"Solos come and go, but riffs last forever." ~ Keith Richards
Mick and Keith just came out with a single,
and they say it's a pretty good jingle.
That's why it makes sense
that these elderly gents
have "Rock and Roll Legends" on their shingle.
A kid when they rose from obscurity,
now I've reached a state of maturity;
or said another way,
as of this very day,
I'll be taking social security.
The Stones say our destiny is in stars
to the tune of Keith Richards guitar;
and if you ask me,
I'd have to agree,
just because we've all made it this far.
"Humans delight in the comfort of friends.
If not, the joy of commingling ends."
__by Poet
My neighbor, next door, remains single-
It seems she knew not how to mingle.
She refused to join in
And would not let us win-
Just stayed in her human-proof dingle.
One day, we created a jingle
Hoping it would send her a tingle!
“Joining groups, so much fun
You'll be pleased when it's done!”
She hung her “do not disturb" shingle!
She never did quite intermingle-
Strong neighbor support soon did dwindle.
So she missed the delight
Of her God-given right-
To share in the joys to commingle.
I stand tall and green, shading, like an umbrella,
Towering over the gray shingle roofs of my neighborhood.
And evergreen I am called; I stay green all year round.
My leaves never turn golden and russet colors
That float down and gather among the emerald-green grass.
Only my fallen acorns that lie scattered are gathered
By the squirrels that scurry around.
My leaves dance when the exhalation breath waltzes around
And tickles my fancy. At night, the mockingbirds perch
Among my limbs and serenade me to sleep.
A mackerel sky fillets a fish scaled village,
an ear clapping, full sailed, fog
moors itself to the rooftops,
then hides all in a breezeless blear.
Rheumy eyes peep out from nets,
damp noses sniff abaft trawling drapes.
Cloth in hand, potbellied proprietors
battle the splatter and spray,
dabbing at mildewed shelves,
warding away slopping waders
and salty puddles.
On the sightless sea
far beyond the shore and shingle,
fog horns are lowing like lost cattle.
Later, misty reeks will be scoured
from groggy docks,
hauling hands will rope together
the tide-tossed salvage
by and by, squeaky boots
may trudge to taprooms
where codgers and callow alike
can be well oiled
and duly quenched.
COLLECTION
VIDUAGE
Tall
nettles-
the dutch hoe
rusting in the
shed.
Lanterne #5
a
sea mist
rolls inshore-
daydreams deluge
me
Lanterne#18
Blind
alleys
so often
have the deepest
ruts.
Lanterne 3
By
a stream
so shallow-
stoops a willow
tree.
Lanterne 177
May
blossom-
confetti
dancing on the
breeze
ART SCHOOL
The
secret
of seeing-
knowing how to
see
RISING STAR
A
life in
the fast lane-
five minutes of
fame.
as a LANTERNE ALMANAC
WINTER
in
anger-
whips up the waves,
pounds the shingle
shore
SPRING
in
action-
brings to life
and feathers its
nest
SUMMER
so
lazy-
rests the soul
and flowers the
land
AUTUMN
so
mellow-
scents and sounds
in the harvest
home.
DRIFTING
our
feelings
subside as
we go with the
flow
the dream therapist put out his shingle
for a mere sixty dollars he will interpret your dream
If you dream of a turtle, it means life is slowing down
If you dream of a fish, you are trying to be free and encumbered
an oak tree in your dream can mean a variety of things
It might mean you are the oak in your family
or it could mean you admire the oak in your family
I read the brochure and thought I would have a go.
He looked like a normal man.
I offered him the sixty dollars up front.
We can take care of that later, he told me.
It is actually $67.98 with tax.
I would have to use a credit card.
Tell me about your dream, the therapist said.
I was cozy in an orange chair.
I told him that I never dream.
He argued this with me.
I left without paying him sixty dollars
or sixty seven dollars and ninety-eight cents.
I think we were both disappointed.
quaternion looks poetically (using any form)at a topic from 4 aspects -
in this example seasons
WINTER
in
anger-
whips up the waves,
pounds the shingle
shore
SPRING
in
action-
brings to life
and feathers its
nest
SUMMER
so
lazy-
rests the soul
and flowers the
land
AUTUMN
so
mellow-
scents and sounds
in the harvest
home.
