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Paula Grover Poem
Depression Is
Depression is...
a dog-paddle in The Tar Pit of Agony
a slow drop into Quicksand
a dark marsh at night
a fallen, hollow tree
a desert of endless sand
an ocean of impenetrable deep
a long, troubled sleep
a nightmare that lasts into day
a patient gasping for air on a metal table
a preacher preaching an impossible fable
ghosts in an empty house
a frozen lake
exhaustion on top of a snowy mountain peak
the sudden gutless drop of a roller coaster ride
the drab convention of yet another day
a pen running out of ink
a song with no singer
a bird with no wings
a mouldy bun
a shorted electrical circuit
a landscape with no observer
an empty coffin
a smoke-filled coffee shop
a hyena on heroin
an ending with no story
a beginning with no end...
The End.
Copyright © Paula Grover | Year Posted 2016
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Paula Grover Poem
Herondiamante
Heron
Proud, peaceful
searching, wading, fishing
River Bird with a Beak of Ice
standing, watching, waiting
Blue Warrior
Sentinel
Copyright © Paula Grover | Year Posted 2016
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Paula Grover Poem
From Doubt-Stones to Light-Joy
Discover the Doubt-Stones of the mind
only to reveal a fearful obligation
which burdens the Joy of Light
within the spirit-body
and fills it with a density
that bogs the body
in a swamp of obsessive compulsions.
Panic ensues!
And what mental chaos erupts
from a mind intent
on a strict ordering of the Universe?
Only through once again
embracing the joy of the Light-Child
does the anxious adult
begin to transform
that dark and onerous load.
Copyright © Paula Grover | Year Posted 2016
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Paula Grover Poem
Deer Cross Path
Deer cross path
in winter-spring,
a panoramic parade
of a graceful herd family
serene and slender
in the snow-park sunshine.
Shady woods offer refuge
to the group
as they make their way
cautiously amidst trees,
their hoof-prints
marking the snow
as an artist's
signature,
these gracious painters
of nature-scene
wonder-awe.
Copyright © Paula Grover | Year Posted 2016
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Paula Grover Poem
A Morning Cup O' Tea
Teapot, brew me a tea
that I may sit
out in the sunshine,
on my porch
with a cup of hot warmth.
How I love
to hold my large old teacup
and drink in the zest!
Charcoal, my cat,
wanders willy-nilly,
lazily pacing
now here, now there
as I watch him
from my perch
upon the porch.
My quest for zest
fills me with the moment,
as I write about
that ever-loving home,
my cup o' tea.
Copyright © Paula Grover | Year Posted 2016
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Paula Grover Poem
Nap-Dream
Out of Nap-Dream
colours explode
Purple! Pink! Blue-white-black!
I stumble in and about my abode
(in some other dimension of reality)
and struggle in vain
to pour coffee into mugs
for inter-dimensional visitors.
My brain seizes up
in a sudden spasm of REM sleep...
Waves shoot through mind-realm
as I plunge blindly across
the timeless book shelves
of Nap-Dream.
Copyright © Paula Grover | Year Posted 2016
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Paula Grover Poem
Rush Rush Boggle-Brain
Rush rush Boggle-Brain,
Hurry, hurry, hurry!
Drive-shift smoggle-vroom,
Whoa! I need to walk.
We are minds-a-blobble,
Gobble, gobble, gobble!
Turkey wild scatter-bush,
Scurry, scurry, scurry!
Feathers rustle
’way she hustles
Whoa! I need to flop.
Copyright © Paula Grover | Year Posted 2017
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Paula Grover Poem
Barred Owl
Snow-blowing
window scene
presents a forest
of bare branches
upon one of which
an owl perches,
the snow-wind flying
at its ruffle-feathers.
Watcher sits
at the computer
determined to identify
the owl variety:
"Barred Owl?"
she wonders,
looking at screen-picture.
A sudden snowy gust,
and Watcher peers out
at the tree
only to find it
empty
and the owl gone...
flown off
in a second's glance away,
nowhere
to be seen...
while Watcher awaits wisdom
through the window
just one more time.
Copyright © Paula Grover | Year Posted 2016
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Paula Grover Poem
Man on Stone Island
Cars whiz by
as ragged, tufted
man on stone island
carries his sign,
"hungry"
"homeless"
he has written
on the cardboard;
cars whiz by.
Copyright © Paula Grover | Year Posted 2016
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Paula Grover Poem
A Busker's Dream
The Wayward Busker
paints a vision
from world-tattered images
of a bard who gropes his way along the street,
leaving Light-Dark footprints
wherever he travels.
Who is he,
this edge-tossed madman
who twirls around
in his kaleidoscope of brilliant colors
and distant dreams?
He is who he is,
and let no one block his way of being
nor try to take away
his life of music;
for it is this sound-poetry which feeds his soul
in a hungry world,
this color-scape voice-land
of forlorn songs
and brightest fantasies
that ushers us down the path to the greatest depths.
Music, dance!
Songs sing themselves
as friendly breezes,
old words riding
on the wings of a tune
while cloud-clowns meander the sky,
framing the artistry
of The Busker's Crescendo,
gradually reigning down
a storm of notes
full of life, sorrow, laughter, tears.
Jim, do not lose hope;
your spirit fills the world
with the magic
of a Busker's Dream.
Copyright © Paula Grover | Year Posted 2016
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