May is green and pink and red.
~Richard L. Ratliff
May dresses herself for coming fun,
does and fawns playfully run,
sheep and lambs in wooly coats
baa and bleat their musical notes,
the hummingbirds flit and flutter
while grandmas in the garden putter~
springtime is filled with promise,
rain is soft and wind not pompous~
blossoms pink and flowers mellow
tell me I’m a lucky fellow.
Death is without compassion,
no tears for what is inevitable,
but maybe a small tingling of joy
for the persistence of life
for the persistence of light,
eh, probably not.
Death does Its business with impartiality,
It does not say he will die today,
but she will die tomorrow, next week
or next year.
Death is not the appointment maker!
Perhaps Death has a hobby
to wile away idle days,
perhaps putter in a garden,
perhaps take a holiday,
but no, Death has no down time ~
eight billion lives depend on It.
Carolin gave up on love because she had married two bad guys
One was a wife-beater
the other was a wife putter-down-er
She said she would never marry again, not even date
Then she became lonely, and wanted a companion
All of her friends had husbands; they were the age that usually do
They could not entertain her, so she was alone
She became sad and a little down, feeling isolated.
A friend suggested that she make a list of what she wanted in a man.
Carolin wrote down sense of humor, kind, honest, with integrity.
Then she put the list under her pillow. Her angels began working on the list.
A man she had not seen in twenty-years gave her a call.
He invited her out to supper. She said no a few times.
He assured her it was “only supper”.
She told him she would have to be in bed by eight-thirty.
He had her home at 8:27, and asked if they could go out again.
She thought maybe they could. That was twenty-three years ago.
They have been married for twenty-one years, and are happy.
This man fit all of the items on her list.
You’re the tame auspiciously lurking in the still of my nightmares, frivolously evicting the static that haunts my memories, illuminating this frantic mind if even for a second.
Crippling the narrow minded ways in which I’ve become entrapped, a one way road futile in substance and willingness to succeed
The savior of superficiality aligning the monstrosity of a broken roar, promising problems putter to the likening of a minuscule oblivion
My first car is starting to smell old
Like my grandparents house that they no longer live in
Reminds me of an antique store
With trinkets and wooden and things I’ve never seen
It smells of a jacket
In the back of the closet
That no longer fits
My first car took me anywhere
When anywhere seemed like so much
It took me to games and stores and houses and places I shouldn’t have been
But it always got me out
My subtle savior I never remembered to thank
My first car was old a decade ago
It was rusted and I never heard the end of the jokes
But it was mine.
Mine in a way a lot of things never have been
Mine like a name
Like a part of myself
Of my past
Of my shame
My first car doesn’t run
It doesn’t putter and shutter like it used to
And I can’t curse it anymore
When it doesn’t turn on
It died before I could say goodbye
When I thought we had more time
Seems like an old friend maybe
That just won’t text back
Seems like a dumb silly promise
Like maybe it will whine at me again
If I turn the key
But it doesn’t
And it won’t
This is the saga of Veronica Vole
Who committed the perfect crime.
She murdered three lovers,
But not all at once,
She did 'em in one at a time.
The first was a lemur,
A two-timing schemer,
Who seduced all thirteen of her nieces.
Every female enticed him,
So she sliced him and diced him,
Then stir-fried and ate all the pieces.
The second, a lobster,
Was also a mobster
Who threatened her once with a putter.
So she got him alone,
Then boiled him well done,
And had him for lunch with drawn butter.
The third was a vulture,
Devoid of all culture,
Whose name, she remembers, was Vince.
He was planning to eat her
After he bet her,
So she tased him in self-defense.
In a big pot she tucked him,
Then scalded and plucked him
And served him "en casserole"
To her fourth beau, a critter,
Who'll make a good fritter,
She thinks as she spoons out his food.
'cause though she doesn't tend
To have good taste in men,
She does tend to like men who taste good.
Ms. Vole is not a siren or a femme fatale,
The kind of dame who'd tell a guy to take a hike.
At heart she is simply a sweet-natured gal
Who never met a man she didn't like.
Finally, my blood began to coagulate.
I counted up my fingers, and found I had eight;
And so, I'm sorry to say, for me it's too late;
But I'm still alive, and hope to spare you my fate.
