Short Cooly Poems

Indigo's heat...

hotten not for the hottentot,
way down there in sweet Victoria,
wears cool pants n bra, cooly-cold yah,
from the freezer is my story-are ....
  Don Johnson...

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A Candle
To the soft touch of my breath
and stillness of the room
it cooly shivers
reaching high at times
to touch any other soft object
and lightly scorch it
The Burning Candle...

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As shadows laid where none could go,
The dark sky etched fear in a scrawl,
Making hearts to leap out of sight,
Silhouettes of danger scared all,
A cooly breeze whispered the fright,
Meanwhile, death crept closer too slow....

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I stepped outside, feeling low. 
There, before me, stood a crow.
He cooly looked me up and down
as he wore a beaky frown.
I wondered, would I lose my blues
if I could wear this birdy's shoes?
Would his life be more complete,
he asked, if he could have my seat?
But I wasn't sitting on a seat,
and no shoes were on his feet....

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Wouldst thou lean ye summer blaze generous 
thoust wilt naught as sea douse thee
cooly soaked ... or wake up

Wouldst in yawning amidst kerfuffle cord
freed in time broadcast air
curtain's [drawn--(saddened face]--rain)

Yea nay to sun, nay yea to rain  but then
yea nay to work, still again
nay nay to fun ... that's life


...

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Air shares its delightful grace
  stroking, caressing every face.
Wind tickles crawling clouds
  Then breezes by whistling loud.
Fire jigs a spritely dance
  spouting quips with pops and 
  cracks.
Water gulps a bubbling brew
  then babbles back a trickling tune.
Earth gazes cooly at warm light
 and breathes the musk of days 
damp night.

©  11-27-2012...

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The wind blows cooly through the trees,
but I do not feel it.
A bird calls out for it's mate,
but I do not hear it.
I can only feel and hear
my broken heart
beating into a thousand parts.
All thanks to you.
You are responsible.
And yet all through this
I have learned something.
For I can forgive you for everything,
almost everything,
except the pain....

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seed
aloft,
lands lightly,
sends roots below,
sprouts into sunshine,
and, as the seasons pass,
becomes a great sycamore,
while, below, a boy lies face up,
and reflects under its swaying limbs,
"a climbing tree is not built in a day". 

tree
regards
a young boy's
strong, supple limbs
on a summer's day.
both of us, in our primes
he thinks, shading the spry youth,
cooly offering his branches,
pondering the pervasive creature,
"you see tree climbing boys every summer".     
...

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