Category: poetry

Micros – Nine

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Freshwater pearls and

         Onyx, Sense and Sensibility

*

A road trip in

           Rain.

     A passenger seat read, The Country of the

      Pointed Firs

*

High winds tamed with hyacinth’s

                  Scent

      Snow flurries, translated

*

       A rope ladder ascends an oak,

                  A blue door chosen,

                  Hummingbirds and nectar

                   Glow ruby

*

Girl in pink velvet listens,

    Brahms,

         Cardamom and If On a Winter’s Night

                 A Traveler

*

An hourglass plays flute,

    And nutmeg, and pumpkin pie with hidden

  Compass.

*

Roses in flight

I read August; wait for December.

Lemon meringue pie.

*

Lemonade from cumulus,

    Vertigo,

     North By Northwest in autumn.

  *

Calico cat purrs, then sleeps,

      Hard rain,

Smiling pups.

**

           

Tiny Poems

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Butterscotch lace,

        Embroidered cinnamon

*

Calico cat to lion,

         Ocular intensity

*

Stephanotis and pink velvet,

     French meringue

*

Macaron moonbeams,

                  Larkspur

*

Key limes

        Malachite silk

*

White lights on

A fir –

Sugar trimmed gingerbread

*

Exclaiming commas,

             Interjections, pausing

*

Lavender linen

And

Plaid, loquacious

*

Peaches and plumeria

       Castles sing glacier blue

*

Maples on the catwalk

            Too sexy for their

             Foliage

**

Laces and Lupine

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Sunrise sky, lavender blooms

And Calypso roses,

Western places and

Venus dozes.

Open persimmon doors and

Smooth marble floors,

No end to Time and autumn days,

Sublime.

A waltz under birches-

No human besmirches.

Only slow and swirling will do.

Western places and Venus dozes –

*

Lupine and French laces..

Kisses, Vermillion, with dark amber traces,

Lines etched in ink, indigo.

Hard cider with cardamom, and

Blue hyacinth falling.

Blueberry shaved ice and winter’s stalling.

A neverending tale with angel cake and warmth.

Little Sunday Poems

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These are a few nonsense Micros because I love words, and I love to put words together in an alliterative way.

Dahlias diving,

Delicate directional, daring

*

Towhee typist,

Temporary, tiptoeing

*

Radishes, ripening,

Rakish rapscallions running

*

Cirrus ceiling –

Celadon circuses

*

Landed locusts, lackadaisical,

Loving laces

*

Copper clarinets, candelabra,

Climbing carnations

*

Bluebells, bountiful –

Breezy bracing bear

*

Harp, holistic,

Halting hemlock

*

Spun silken satchel

Stealthy steps, surmised

*

Nettles nuisance

Nervous nightingales,

Newcomers

**

And just for fun, a half dozen that are not alliterative, but just as nonsensical.

**

Hot chocolate poured,

Marshmallows for Bears, Three

*

A pine’s eyes,

A preface’s nose,

A story, sniffed

*

Escaped ellipses,

A topiary’s ears

Parentheses wear earmuffs

*

Words exclaiming,

Perusing periods,

Chapters, climbed

*

Happy stocking caps

Cold heads, covered –

Cinnamon snickerdoodles

*

Crackers in chicken soup,

Chocolate in lace shapes,

Gingerbread men in

Superhero capes,

Eating cake

*

Little Poems

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Beautiful clouds and a crow

Calls

A lone yellow leaf

Falls

A small house with a turquoise

Door,

Leaves turning, a shift in the

Light.

*

Watch football with my husband

Or,

Read poetry to myself?

Poetry wins this contest

But,

A quarterback’s pass, well thrown

Is

Its own kind of poetry.

A field goal, if well done, and points added

Is

A kicker’s work of art.

*

Wait! Who am I?!

What creature has overtaken my mind?

An interception of thought?

*

My sweet cat.

A poem all by

Herself.

She is poetry with fur.

*

Things that are also little

Poems..

The sound of a book’s page

Turned,

A kitty’s steady stare at a non-object

Across a

Room.

One floret of steamed broccoli placed next

To

A pile of sweet potato fries.

Cold water drunk from a favorite

Mug.

A list of books read of a month,

No matter how small the

Number.

*

Also, the poem of the thought of

An

Excellent night’s sleep,

To which I am hopefully on my way.

