Dark grey first autumn breath a bone chill hint,
summer’s sun- rash boom absconds on trailing glint,
luscious terrain brazen in hue’d rose cheek,
hazy mountain slope a sombre damp peak,
tint and tapestry awakened brisk fall gasp,
dapper drift net shades spawned to grasp,
pigment in meadow mould a gold rim beige,
tone shift bold red, earth brown, copper rage,
sweet gum tree orange, purplish fervent die,
to sniff katsura pink tree, charred candy sigh,
hail harvest bountiful, heart rippling feast,
red fire ablaze, hungry tongue wild yeast
beetroot, turnip, parsnip, root crops galore,
“Falls” raw lungs whiff hearty soup of yore,
yet honey-tinged morn, fleet of foot pause,
fades as cold plummet primes its icy claws,
green copse shrunk, drab moon weepy tune,
woodsy wren hoarding food in mournful croon.
mud squelch booth on path, smog purged lair,
wet moss splurge rinses pollen, season gulps air
In 1969 Halloween night was way beyond creepy.
The moon seemed evil, I got almost weepy
At the age of seventeen, this was rare for me indeed
Poe and his raven visited me, this was the final seed.
I felt intimidated now, why was a famous poet here?
He told me to relax, called me his darling little dear.
Told me that one day I would be writing poems too.
This did not help me. I was seventeen, determined to be blue.
Neutral Face
Fearful Face
Flushed Face
Hushed Face
Rolling On The Floor Laughing
Thumbs UP
Hands Clapping
Kissing Face
Grinning Face
Sleepy Face
Weepy Face
Laughing Face With Tears Of Joy
Star Struck
One Hundred Points
Sad Face
Downcast Face
Pensive Face
Worried Face
Smiling Face With Smiling Eyes
Waving Hands
Hello, Goodbye
creepy sleepy weepy peep-y wee
hiding behind loud witch named Tee
She puts the wee into a pumpkin stew
Tee’s familiar cat laughed, his name was Boo
creepy wee loved being part of the pumpkin stew
She swam around in the warm murky gulpy goo
Stew spit her onto an overhead light
She was sitting there on Halloween night
Your seat
Suffers no defeat
Either to the elites
Or to logical retreats
Days Bible foretold
Won't be withhold
By anyone's trying clue
The exact time to be true
In flesh, even sages are misguided
How pan-Africanism; ever divided
Make us know violence and hate
Yet, our knobbed path seems straight
While we were once whole
Guilty we don't take to soul
But now that right seems sleepy
Left turns hearts care weepy
Days are driven by surprises
The root cause of which is surmise
Oh Lord on Your seat do rise
To make fool of the wise
Amen!
spooky girls three went everywhere together
in rain, sleet or snow, any kind of Midwest weather
they were named Hortense, Helena and Holly Heather
Sisters? We were unsure, said my brother, Merriweather.
Almost acting as if cojoined, these three were rather creepy,
If one cried, the other two wailed and got unbelievably weepy.
They liked October, it seemed to be their favorite month of all.
I always got frightened when they appeared in the fall.
They transmogrified out of mushrooms or tree stumps or moss.
Appearing before our eyes, it was weird, said my cousin Hoss.
spooky girls three sometimes put spells on us too.
This is how they banished our friend Linda Sue Lou.
You do not know me. I hide so I will not get hurt.
I love, I hate, I trust, and I get up with the sun’s flirt.
That is who I am. For me, it is black or white not gray.
I do care. I am what I am, and I want to be someone one day.
I was a dreamer as I was growing up. A busy little bee.
From catching fireflies in a jar to playing baseball with a skinned knee.
Crawling under places where little spiders’ dwell,
A child building castles, climbing trees that never fell.
As I have gotten older, I have developed phobias of creepy-
Crawlers and being far from the ground left me quite weepy.