Let me stress the importance of kitchen knife hygiene.
Listen up, budding chefs, and you will see what I mean.
If you do not sharpen your knife, you’ll pull and you’ll tug,
And you’ll fight with your food, until you give it a slug.
You’ll cut up your fingers until you’re covered with blood
Which will spurt out from you like a diluvial flood.
Your face will turn white; and then you will fall with a thud
While up on your cutting board remains that dumb spud.
So, sharpen up your knife until meat cuts like soft butter,
But miss and you’ve no fingers in the kitchen to putter.
Waves of the ocean are the music of the sea,
They hum and rumble in a perfect harmony.
Songs of the tides they compose, produced by the moon,
By using the wind to putter a rhythmic tune.
Dances of the loops, spins and leaps they carry out,
And blustery plays of thrills and chills they act out.
Blazing art they construct, on the ocean surface,
With strokes of sapphire and amber in countless shades.
Figures of foamy mountains they chisel and sculpt,
And embellish the beach with seashells and pebbles.
Ocean waves are the echoes of eternity,
And perfect models of implacable beauty.
"Nothing haunts us like the junk we didn't buy."
Anonymous
"I should keep this," I always say
"I might need it some other day"
Where I put it, there it will stay
That's just my way That's just my way
Stockpile of junk is what it's called
Trinkets but nothing that has crawled
All over the house, they are sprawled
Hubby appalled Hubby appalled
At first, it was just a junk drawer
Until my 'things' fell to the floor
"I'll stop." I promised and I swore
I still want more I still want more
It's a collection of clutter
"Yes, but they're all mine." I sputter
Even that old broken shutter
And golf putter And golf putter
I've no room to walk in my house
Not space enough for a lil' mouse
Couldn't find my favorite blouse
Mislaid my spouse Mislaid my spouse
Mitch
My friend is my brother
from another mother
who is like no other.
In Christ, he’s my brother.
It’s my privilege to utter
and I do not stutter,
nor would I mutter,
In Christ, he’s my brother.
He’s certainly no nutter,
as smooth as butter,
like a ship’s rudder,
In Christ, he’s my brother.
In line, he’s no cutter.
His house has no clutter.
He’s firm without judder.
In Christ, he’s my brother.
He’s surely not a hutter.
His roof has no gutter.
His garage has no putter.
In Christ, he’s my brother.
So now it’s time,
to end my rhyme
for he is sublime.
In Christ, he’s my brother.
He’s not poor nor rich.
In him I find no glitch.
His name is Mitch.
He’s my brother.
John Stasukevich
6/24/2023
Mud season
yucky mucky
Hummingbird in flight
zig jig
A flock of robins
swinging singing
New grass
sprout shout
Flying butterfly
flutter putter
Chipmunks at feeders
seed greed
Lilac trees
blooms perfumes
A bright goldfinch
yellow fellow
Tree branches
twig sprig
This is start of my poem that over 8,000 other poets
have read.
Be A Better Putter
Was with naughty iron that is a nine,
Which some say has become benign,
That balls seemed slow as molasses;
Did need to take a few more classes.
went on rampage
they never would act their age
creating much rage
what we always did dread
had nightmares sleeping in bed
more people were dead
when willow did weep
we would count the wooly sheep
soon were sound asleep
behind was facade
our minds they would seem to prod
God will love and laud
in field sheep herder
fence supported by girder
news mentioned murder
such a poor putter
when we had heard him stutter
would often shutter
Summer rains are beckoning
come outside, come play and sing
slip and slap, splish and splash
hear those raindrops falling fast!
Swing that old umbrella high
for now it is the time to fly!
Step in puddles, shoes get wet
live in the moment, no time to fret!
Simple rains do coax and tease
chasing childhood memories
swish and spatter, soak and splatter
no time to fuss, it doesn’t matter!
Spurt and sputter, clogged like butter
straying leaves clump and clutter
rain water rushes down a gutter
run fast away, no time to putter!
Golden leaf races wild, astray
down the pipe and towards the bay
chase that crazy leaf away
so glad I came outside today!
Written 9/9/2022
debris from dark storm
dredged by the leaf skimmer -
grandsons putter* in pool
* to move or act aimlessly or idly
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