One cheered, one ran, both beaming faced
And in so doing, they’ve amassed
a memory
—————
another rondine: (R a) b b a a b R a b b a R
https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/rondine-poetic-form
tumbling quietness
as soft snow slips off branches
pillows under stars
Haiku revised: January 24, 2021
THE BLUE MOUNDS*
It started when she sat there
At the age of five or six
Wandered off in chase
Of bugs who watched her from gray sticks--
Felt a thrumming in her veins
That set her hair on fire
stronger than the booming
She imagined in god choir
Suddenly aware of space
But not of time passed by
Looked up to blue rock haze
Against a thunder sky
And distant on the blue rock
Bison herd was racing west
Dust-framed in a golden haze
She grabbed her hammered chest
*Blue Mounds--now part of a park in SW Minnesota
Lakota Sioux burial grounds, sacred site--a herd of bison roam here
The snow capped mountains,
Beautiful snow formations;
Pristine white landscapes.
Each stone cements the stairs to air
to be climbed in dampness, darkened.
Lit by windows still left to hollow
the light down shafts in spirals.
But, Oh the height one reaches in darkness
and Oh the breadth attained by such
when, after climbing to sweet exhaustion,
one gazes on beauty defying time
Wings outstretched, this flying eagle
placed with care each stone aligned
Lifting the mound on sacred honor
Printed with fingers on Indian hands
Spiral the moon with this stiff darkness
Cradle the sun with white windows and light
Shoulder the dampness and infinite likeness
as fast and as fleeting, to eagles in flight.
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