Don't ask why I change
Life is never be the same
I believe things evolve
This year I'm 55, 56 next year
This time I have many gray hairs
Not knowing next months all are white
I see my face has many wrinkles
Before only few of them I manage
I can push up 100 when I was 40
Now at 55, I barely made 50 push up
Before I always greet the morning free
Cause I wake up early and exercise
Now I mostly wake up late time
It's already hot and meals serve brunch time
Before I can jog a mile, now walk a mile
Love to comb my hair, now a hand brush is enough
Daily bath is routine, now interval of a day
No helmet drive motorcycle during youth days
Now, fear to drive instantly at busy highway
I have much foreboding in life when getting old
Life is never like before, sense of safety is a must
I have never such a impulsive feeling than being compulsive now
I have change a lot because of necessity of aging beforehand.
Climate change is in your head the camel said
The next day he was buried under a foot of snow
What is this cold white stuff? He asked his brother.
His brother was as clueless as he.
Their mother was long gone, and they rarely saw their dad.
Even if they had, would he have known?
Where had it come from?
Up under the ground? Did it push up around them?
Or had it come from the sky?
They had no clue.
This whiteness was crisp and blinding.
it twinkled like sugar; but tasted rather bland.
I love it, he whispered to his brother.
Not knowing what it was or why it was there.
His brother felt the same way.
The Saraha had never felt more welcoming.
Somewhere in these busy woods
a woodpecker tattoos tree bark.
Somewhere songbirds and squirrels
hustle like hoodlums on arboreal streets.
Sometimes, when somewhere,
I am a rope-less tent
pitched under a million acres of sky.
Tall Firs push up to break through
to where the air
billows and sails.
Somewhere my path is still moving on.
Here, beyond any mechanical entropy
is an unruffled forest glade,
a good place to be bewitched
in a dappled circle of nowhere.
a seed is planted in the garden
watching it push up slowly
through the wet soil
green shoots rising
in the spring rain
she holds the baby
in her arms
softly cooing
in the blazing heat of summer
the stem widens, thickens, gets taller
green leaves become fuller
its yellow petaled head grows larger
she blows a kiss
putting her on the bus
first day of school
as cooler autumn winds blow
its massive round head
filled with black and brown seeds
turns towards the waning sunlight
she graduates from college
with honors
they take family pictures
across the barren landscape
brisk cold air sweeps in
as the sunflower bows its head
covered in winter's white coat
she marries, moves away,
raises two children
tends her garden
growing sunflowers
When you do push up
Your body is more define
Calories burn up.
Brigid
You creep onto the land with consent
with tales of how the winters torment
Leaving you empty and cold and so unsure.
You begin to spread the seeds of joy so pure daffodils push up through the soil to show,
their green stems and hopes of spring.
all the new Buds out to grow.
You swirl and fill the land with light and, once again your love will bring.
At your festival we will dance and sing
Words bring pictures and memories,
as hope is strong and love is pure.
So buckle up, the ride of life began once more.
We hail the elements as we pray,
We use the awen to convey
Yes our light has begun to rise again.
Between the trinity and the Divine of zen
Let the wind of your new seeds grow
What's ours is what we always sow
Blessings of the Imbolc light
Mushrooms push up their caps
in a cow meadow.
The bovine dung adds that umami taste,
it's the Glutamate, that relishes and beguiles.
The cows don't eat the button mushrooms,
but as they graze, they may scoop some
into their contently chewing mouths.
I think these thoughts in a steak restaurant,
while adding Worcestershire sauce to my oxtail soup.
Mushroom will be arriving on this white linen
tablecloth
soon.
The teeniest human-like robot is six inches tall
Half the length of a standard ruler
she can walk, kick and do pushups
I understand the value of walking
we can watch her walk down the desk
Kicking might come in handy if she meets a mean pencil sharpener
But why would a robot need to do a push up?
Techno weenies amaze me in their odd thinking
Butter the toast, butter knife, bread.
blue plate, no sunlight, short-sighted blue night,
electric rings of silence.
Breakfast is slow,
not that hungry but there is honey
and I am lonesome in a tired body.
Soon, hands will press the tabletop,
will rise up, push up to lace-up walking shoes,
enter the coming light
that unsteady, unready light
with its slippery yo-yo gleams,
enter it all; the concrete hills,
the leaf and branch, the cast-up legs
of the still twitching,
the buoyant tumbling of the living,
the pumped-up throats
of the starry-eyed singers,
enter it fully, growing less unlikely,
enter myself as an unrepentant prodigal son
returning home.
IF I WERE A POET
If you consider me a poet
Then I shall write the words
That will put down roots
And push up into your soul
To flower and blossom there
Where one concedes beauty
Without dispute or challenge
As an icon for modern times
It would be so well deserved
Yet I still struggle with it all
Recruiting rhyme and metre
With a soupcon of metaphor
To mould words into poetry
And win your heart forever
Plantin' the Garlic and the Potatoes
I can only Hope in the Heirloom Tomatoes
The Daisies push up well past the Day
With Evan Porter sleepin' outside in the Fray
Charlie ' s in a row out at the plant
And Grandma Moses is lookin' for Dry Land
The Ocean washes up the Effervescent Shore
And taxes those who bore
And set out upon the Whistlin Waves
To find her that went beyond the pale
God's holy Ghost in Pale moon shroud
With gatherin' Girls lost and Found
The spring rain The spring rain
man of mood chatterbox
coming hearing
going or not
push up moist
must sprout throws morning greetings.
I push the gate- each year elate,
ending my wait to replay fate.
My roots await to drink, hydrate
and fully sate for full growth rate.
Stems push up straight to levitate
buds that dilate as leaves abate
and calibrate- blossoms create
to activate each full-bloomed trait.
I am your Spring- your loved upswing!
Each tree, a king as branches string
to a wellspring of verdant bling.
I share with zing, my season's fling.
Aft Winter's sting- while lovebirds wing,
our couples cling- soon worshipping
as church bells ring, good wishes sing.
All this I bring- my name is Spring.
February 22, 2023
Contest: In Bloom Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Joseph May
Form Requested: Personification
(Internal Rhyme and Monorhyme added)
I met a jolly fisherman with hair as white as snow.
Everywhere he sailed his ship, the kids were sure to go.
He came down from the north, after a little nip and tuck.
Smack dab in the middle of his boat was a giant ice cream truck.
While he baited his hook, his elves would stir the cream.
The kids would come down to the beach and everyone would scream.
Could this man be Santa? Boy that would be slick.
How could someone catch a fish with chocolate push up stick?
The elves just kept on working, they seemed to never stop.
Little Billy swam on out for a drumstick and fudge pop.
The king cones all sat ready they were the next in line.
The snow cones didn’t taste that great, but the eclairs tasted fine.
The kids just kept on swimming and ate up every treat.
The sandy beach was all packed down from tiny little feet.
If you ever run out of bait, while fishing on waters blue.
Remember this little story, fish like ice cream too.
A Jolly Fisherman Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Julia Warden
8/21/22
A scrapbook of soil
knits the land.
Earthworms patchwork
hidden birthing-chambers,
grit and gist abrades
into the leached sap
of leaf and grass.
Rain storms push up
an upholstery of luster,
mossy threads.
above tufted beds.
Frail daisy heads nod,
yet their roots grip and twist
as fibrous as hemp.
The turning lathe of a tireless wind
crumbles iron cities,
towers and arcades
stand emerald cast,
walls chained to creepers,
and a choking ivy.
Topsoil sinks to be
the undercroft of graveyards.
All is begun, all is lost
in the long gestations
of death and recovery.
Tempering's spun
beneath a settling moonlight.
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