my mom’s not pushing up daisies
having gone to her eternal rest in Spring
her restful place is where her soul has gone
back to earth with its raindrop-moss
(springy, as if for a tiny bunny
or hallucination-size “wabbit”)
off track, the violet urn
next to the frame
that holds my mother’s face
and my attention
confused by the unscattered ashes
contained. she’s there
or elsewhere
or both ways
dizzy the thoughts
and my nephew
on and over a couple
mountaintops where is he
particles placed, displaced
proper, improper
does it matter
it all matters
and the occasional shock
of a true blue viewing
passing by the other room
while relative remains
seem sentiments of denial
until a video snaps
you out of it
suddenly appears
the ghost
or a huge photograph
reminds you
why your there
in that chair
listening to the air
breathing
So this is where I'm bound to sleep
Just three feet wide and six feet deep
No shirt, no shoes, or even sox
Only me in my little box
So grab a shovel, lend a hand
And bury me in desert sand
I know that it's a boring job
Guess I shouldn't have robbed the Mob
“ It ain’t easy being green.”
Kermit The Frog
It ain’t Easy Being Yellow
I push through concrete
You can’t keep a good dandelion down
Don’t confuse me with a happy face
Yellow sometimes hides a frown
You can find me in the city
Yes, in the country as well
Forget pushing up daisies
There are stories I must tell
It’s not easy finding cracks
But it’s the sunshine that I seek
Dandelions are tenacious
Even if you think we’re weak
Yep, I push through concrete
You can’t keep a good dandelion down
Don’t confuse me with a happy face
Yellow sometimes hides a frown
On a grey and lonely road
I’m the only colour you might see
I’m the embodiment of purpose
Take time to look at me
Don’t confuse me with some weed
Other flowers aren’t as strong
Beautiful filled with purpose
Above the concrete I belong
A parking lot at Walmart
Or some deserted highway
I push my way through concrete
It seems I’m made that way
Let me float above the road
As my yellow turns to white
Yes this is my happy face
Amidst this world I find delight.
“You’re a daisy if you do.”
Doc Holliday
ITs THREE O CLOCK AND ITs O K
the local joke
a triple homicide
in thirty seconds
can see pale faces
through the coffin glass ~
too many face consequences
Wyatt, Morgan, Virgil, Doc Holliday,
spray bullets and jargon
at the famed Cowboys
Billy Clanton, Tom and Frank McLaury ~
pushing up daisies
buried at Boot Hill
it’s grave
Holliday and the Earps
will have to answer
for their fame
Big Nose Kate, the local prostitute
slept with Doc
and Sheriff Wyatt had his common law
wife - she kept her life private ~
Tombstone, Arizona infamous!
3/9/2023
Sometimes, I am given to wonder, why poetry
and stark reality must be torn so asunder?
Why the huge stress on a new babies cheeks?
When governments worldwide totally reek?
Why is winter weather or a flower so adored?
While all nations have food shortages that are
woefully ignored!
This is in in no way a denial that wonderful
things do exist!
Nor do I encourage writing a poem, with the shades of Oliver Twist!
Poems that have but a hint of how we actually are?
End up unread, and as unknown, as the planet Mars!
Short, and meaningless, oh yes, these are ogled and read like crazy.
Poetry that requires a pinch of thought, ends up, pushing up daisies!
11/23/2022
Going mad, bonkers , crazy!
Attempting to CCP on the new iPad.
Rather be pushing up daisies!
A beautiful poem I wrote,gone like Casper the Ghost!
Oops_ he will be put away soon,
By the WOKE culture, too,
Unless he and his Mother.....
Change from that verboten white color.
I am just sharing silliness.
But I am truly high stressed.
Please, please no advice!
I am going to have soothing tea with ice.
To my American friends..
It is Memorial Day...
I cannot but so wonder,
When that will be replaced
By an International Togetherness Day?
Today is the first day of the rest of my life
Bloody brilliant I say, life is a slice
Beats the alternative
That's an affirmative
Pushing up daisies really sucks that's my advice
When you’re 70. A pondering by Michele Angell.
OK, so in June, I became seventy,
That’s a nice round figure to be,
I still have some of my own teeth
And with glasses, I’m still able to see.
My skin is not quite as firm
As it was just a few years ago,
And my bottom is heading down south,
On an uncontrolled ‘go slow’.
My bones and my body do ache,
Arthur Itis is not a good chap,
And I can’t wait to see just how fast
My boobs take to end up in my lap.
However, my mind is still a bit quirky
And my thoughts are just as mad,
I’ve space in my imagination, for
…well, at least minutes of fun to be had.
My body may be in decline
But my mind is as active as ever,
Although it sometimes fails,
To string two ideas together.
No, being 70 is not at all
What it’s really cracked up to be,
But it’s better than pushing up daisies,
I’m alive, but a silly old me.
Never get caught in his sight
If u are, u're in for a fight
Don't mistake him for a fool
Listen up! I'm about 2 take u 2 school
Run as fast as u can!
