( duck’s confession )
time has come for getting tough
for I have now had quite enough
day-after-day this kid comes 'round
to pester me like some old hound
pelting me with day-old bread
and poking posies at my head
calling me these cutesy names
and forcing me to kiddie games
her silly parties, cakes and tea
are not what they're quacked up to be
hugging spells I've barely weathered
if not for her, I'm fully-feathered
and if you please, I've had my fill
her painting lipstick ‘pon my bill
now she's pulled the final straw
a rare offense of barnyard law -
spraying me with bottled water
(wait 'til she sees what it's got her)
now it's MY turn for some fun
I've got that chicky on the run …
perhaps she'll learn, now run amuck
that "NO" means nothing ...
to a duck.
~ POETRY AGAINST POVERTY ~
( photographic art created copyright-free by the author with Gemini AI / Meta AI software )
Snow
frosting
woodlands white;
sun beating down
on barren landscapes;
the floating solitude -
of being immersed in space
or in the depths of an ocean
that resonates muffled quietude.
How fickle is a world in which we
can experience elsewhere the
tumultuousness of storms
pelting crops or thrashing
seashores, and the mad
roar of dragons
in forests
spitting
Fire
whispering daisy
held up by dandelion
cold pelting rain
violet bends her head
reverent deference to these two
That night you left,
the rain came with a pelt—
an abyss in my heart,
a curse you placed from the start.
Hurt words, hurt heart, hurt soul—
an emotional toll
I buried deep
in hope our marriage to keep.
And with courage sparked,
I kicked you out in the dark
on a night wild with anger,
for the two of you to tangle.
And yet as soon as I did,
my heart bid
a return—
Has the lesson been learned?
The pelting turned to a cyclone warning,
heaven and earth aligning.
The whole world erupts to send me a message:
going back was not the right passage?
I woke in the morning to a daughter exclaiming,
“The cyclone was pushed back—
no longer on track.”
To a reframing of my life...
Until next time.
At the hour of mercy,
Morning, and dewy —
when rising comes with the
remembrance of school-assembly
hymns and humming —
before Sunday breakfast,
at the hiding corner of a lonesome,
autumn-infested path
strewn with flowers of pelting
romance,
she handed me a lean hamper
so fat with lipstick-red apples —
twenty or twenty-one —
the number matters not,
but her love counts, for each
apple, with the size of Edison’s
bulb, and unsullied with the light of
day,
shone in my eyes, which
have now looked into her soul
and discovered a cavern of love
and all hidden paths leading to sweetness.
Just one scraping bite of the treacly essence—
white and wallsome —and I begin to dream.
Rain is drizzling in slanting form
And pelting my roof gently.
Outside, it’s cold and dark, the stars hiding
Behind blindfolded, piddling clouds.
Music flows through my brain.
My ears are full.
Every breath I take resides on pluvial melody,
Charging my pulses towards the mirth of
Eloquent stanzas.
God, how on earth can I thank you enough
For music?
pelting the sidewalk
streams of gentling rain
music who will stalk
dancing through the pain
floods roll as we rock
If the dawn light
we're not being pounded into blindness
by the pelting rain,
if the earth and sky ceased
crashing into each other
churning threads of twilight
into a bitter pulp of crushed worms,
a clogging alluvium
then all must lay as it is
until a muddled earth resettles the land
for in those muddled mounds
there will be the seeds of a new sky
Then brooms, shovels and the titans of charity
will once again labor to seal the rift
between hearts and eyes.
This morning’s slush is melting
From last night’s dust of snow
Which, since it wasn’t pelting,
Left little trace, although…
Some little mounds keep clinging
To surfaces of grass,
Enough for snowball flinging
Before the urge might pass.
This weather’s awfully fickle –
It almost feels like spring,
But it’s more like a tickle,
Awaiting winter’s zing.
