You awake

from your long slumber

not rested, but certain

that you’d never even

been asleep.

And now, an impatient wind

teases the nostrils

of the promiscuous trees.

They huddle together,

sharing secrets.

The heartbeat of Spring,

resuscitated

from your sporadic rest,

jumps again to push

the filaments of breath

back into the sleeping army

of dirty, brown grass,

now blushing green.

Forward then, dear soul,

Wind of wind,

Scent of scent,

Heart of heart,

revive our favored memories

now colored with

the speech of stones,

the sky’s delight,

the lightning’s embrace,

the now and nocturnal –

awaiting to hear

the New of the new.

Picture: www.essenceinphotography.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

Roses are read,

where color is words.

Violets are blew,

and sing with the birds.

Her tendrils in time

stretch out to renew,

for Spring isn’t blind,

her labors ensue.

When yellow as time

and auburn as rest,

there comes but a moment

only love knows best.

So turn from the Westland

where winter-deep lives

and point your eyes East

to gifts Summer gives.

Here, in the triage

of heaven’s remains

we see what is needed

to seed late Autumn grain.

Return’d now to Fall,

with not yet wearied skies,

and before sleep succumbs,

she bids all goodbye.

 

Picture: www.everyseven.com

 

 

His back against the old bank building

on 4th and Kuhl, shirt newly torn,

he looks at his dog and says,

“I got nothin’. But I can still sing.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Picture: www.fatimadms1949.wordpress.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The tops of the dogwoods nod in tacit approval

that this is good, this wind of splayed imagination.

Winter has spit up on herself, cloaking her weathered shirt

with color and moody panache.

 

The cars jostle with a renewed vigor,

giving permission to ante up the brazen factor-

what with the sunshine ‘n all.

It’s time to take action since it follows the long deep.

 

Pulling our lives out of the garage

we trade shovels for blades,

things that scrape for things that whir,

things that were for things that are.

 

Quail, the Charlie Chaplins of the bird family,

spin their way across seedling lawns

in a dash to new family outings in someone’s arbor vitae.

That’s where the fat, seasoned quail go.

 

And somewhere, slumped in the same, dark basement

sits a lonely be-spotted, achingly white guy,

whose game hand stinks of Doritos.

It is lonely for another hand.

 

Thanks to www.geekscribe.com for the learned expose on geekdom.