grandpa, a hard rock fisherman
and freckled fly rod journeyman
eyed fish in the morning mist
kissing with giggles and a lemon twist
said he saw a bobbing head
round and fat with tuffs of red
six feet tall as the tale’s told
painted in a mermaid gold
casting bait the gossip spread
like butter on a loaf of bread
the silver hook reeled in
snared pearl dentures left to him
sporting a sparkling wink and Cheshire grin
papa set hooks that haul us in
anglers balanced that fishy tale
filleted on a comic Richter scale
two puzzled men ventured to say
Arthur C. Clarke wrote the play
The lake glistened, calm with reflection
its silence so overwhelming and disturbing
you could hear your own heart miss a beat.
The silence deafening.
The lake quell, cast a spell drawing
out the puss of bother and blather
that cluttered and rocked your life.
Dross shed as jetsam.
Suddenly swans appeared, with necks folded over
tucked into wings on floating sleeping bodies
propelled by gossamer tuffs of wind.
Wakes of swans making willy-nilly scribbles on the lake.
The mist rose, spread and
drifted over the lake,
shrouding the slumbering swans away.
Then the suddenly swans were gone.
Just because my eyes are uneven
And my teeth are tinged with green
Doesn't mean I'm unattractive
Means my looks are not mainstream
I sometimes babble incoherently
But my words still have importance
Everyone has an opinion to express
Some of us have more discordance
So what if my hair grows out in tuffs
And my nose is crooked and bent
It's what's upstairs that really counts
It's the brains that pay the rent
So when you see a strange looking person
Who's considered a little extreme
Remember we're all in this together
But we're not all a part of mainstream
© Jack Ellison 2013
In the forest where the sun beats
upon trees that have stood over time
Battered for years withstanding the elements
each season bringing a new look to the ever changing landscape
Becoming home to millions of birds and insects that thrive within
The ripening fruits of spring bring in nature's bounty
A feasting time, red clusters of ripe berries growing in the underbrush
As the mist rises , the sun breaks through branches in yellow lemon shades
The multitude of leaves become a natural camouflage for insects to survive
Eroded landscape, a reminder of eons that have passed
Dead limbs tell of a tortuous past , it's failure to thrive,
A place where man's footsteps once passed, stepped on, survived
Shaded areas, where moisture gathers, scrub and grasses overgrow
A place for hunters to lie in wait, amongst the green lush growth
As seasons ever change, this forest continues to thrive
Tuffs of grass, withered and dry, eroded hillsides carved away
Broken shale, where a blade of grass refuses to grow
A peaceful place that thrives all nature bestows.
A little grey hair, a little pot belly
A little more gas, a little more smelly
Joints that will creak every time that they bend
A bladder that leaks in the night now and then
A memory lapse, they’ll forget what they hear
And little hair tuffs will grow out of their ear
Their muscles will sag along with their jowls
They’ll no longer look sleek when wrapped in their towels
But their eyes will still twinkle, their smile never cease
Their love for their ladies will somehow increase
The women who love them will wipe off their drool
Old age ain’t that bad, cause old guys – they still rule!
.
Pampas Grass' tassles
Shooting upward fresh new
Beauty filled short life
A bonneville mustang with
A dark purple hood
It’s distinct. The lighter
Purple shade of paint that
Covers the remainder of the
Car gleams in the sun. Inside the
Cabby are leather seats; real. Accompanying
That is the wooden dashboard with
A chrome trim. It even has dice in the mirror;
This is his pride and joy.
A stuffed rabbit in
A pink, flower patterned cover.
It’s once white fur now
Old, dusty and worn. One
Eye is missing; a stitching attempt
Failed; the little tuffs of cotton
Sticking out confirm it. But the
Hands that crafted such a horrid
Creature are long gone.
This is his pride and joy.
As I sit there looking out to sea,
Reflects a picture of a different time.
Its white washed walls set against the granite rock,
As the sea pounds it, with waves of brine.
A bridle path runs along the cliff,
Worn down, by previous generations past.
Now given way to the bracken, and the wild tuffs of grass,
Walking westward the little path, towards the lighthouse winds.
As dusk moves in with the setting sun,
Its light now begins to shine.
A stark warning to all mariners, as they sail on around the coast,
Now completely automated, except for the keeper’s ghost.
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