Squeezing moments with my grandkids and filling their appetites
A lady I have become, making Grandma’s dreams incredible heights.
the blinders rest with ease—
seams seemingly gaunting;
haunting whispers crunch like teeth,
seekers left to guess
pestering what comes next
be a kiss that is gentle
or bent with tiles filing
finally laying—rather lying;
dying to look you
hook right between the eye
lend the heaven, tongues that speak.
though weepy,
deep and soundly they hide
behind masks clasping dearly
refraining to reclaim their faces
places they’ve felt love.
people they’ve once known—
sewn behind is their truth
and truthfully their pain is plain
written in bold
holding bruises
whether you choose to see it
or be it amiss.
wishing well feels like rope
we can feel it doping us
hoping that our next breath
is the last one to give less.
but living session after session
their weapons once sharp dulling
full hands weaken with tire
and wiry sighs leave the senses
why?
because we weren’t just prizes
disguised to heel blindly
or crawl without first running—
we are not sick and lowly farm animal
simple, dirty, managed to be manageable.
After the concert
Now, in the afternoon of my life
My thoughts are about love and romance
These pesky things are disturbing
My tough exterior makes me soft and weepy
When no one looked is now in front and
Naked I appear; yes, you old fool
Words of love and music for the heart
Make me cry and loosen the knot of old
Resentment tells me nothing matters
Except loving someone and not being afraid
Love is the freedom that gladdens the
Tired heart and cleanses the dust that fell
On wisdom and truth
(Pema, spring of 2024)
Old and Crusty
Pema the deaf dog
Has gotten to the point
Where long walks are out of the question
But long naps are without question.
He’s looking pretty scruffy these days
Tongue always hanging out a bit
Since he has so few teeth left,
Eyes cloudy and weepy
And joints all stove up,
But I still love him with all my heart.
And so does everyone else who knows him,
But more and more it’s not so much
For the pug he is
As much as the one he once was
And this recognition breaks my heart
A little each time I realize it.
Breaks my heart for him and his numbered days
And for me, his faithful master
Who really isn’t much different.
(6/12/25)
The feeling of a target on your back
and a thousand tongues waiting to scoff.
That’s how you feel being a square
surrounded by a family of rectangles.
You’ve got to be courageous to stand out,
you’re already locked in your reflection.
Ever been the only one in the room?
It feels like every eye is on you.
The longer you sit those nerves stand up,
feeling simultaneously alien and awkward.
Minutes multiply your heartbeat spirals,
you want to run out but that’s too loud.
Is it even worth it?
Hidden tears begin to tease mascara
blinking back weepy warning bells:
This fatal audience will see you fail.
Ever been the only one in the room?
It feels like every eye is on you.
Breathing through it is all you can do.
Have courage, smile, and just be you.
We’ve all been self conscious, it’s okay.
Hold you’re head up straight and tall
Let them see you as the star you are,
shine on in the dark be the spotlight.
Ever been the only one in the room?
It feels like every eye is on you.
Emerging from my teens
I had a head full
of ghosts to escape from -
inhabitants of an inner world
I kept to myself. Future life
was over there,
at the end of a train line,
a long road, the last port
of call on a ship's long voyage.
I could never get far enough
away - they always
found me hiding in some
masquerade, a clever cover
concocted to conceal -
at times I even fooled myself.
Mirrors were a bane,
they told the truth
and so I learned to look away.
A lifetime on
they are still with me but now
I know each by name.
There are days
when they draw close
and become weepy
as if seeking love,
though still afraid to leave
the refuge of my shadow.
I'm feeling fragile today
when asked why
I don't know what to say
I just feel off
and a bit weepy
and down in the dumps
and everything seems creepy
friends are being akward
because they don't understand
I just want to jump into bed
not caring how I land
and stay there until
this feeling goes away
or I get my fill
of hiding from today
Creepy crawlies and heebie-jeebies
raw ripples on your skin kafkaesque;
You peek at that dark monstrosity,
cannot tell if it’s a trick or treat;
Nerves taunt with chimerical spectres;
Weepy eyes are stung by angry bees,
‘Pshaw!’ escapes a story so grotesque;
Flew through your mouth unable to flee,
caught swelled saliva starts to secrete;
Serves well scripts of macabre directors.
When death becomes a living thing
A clawing, unseen, weepy touch
A spreading stain of seeping fear
A pall draped o’er the light of day
When death becomes the present tense
When muted voices must redress
Old words, like flowers, curled and mute
To free themselves from sorrow’s lie
When living death subverts its role
Its cape and scythe gone strangely still
A coldness of the soul is held
When death becomes a living thing
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