aged and withering
family gatherings seen
many miles to go
In a glen where the mushrooms glow soft blue,
Lived a critter who loved to change his view.
A pooka by name, with a golden eye,
He’d start as a hare, and then—why not?—fly!
Poof! went the tail as it turned to a feather,
Changing his suit to suit the weather.
“Too sunny for fur!” he chirped with a grin,
And turned to a dolphin to jump right in—
Wait, that was a pond, just a small muddy puddle,
So he turned into a frog on a sunny-day muddle.
He popped out of the mud as a bright orange fox,
Then turned to a moss-covered, sleeping grey rock.
He tickled the badger, he startled the deer,
Whispering jokes in their unsuspecting ear.
Then off he went dancing, a shaggy old hound,
Before shifting back to his own silly sound.
With a mischievous giggle and a spark in his eye,
He’ll be something new when the moon hits the sky.
birds come then they go
searching for crumbs left behind
when tourists leave
Whispy breeze giggles with ease
cool is rippled river clear
willows weep not as we lovingly tease
rainbow trout jumping, a catch
will be dear
Our porcelain legs, arms encircle loose
larks, butterflies flutter around scented spruce
eyes holding sacred stars from Venus and Mars
we left picnic basket in homing stars
Family wondering whether catch will be salmon
then no need for ordinary dinner gammon
my arms so strong, I’m the provider
always beside her, sister the flowery
insider !
O~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~O
[ Painting: Original Title: La pêche à la ligne
ARTIST : FRANCOIS BOUCHER
Date: 1752
Style: Rococo
Genre: pastorale
Media: oil, canvas
Location: Grand Trianon, Paris, France
Dimensions: 150 x 188 cm ]
____________________________________
2nd Placement: Premier Contest
Sponsor: Brian Strand : March 26
Silver Digital Trophy : All Poetry Ekphrasis
Contest : March 26
Picnic
Button-ups and tablecloths
lay it down and see it through
Just when you thought it was said and done
He’s going hoody- over you
2012
Suddenly, a vapid, rainy chill
Gives rise to woodsy fungal growth.
Make a potion large enough to fill
A cauldron, or grate pot, or both.
Tomorrow night brings us Hallowe'en.
On this night we will meet in nature.
Invisible, we'll gather here unseen.
Beware you ghosts, your spirits we may capture.
He-he, he-he. See the waxing moon?
We'll recall the clouds and bring back gloom.
He-he,he-he. We'll serve this food from our cauldron's spoon,
And then we'll eat this feast by Philton's tomb.
And to mortals entering our space,
If you feel a vapid, haunting chill,
Please understand we only ask for grace.
Our seance group won't return until
The mushrooms grow again in woodsy place.
Brie on baguette with rosé
a picnic for two in the park
moments of spontaneity to treasure
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: 1st place 2025
A gurgling brook
Surrounded by large oak trees
Flowers everywhere
And a blanket for the ground
Best picnic place ever found!
They sat at a table, weathered and wide,
Under cottonwood branches, side by side.
The July sun filtered through leaves like lace,
Softening time, and softening space.
Years had passed—some sharp, some kind—
Each carried stories, heavy with time.
But here they were, two hearts grown old,
Still warm, still curious, still untold.
She smiled at him through lines of grace,
Brushing hair from her wind-swept face.
“Tell me,” she said, with a quiet sigh,
“Why did we break up? Please tell me why.”
He blinked, then chuckled, slow and low,
“I honestly… don’t even know.
Maybe fear, or maybe pride,
Or just the ache of growing wide.”
He spoke of work, of quiet nights,
She spoke of love, of wrongs and rights.
But in the hush between each thought,
A closeness bloomed they never sought.
“Coffee dates sometime?” she asked at last,
Letting the moment not rush past.
“Maybe supper too,” he said, eyes bright,
“Some evening when the stars feel right.”
And nothing more was planned that day,
Except to let the past give way.
To something small, and sweet, and true—
A second chance beneath the blue.
Scott W.
There is something so
sad about fireworks.
They're so flashy,
pretty, and exciting,
but as they fade it
makes you feel sort
of lonely.
Afterall, they're
nothing more than
a semi-permanent
spark intended to
entertain for a
semi-permanent
moment.
The people that
come into our lives
are a lot like the
fireworks:
flashy, pretty,
exciting.
Then
we blink,
and they
fade.
There is
something so
sad about fireworks.
And there is
something so
lonely about being
forced to participate
in an event that you
know isn't going to
last forever.
Bittersweet flash,
bittersweet fade,
bittersweet everything.
going out to eat
gravel road to Blackford Creek
afternoon picnic
The Abandoned Vacant Lot Filled with Concrete
Weeds sprout from the cracks,
A sign reads it was once a place to heal creatures.
All that remains is melancholy and "Hope Pears,"
Lying on the feverish black ground after scaling the tall fence.
A clock that has stopped thinking, or perhaps for reflection,
Stands motionless, hands pointing in the same direction without bending.
It would be nice to have gum, to keep a semblance of sanity,
It would be nice to have gum, to stay a bit less unhinged.
Dusk pretends to offer the answer of life as usual,
And leaves with an oblivious face.
But I cannot blame,
At least it gives some "meaning."
Taking a bite of the pear,
Juiceless, tasteless, except for bitterness.
Trying to discern what it is through chewing,
It disappears bit by bit with every bite,
Leaving only a vague and undesirable presence on the tongue.
"I'll come back,"
To have an evening picnic,
To find hope in the dusk.
Picnic delight,
Flies bite.
Sunny spot,
Too hot.
Forgot chairs,
Who cares.
Sit on ground,
Prickles found.
Clouds form,
Not warm.
Rain you get,
Very wet.
Call Rover,
Picnic over.
Lady,
Sitting,
Upon,
Lake,
Picnic,
Bench,
Long hair,
Liberated,
Of its berets and barettes,
Cascades,
Down,
To,
Her,
Breasts,
That,
Cradles evenings,
And,
Songs,
Sighs of geese,
Shes dressed,
In a dapper sundress,
How did she get there,
By the map and compass,
Of her reveries,
By the serenade,
Of the lake wind,
Flowing through her hair,
Empty picnic table,
She gazes blankly,
Beautific and lovely,
As a hymn,
Into the lakes,
Surreal reflection,
The trees are swaying,
In its lucid crystal,
Crowning crescents,
And her Beauty,
Is sitting upon the lake,
Kissed by stars
Reynaldo Casison
Birch wood trees,
Black and White
Green grass grows,
fresh
Flowers bloom,
but hide
Sun gleams yellow,
Thoughts take flight
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