WINTER
in
anger-
whips up the waves,
pounds the shingle
shore
SPRING
in
action-
brings to life
and feathers its
nest
SUMMER
so
lazy-
rests the soul
and flowers the
land
AUTUMN
so
mellow-
scents and sounds
in the harvest
home.
To Give and to Receive
(Part I)
By Franklin Price
05/08/2023
Looking back upon my life
To the days when I was young
Did not know where I was going
My shingle not yet hung
Was the youngest in the family
Altogether there were nine
Two brothers and four sisters
And two parents that were fine
Had a roof above my head
Never hungered for a bite
Always slept within a warm bed
When I rested for the night
My parents were the very best
Always taught me right from wrong
There were places I should be
And ones where I did not belong
Went to church on every Sunday
In the morning and the eve
Where I continued learning
How to give and to receive
From the first times I remember
Christ was always in my life
He was always by my side
Through all happiness and strife
His hand was on my shoulder
To guide my steps along the way
I wonder, if 'twas not for Him,
Where I would be in life today
(End Part I)
Ever moving
The migration by wind and water
As the sands shift with time
Changing the face
The feel
The look.
As sea laps, wind blows
Longshore drift
Collect
Deposit
Ever moving sands
Passing us by
Marking time
Ever soft and smooth
Nature abhorring a vacuum
Growth and life
Migrating
Evolving
Flourish and wilt
Flower and dieback.
Fixed to an ever-moving
Ever changing due. Clinging to the lip of the sea.
The agony
He is not driving today to Lisbon to see a surgeon
who will check if the operation was successful
The nervous tension of the day of waiting has brought
in the shingle an illness so utterly depraved.
He has been partially successful in pretending the pain
had nothing to do with him and the ability to function
but there are nights when the illusion does not work
and he sinks into a vortex of suffering he cannot share
as sympathy from those concerned can bring on
a feeling that life is unfair to him alone.
The world is on the very cusp of a nuclear war due to
different faction vying for power, his problem is minor
Taking the vaccine for shingles
Two shot series, not a single
They say the second more than tingles
Makes you not want to intermingle
That’s okay, I’ll write a jingle
About an empty can of Pringles
copper burns across an endless sky
competing caws claim salt, surf and sand
sailing high above slowly sagging carcasses
long forgotten at the edge of the world
buckled rails swim over a shimmering shingle sea
the largest of its kind, hinting at some other time;
engines once chugged to billingsgate from this beach
herring bound for the cinque ports
and they say women dragged each boat -
pulled them down to that shore’s faithless embrace;
the muttered prayers of mothers and daughters
casting their men out on fortune’s dark waters
now nets, set for a tide that came and went, lay
mouldering among those collapsing clinkers
as if the fisherfolk just left one night, fled
granting the gulls sole control of that desolate dominion
their toil and trade, the legacy of our fathers’ fathers
still lays there on that beach; haunts that huge cove
rich history, like in so many places, fading away
rotting, rusting, ruined
I have walked
on the grinding edge
of my wind-sharpened shores,
have talked of myself
beside the surf of myself.
I am grown thin in the service of
speaking thoughts out loud.
Where the shingle washes
beached starfish,
long-drowned words uncoil
to raise my voice
above a roaring silence.
Still, an in-coming tide
swallows and forgets,
swallows and forgets.
The steep steps go down
the winding wash,
along the plodded cobbles
between the cottages
with their smuggling hollows,
their sleet rinsed eaves.
Beyond the scarp
the bay tumbles over
shingle, shale, and scree
to a shore and its contesting tide.
Above my flying coat,
the huddled village
bobs and floats in a flooding cloud.
I could throw a stick
at the sea here
and the wind, like a dog
would fetch it,
elemental voices
return from the deep.
Now a chopping fray,
squabbles at a brim where
flurries of tern and guillemot
trawl for brill;
a pell-mell of light
roiling on a harrying spray.
Today, I allow myself to fail
here at the surging squall,
and crashing crests;
to lapse and founder -
to be redone in the one gulp
of self.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This one was written a pretty long time ago,
but recently fiddled with.
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