Better watch out he's a bad man!
Heed my warnings
If not, u will see no more mornings
Pushing up daisies
He doesn't come off as crazy
Keep an eye on both of his hands
Or u might find out why he's a bad man
He's kept the evil at bay for a long time
But now, vengence is on his mind
A day late and a dollar short
U better come up with a plan of some sort
Silent and deadly
His hands r always steady
U r going to find out firsthand
Why I keep telling u he's a bad bad man
Eyes in the back of ur head
Red dot on ur forehead
Hide under the covers in ur bed
U will never see his style and swag
Think fast or u'll end up in a body bag
On ur own 2 feet u will have to stand
Square up cuz he's a bad man
Silver tongued devil
He functions on a deadly level
Always gets his target by any means
U might catch him rockin jeans
He might be wearing black slacks
Let just cut to the facts jack!
Run as far as u can!
Goddamn, he's a bad man!
Just yesterday morning while shaving my face,
I looked in the mirror in total dismay;
my once youthful looks somehow time did erase,
and there stood a stranger with age on display.
My once raven hair has now turned a dull white,
and under my eyes there are bags that outrage;
my chicken skin neck is now looking affright;
I hate to admit it, I’m showing my age.
Not sure when it happened but gives me a pause;
the aging in life is still nature’s decree.
But better the aging and live with the cause,
than pushing up daisies beneath an oak tree.
August 2, 2018
I don't need an Eiffel Tower as my backdrop
nor picture painted perfection gracing a Louvre
romantic candlelit dinner elegance at a Casa Cruz
nor a breathtaking view of The Old Man at Storr . . .
to deliver all my heartfelt desire
radiant red, smoldering, a slow stoke
burning, for you, I am your fire
and you, in all your brilliance
are my flame
dancing in every minute breeze
seen and unseen
felt in every crevice of my being
spread in both dreams and reality
wild and free
sparks ignited in a heated destiny
Time is now . . .
pour out our stagnant waters
no more pushing up daisies from the past
rains, they come and they go
washing away distance
and here, into your beauty,
I continue to fall
a poem for someone who likes orange marmalade
a poem for someone who owns mallard ducks
a poem for someone who has used a baby changing station
a poem for someone who is not looking
a poem for someone with no cavities
a poem for someone drawing a rectangle
a poem for someone with a seeing-eye dog
a poem for someone listening to Three Doors Down
a poem for someone freezing to death
a poem for someone who is not wearing green
a poem for someone who is ice skating
a poem for someone who owns 24 shoes
a poem for someone out on the corner
a poem for someone slicing green pepppers
a poem for someone wearing a clown suit
a poem for someone milking cows
a poem for someone counting to ten
a poem for someone who is pushing up daisies
a poem for someone getting their first tooth
a poem for someone who has taken a bullet
a poem for someone clicking a 'like' button
a poem for someone who is living in South Africa
a poem for someone eating a soft taco
a poem for someone found guilty
a poem for someone found not guilty
a poem for someone, anyone
No if, and's, buts or try out your luck
No not even a maybe
But before too long I feel I'll be gone
On my way to pushing up daisies
No sense standing here shaking in fear
Crying out like a baby
I feel the walls closing in with the creak of the lid
Faster than a chance to save me
What comes around goes or what goes around comes
Seriously you need to believe
Soon on the other side if anyone decides
By chance that they might need me
Six feet in a hole all except for my soul
Air tight they say for safe keeping
With nary a sound I take it all lying down
Plenty of time for inward thinking
Here in my new home with dirt ceiling and floor
In this little room they graciously gave me
Spending all of my time in mid-excersise
An eternity of pushing up daisies
GRAVE THOUGHTS
unseen
even though protocol
states 6 feet under
all along
walking up to the stone
pushing up daisies
with my feet
until his mate
fades away
and a fresh dig
even then a tent
covers the gaping hole
but we circle back
and now
only a bandaid board
covers the open wound
we peek - can’t help ourselves
we don’t see
a wooden coffin
instead the object’s
encased in cement
and i find that 6 feet
is hardly anything
at all
and realize her mate
resides
just a shovelful away
they could almost
hold hands
and i want to reach
toward the man
i met as an infant
the one
that loved me
and i’m sad
i’ve walked over
corpses
souls reside
over my head
solace kisses
heaven sent
and we drive away
an indelible image
left in my eye
a snapshot
underneath the lid
5/30/2017
When I’m eighty…
I will be sweet to everyone.
I’ll think only about positive things.
I’ll smile a lot with my toothless smile,
And I’ll wear emeralds and diamond rings.
I’ll get up late if I want to.
And I’ll eat anything I like.
I’ll watch cowboy movies and play the piano.
I may even buy a bright yellow bike!
When I’m eighty…
I’ll sing a lot-
Celebrating will be a must.
For all too soon I’ll be checking out,
Pushing up daisies in the dust.
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