*

Autumn Mood

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Sweet strawberry juice on my

Tongue

Perfect peach flesh fills my

Mouth

Nectar drips down my

Chin,

Sticky fruit scented

Cheeks –

Summer, savored, over.

*

Apples, pears, crisp.

Sliced with Mabon’s

Sword.

Bounty filled pies, tarts, cobbers.

Cider, hard with cinnamon.

Nutmeg spiced pleasures.

*

Stags, watchful in

Woods,

Light readies for its

Rest.

Autumn storm clouds plot their

Advance.

Brass bound trunks free their

Fall sweaters

*

I look to stories. Fairy tales, sprinkled with

Truth.

Real, but with magic,

Enhanced.

Brahms, Rachmaninoff, Bach, play just for

Me.

Berries like jewels, and sequined silks.

Tales illuminated, margins compete with

Texts.

Imagination,

Piqued.

*

My own tales, I’ll

Make.

A Sharpened Edge

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Early autumn

Evening

Light,

A sharpened

Edge.

A coming chill,

Morning fogs, stealthy

Approach.

My Equinox moods.

Does my body save for winter like

Millennia ago?

*

Salt on apples, afternoon sweets.

Cravings, savory,

Wants, sugared.

Shifting dreams, moving restless.

A focus in spurts – spirits lightened, royal icing

Piped. Cinnamon, cardamom,

Fingers,

Licked.

In deep ancient, paintings on cave walls,

The hunt with a spear.

I hunt only with pen, for words on paper,

Not

Dinner over a fire.

Soon, darkness hunts The Light.

The moon still rules me.

My seasonal rhythms, my rest.

*

Millennia from now, my handprint,

I was here.

*

Dessert

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On a golden platter, dessert is served

Not a slice of cake, not a slice of pie, not

A delicious toffee pudding in a

Royal Stafford

Bowl.

But a book.

A beautiful book with a cobalt blue cloth

Cover, and shining silver

Lettering.

Inside, maybe a tale of mystery or

Adventure.

A saga, perhaps.

Or an historical tale.

To be devoured, savored.

No carbs to add to your belly, but words to

Enhance your

Mind.

Six hundred pages of chapters, paragraphs,

Sentences, in which to delve.

Maybe the word Mumbai, whose old letters

Spell Bombay.

The latter name rightfully evicted.

Maybe a story with brilliant red poppies,

Ships and sailors at war.

It could be a tale of a little

Bird.

The word, chickadee. Her nest in an oak.

Her story in chapter three or four.

How when she was young, she fledged.

A part fairytale, a part truth.

Battles?

Weapon pen, not sword.

*

A tale like a marble cake.

Flavors swirled, words combined.

Commas added for spice. Semicolons for

Sweetness.

Scarlet, lavender, periwinkle, celedon, and

Mint. Colors generously painted in words on

Paper.

The words, pearls, peridots, onyx, obsidian.

Conjured in conundrums, quandaries, and

Quenched. Questions, answered. Crises

Cliffhangered. (Some words invented.)

*

A duology, a trilogy? Or puzzle dessert in a Baker’s

Dozen?

*

This tale must end for now. I’ve gone on too

Long.

I’ve lingered lackadaisical. My sentences have

Jogged, perhaps run on, and sprinted.

Dessert eaten, done and dusted for now.

          At a later date, more words.

Nature Is My Warmth

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I think I dream.

Six sandhill cranes, over my bed,

Soar.

On my right, a wolf sleeps –

         On my left, a fox.

Before I drifted into sleep, I was alone

Though not

Lonely.

But I was cold, not warm.

Now I’m warm, and not

Alone.

The wolf and fox are not enemies to

Each other, as I always

Thought

Neither am I the enemy of either of them.

*

I must sleep in the woods. I can hear

Light rain, but I don’t feel it.

Though it’s cold, and I am

Warm,

I did not try to build a fire as London did

In his story.

Once, long ago, I learned how, but have never

Had to use that knowledge.

Would I have

Succeeded?

Maybe the wolf and fox

Know.

I’m sure they know plenty I do not

They have to.

*

I hear the cranes call.

To each other?

To me?

To the fox and wolf?

The Universe?

The stars appear; Moon rises.

*

The Sky is my ceiling. Nature is my warmth.

*

I think I dream.

*