Suzy with her cute black curls
and red rose in her hair
plays with June. These rose-cheeked girls
have lots of love to share.
Tea parties make both girls grin.
Some sweet tea they have made.
Blue/pink cups their tea is in.
A matching cloth is laid.
The girls sure love things blue and pink;
June wears a pink rose too.
The tea they now prepare to drink.
A nice chat will ensure.
Yesterday I saw you
as the snow flurries died,
spent winds becalmed.
When I saw your solemn face
alone in the crowd,
I felt my heart, so long embalmed,
begin to beat aloud.
Was it another winter,
another day like this?
Was it so long ago?
Where you the rose-cheeked girl
who slapped my face, then stole a kiss?
Was the sky this gray with snow,
my heart so all a-whirl?
How is it in one moment
it was twenty years ago,
lost worlds remade anew?
When your eyes met mine, I knew
you felt it too, as though
we heard the robin's song
and the sky was turning blue.
She Rose Up, He went Down
seen through the heat haze of morn
the sun rises, blushing pink
to peach, then rose cheeked
a lustful sun burns the sky
to periwinkle blue
oh the after glow
Date: 6/28/13
* Love poetry was written in this form.
Contest: The Red Sun
The shiver from the opened window.. flair
adventure blooms rose- cheeked upon the day.
The bags packed wait beside the tumbling stair
and soon the engine purrs without delay.
From ground to air unfettered form arises
outstretched open hand and heart embrace,
the foreign soil, the scent of ozone flies
and one arrives reborn with new space.
Babble greets, so welcoming, infant ear.
New taste, new spice, new dialect ringing.
The text, the style, the cloth of humans here
awaken long past lives with voices singing.
Once more reformed, am I, upon the page,
my nascent joy out spread across new stage.
With a snakelike hiss, the tangerine train doors close
and the engine rock-rumbles forward
clicking over each joined metal coupling.
Long gone are the pristine days of virginity
and the impassioned rush of slick new parts.
The small sounds of newspaper pages turning,
and whispered phrases penetrate the antiquarian din.
As an industrial landscaped melds with the
stark spring sunshine through the cars’ graffiti scared glass.
The rigid plasticine interior fills at first stop
with giggling, rose cheeked girl-children.
Herded in single file to the rear of the car,
by Moslem matrons wrapped in head scarves.
The girls’ blue-plaid, pleated, school skirts,
dusted the cobalt seats.
Foreign images, our images, reflect
Dali-like from British eyes of blue, brown, and green,
an American couple
on the way to Wimbledon station.
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