Still, I’m out by the river,
Just soaking up the sun
Which the heavens did deliver
To get all the melting done.
the toads do not dive
they plop into the scummy pond
pale green bellies floating beneath them
like airbags
they paddle and back-stroke
through the weedy water
as slow as inflatable boats
when i visit them
i turn into a kid
lobbing pebbles into the spawny drink
to watch them scatter
they remind me of fat men
hastily departing a swimming pool
it is a joke i prank them with
i keep doing this
until they turn to glare at me
heads half-submerged
eyes bulging with indignation
once it began to rain heavily
raindrops crashed into the pond
like exploding peanut shells
.
the toads commenced to croak in unison
the noise almost drowning-out
the sound of the pelting rain
no doubt they were bidding me
to go drown somewhere
This uncompromising Sunday
has agreed to let us enjoy
what is left of a boring day
as we ardently seek the brief presence
of a radiant sunset resembling red clay,
attesting the inevitable evidence.
The purple lilacs and pink tulips gently sway,
nobody listens to the crickets' soothing sounds;
early at sunrise they were inundated by big waves
and torrents of unmerciful rain pelting on the bay.
Every Bayberry and Crape Myrtle shrub has fragrant flowers,
they attract Sandpipers, Snowy Plovers and Monarch Butterflies;
they all feast on them, then they take off with incredible swiftness:
while the tranquil and brilliant sea resounds with various shrills.
I spot from far the noisy seagulls landing on the Church's steeple,
scattering the Gray Catbirds huddled on long cable wires that were
listening to the choir of faithful marching out with glowing smiles,
cherishing their last moment of glory under brilliant September's skies.
This uncompromising Sunday
has agreed to let us enjoy
what is left of a boring day
as we ardently seek the brief presence
of a radiant sunset resembling red clay,
attesting the inevitable evidence.
The purple lilacs and pink tulips gently sway,
nobody listens to the crickets' soothing sounds;
early at sunrise they were inundated by big waves
and torrents of unmerciful rain pelting on the bay.
Every Bayberry and Crape Myrtle shrub has fragrant flowers,
they attract Sandpipers, Snowy Plovers and Monarch Butterflies;
they all feast on them, then they take off with incredible swiftness:
while the tranquil and brilliant sea resounds with various shrills.
I spot from far the noisy seagulls landing on the Church's steeple,
scattering the Gray Catbirds huddled on long cable wires that were
listening to the choir of faithful marching out with glowing smiles,
cherishing their last moment of glory under brilliant September's skies.
Every Ozarkian November, when the first cold rains from the north pour out across the land,
Instantly sweeping away the easy, quiet warmth of autumn- wild winds blow down the colors of the hills.
Each pelting sheet of wetness slamming my windows,
Indicates a new season approaches- a season of joint-gripping misery, a callous wintriness sneaking incredulously into my bones.
Odious elements! You have snatched away the benevolence of the sun!
As the trees reach to the sky
A cool spring breeze whispers to each flickering leaf welcoming new green
Limbs swaying, rain lightly pelting the roof and the grass
The unabashed joy of birdsong,
Rumbling thunder, apple blossoms
This too is precious, fleeting, eternal, beautiful in its brevity
A piece of eternity passing without notice
Always before us if we quiet ourselves to look...
I find myself lost here, at peace with the simplicity
Drenched in the secret of love's spring rain
As it floods my heart with silence, hope, and newness
Then…
I emptied my soul into the landscape
That I could be filled with the presence of all things
Reaching as the limbs to the heavens,
Opening as the leaves to the rain
In one small tranquil moment we were one,
And I was everything…
And nothing
Recycling ourselves endlessly, we are the givers of life for all.
A misconception is that we bear the shape of a tear.
In fact we are flat although from the side, we appear
Nearly round, as from the sky we fall.
Dropping gently as showers when we are small,
Reveling in pelting the earth when we are large, we can be something to fear.
On land we can cause floods. Driven by wailing wind, we are a squall.
Petrichor, our scent so fresh, we hope that you at least recall
Subsequent to our appearance, which no one can forestall!
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