"Somethings become part of our existence, never dispensing them however old or cracked they are...! May not be out of any special fondness or attachment, but simply so, defying all rationale."- By Poet
The syllable count-10, 7, 7, 10 is followed in all the three limericks.
I owned my house many many years back.
Changed my furniture, even kitchen rack.
But there is a rusted sink. 10,
It is tilted at the brink
Fear if it will come off the hinge and crack
Now my sink looks a worn out contraption.
My wife's upset, has a hot reaction.
All its former glamor, gone.
In my wife's eyes, it's a thorn.
Still hold it to my strange satisfaction!
Though a washbasin, looks a urinal.
Water keeps flowing as through a canal.
In lower pipe, there's a kink.
Anytime my sink may sink.
Why I keep it, I have no rationale!
Categories:
washbasin, family, funny love, humor,
Form: Limerick
quiet Sunday morn,
up at my usual time —
it’s one hour early.
grandson and husband sleeping
i read and write in silence.
i’ve hardly looked up —
no hesitation breathing.
yes, God’s good that way.
my heart palpitates
in caffeinated language.
the poetic muse
with socks and mismatched pjs —
washbasin of thoughts.
the silky water is pure
barely moving through fingers.
the dove does not hurry time, no predators — sailboat peacefully glides…
11/3/2019
3 tankas and a monoku
Categories:
washbasin, morning, muse, peace, silence,
Form: Verse
Beulah Groton
1886 -1890
I remember the adoring eyes of my mother
And I remember the sweet fragrances of the orange blossoms in spring.
I can recall the wagging of my dog’s tail
And the smell of frying bacon
Inside my mother’s kitchen on a Sunday morning.
And I do recall burning up with fever
Inside a washbasin filled with ice.
The day before they buried me here in Clark Cemetery,
My parents gathered friends and family together
At the farm on Washington Street.
And with my little white coffin open,
They posed around my still body and,
My pale sunken face for the keepsake photograph.
They dressed me in white satin
And laid me out under the noon sun.
I don’t miss life really
Because my days were few.
But I do miss my dog,
And waking up on Christmas morning.
Categories:
washbasin, death,
Form: Epitaph
Drip,
Drop,
Knock.
Tear from the fountain,
Into the washbasin,
Running down the drain,
Streaming to create a pond.
Tick,
Tock,
Another minute up,
Added onto the calender.
Thought here,
Muse there,
Destined thinking.
One leaves the moment,
Meaningless.
After the count,
Hours drift far off,
Into the years,
Gone-
Categories:
washbasin, imagination, life, philosophy, time,
Form: I do not know?