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.

 

She floats out the front door only long enough

to proceed down unbidden steps;

steps leading to paths of undergrowth

where the birds don’t sing,

and light lay choked and emaciated –

where shadows fear to go.

____________________

Like a bird she drinks from murky fountains

but wouldn’t think to spit out what readily refreshes.

Her heart beats a little faster

as grisly, knotted and dusty food

pushes and strains down a parched throat.

It seems to do the trick.

____________________

But tricks are just that – a sleight of hand,

pandering to the lesser of two evils.

She jostles in a crowd of nice sounding decisions,

sharing space with saints and snares,

riding rutted roads with regals and renegades,

seeding the garden of her own discontent.

____________________

Quickly now, drink no more

from the bottom up, guzzling through the silt

of sorry excuses, misguided plans, foiled ruses.

See first your reflection in the clear water

of destiny’s desire for damp delight,

baptizing you in sweet reign from heaven.

From the bottom up

April 14, 2013